Timetable of Death

CHAPTER ONE

Spondon, 1859

Perched on the top of a hill, the parish church of St Mary looked down on the people of Spondon with the fond and caring eye of a doting parent. When it was built at the end of the fourteenth century it had been an imposing Gothic structure that seemed too large and grandiose for a small Derbyshire village and, even though it now served a parish of over fifteen hundred souls, its pre-eminence, architecturally and spiritually, remained. Among its multiple functions, it was the social centre of the village, the place where the faithful gathered every Sunday in their best attire to mingle with their friends and neighbours, to exchange news, to share confidences and to develop stronger bonds.

The main topic of conversation that Sunday morning had been the untimely death of Cicely Peet, a lady of some standing in the community, cut down cruelly by disease when still short of her fiftieth birthday. As the congregation listened to the handsome tribute paid to her by the vicar during his sermon, her grave had already been dug in the churchyard and the funeral was already assured of a sizeable number of mourners. There was a pervasive mood of sadness and regret and many a handkerchief was pressed into service. When it was finally over, people came slowly out of St Mary’s to shake the hand of the Reverend Michael Sadler and mumble a few departing words before glancing involuntarily in the direction of the fine house where Mrs Peet had lived for so many years. It was a long time before everyone had dispersed.

A blanket of sorrow lay over the whole village. Respect for the dead was not, however, a universal feeling. On the very next day, it was certainly not in evidence in the behaviour of two of the younger inhabitants.

‘Aouw!’

Lizzie Grindle had pushed her younger brother and made him yelp.

‘Chase me!’

‘Don’t mank abaht,’ he complained.

‘I’m farster than ter.’

‘Gerraht!’

‘Carn’t ketch me for a penny cup o’ tea!’

To provide more encouragement, she shoved him so hard this time that he stumbled and fell to the ground. He scrambled to his feet with the intention of striking back at her but she’d already taken to her heels. Sam Grindle gave chase even though he could never outrun his sister. While she was a tall, rangy, long-legged girl of twelve, he was a short, chubby ten-year-old with a freckled face and piggy eyes. Ordinarily, he couldn’t even begin to keep up with her, but the urge for revenge gave him both additional speed and a sense of purpose. Surprisingly, he began to gain on her. Lizzie was delighted that she’d provoked a response. Tormenting her younger brother was her chief pastime and she was particularly adept at causing trouble then blaming it on him. She was far more guileful and inventively dishonest than Sam. As a result, it was the boy who, more often than not, felt the anger of his father’s hand.

The children of Walter Grindle, the blacksmith, were familiar figures in the village, always arguing, always making a noise, always darting about, always up to some kind of mischief, or so it appeared to onlookers. What they saw early on that Monday morning was a girl shrieking madly as she was pursued by a podgy lad issuing all kinds of dire threats against her. On the day before a funeral, it was unseemly. Tongues were clicked and dark looks exchanged. But they had no effect on Lizzie Grindle. She was in her element, goading her brother and pretending to be frightened of him before turning to give him a contemptuous giggle. While she ran on with the ease of a natural athlete, his legs began to tire and his lungs to burn. Sam was soon reduced to a painful plod.

Lizzie immediately changed the rules of the game. Instead of being a race that only she could win, it became an exhilarating exercise in hide-and-seek. She concealed herself in doorways, ducked under carts and disappeared behind a horse for several minutes at one point. Each time, her brother eventually found her but, before he could grab her, she was off in a flash to her next fleeting refuge. When she reached Church Hill she still had enough strength to run up it and enough devilry to stand there and mock him with rude gestures. Panting audibly and hurting badly, Sam lumbered bravely on, determined to get even with her somehow.

The churchyard offered a whole range of hiding places and Lizzie went skipping between the headstones in search of the best one. She quickly found it. The open grave of Cicely Peet beckoned. It was perfect. Her brother would never dream of looking in there. Untroubled by any thoughts of the impropriety of using someone’s last resting place as a source of childish fun, she hared across the grass and jumped happily into the grave.

It was only then that she discovered it was already occupied.

Lizzie’s Grindle’s scream of terror could be heard half a mile away.