With tears in her eyes, all Kate could say was, ‘Oh, Alex … I shall miss you.’

  ‘We shall all miss you,’ added Nick.

  Shortly after eight o’clock the next morning, Gillian Siddons, a pretty young woman in her early twenties, was cycling along a lane on the outskirts of Aidensfield. She was heading for Badger Cottage, the home of her ex-nanny, Mary Begg, and was carrying some eggs in a basket hanging on the handlebars.

  Mary Begg’s tiny cottage was built of local stone and looked picturesque in an old-fashioned sort of way; it needed a coat of paint upon its woodwork, the gate was hanging off its hinges and the garden was overgrown. Gillian did not notice these things - she had been coming to this house several times a week for the past four or five years and the house had always been in the same condition. It looked perfectly normal to Gillian as she parked her cycle against the fence. She went along the path and tapped on the door.

  ‘Mary?’ she said. ‘Mary, are you there?’

  Normally, Mrs Begg responded with a cheery, is that, Gillian? Come in, lass.’ But this morning, there was no response.

  ‘Mary?’ Gillian entered cautiously, calling her name again as she entered the lounge. Mary was sitting in a chair facing the fire, which was burning. There was a cup of tea, half full, on the table at her side.

  ‘Oh, you are there.’ Gillian went forward. ‘You’ve dropped off again … Mary?’

  There was no response. Normally, if Mary had fallen asleep in her chair she would wake at the sound of Gillian’s voice. Gillian went forward to touch the old lady’s shoulder. ‘Mary?’

  She discovered the worst: it seemed as if Mary Begg, her nanny for years, had died quietly in her chair.

  Gillian, a sensible girl, did not panic but closed the house, locked the door and rode home to call the doctor. She was in time to catch Kate before morning surgery started. Kate didn’t waste any time in driving down to Badger Cottage. When she arrived, Gillian’s father, Jack Siddons, was waiting at the cottage at Mary’s side. Kate’s quick examination confirmed their worst fears -the old lady was dead and, as she had had a history of heart trouble with regular attention from Kate and Alex Ferrenby, Kate said she was prepared to certify the cause of death. This meant the police would not have to deal with the case as a sudden or unexplained death, and the relatives could go ahead with the funeral straight away.

  “The body will need to be taken to the mortuary,’ Kate said, is that something you can arrange, Mr Siddons? The undertaker will see to everything. And are there any relations who can come and see to the cottage and make the funeral arrangements?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Siddon. ‘There’s a grandson, Kevin. He used to live with her when he was at school. I think he’s down south now, somewhere in the Birmingham area. The cottage is mine, actually. When Mary retired, I bought it so she could live there in peace, on her own. So I can see to the house. Her next-of-kin will have to see to her belongings, but they’ll be all right there for a while. I’m not going to ask them to clear the house just yet!’

  ‘Would you have Kevin’s address?’ Kate asked him.

  ‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘No, we were never that close to him. Mebbe it’ll be in Mary’s house somewhere. But I don’t want our Gillian to be bothered looking, she’s got a lot on her plate just now.’

  ‘It’s her wedding soon, isn’t it?’ smiled Kate.

  ‘Aye, this coming Saturday.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve no objection, my husband can search the house for Kevin’s address, he’s used to that sort of thing.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ said Jack Siddons. ‘Well, I’ll get in touch with the undertaker, and you’ll keep me informed?’ ‘I will,’ promised Kate.

  ‘Poor old Mary,’ said Jack sadly. ‘She was good to our Gillian and she was looking forward to the wedding. Mebbe she’ll be watching from wherever she is on the day, eh?’

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ agreed Kate. When Kate returned to the police house, Nick had left. There was a note on the table saying, ‘Gone to Ashfordly for a conference with Sergeant Blaketon.’ Sighing, she decided that a search for the address of Mary’s next-of-kin would have to wait. She left the house again and took her little yellow car along the road to the surgery. There was already a small queue of people; Alex was seeing some of them and others were waiting for Kate.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she apologised. ‘But it’s bad news. Poor Mary Begg has died.’

  And so the village was informed of another death within the community.

  It was lunchtime when Nick returned from Ashfordly. He and Kate sat down for a light meal of poached eggs, and Kate told him of Mary’s death. Nick agreed to search the house for a possible address for Kevin.

  ‘So what did Sergeant Blaketon want?’ she asked. ‘What was the urgent conference all about?’

  ‘Highway robbery,’ he smiled. ‘Over the past few weeks, a succession of lorries have been raided on the A1

  in the North Riding. When they’ve been parked at night, in laybys or outside transport cafes, somebody’s been breaking into them and nicking high-value loads: furniture, whisky, kitchen equipment, TVs and so on. But somebody’s been nicking seafood as well!’ ‘Seafood?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Shrimps, prawns, crab and lobsters, that sort of thing. We think it’s a specialist gang who’ve got an outlet for seafood, to restaurants, hotels and similar places. Anyway, the most recent was in our area last night: a lorry parked overnight in a layby near Loftus was raided. Its load of prawns was nicked.’

  Kate smiled at the absurdity of it. ‘I think it’s so silly, stealing prawns. I mean, they’ve got to be used nearly straight away, haven’t they? Or they go bad. Unless they’re all frozen.’

  ‘Well, all the country constables were called in for a conference this morning. We’ve got to get around our hotels and pubs and other outlets, to see if anybody’s selling them.’

  Before embarking upon his enquiries, however, Nick accompanied Kate to Mary’s cottage. He obtained the key from Beth Siddons, Jack’s wife, and upon arrival at Badger Cottage was pleased to see that Mary’s body had been removed by the undertaker. It now lay in the chapel of rest adjoining his premises. Nick, accustomed to making searches of this kind especially in the event of a sudden death, had no qualms about rifling through Mary’s meagre belongings, but Kate couldn’t help feeling she was intruding. Nick’s first point of interest was a small bureau in the corner of the living room. When he lowered the front to form a working surface, he found it contained lots of letters, tied together in small bundles. It was the work of a moment to untie the knots. Soon he found one signed, ‘All my love, Kevin’, and the address at the head of the paper was in Birmingham.

  ‘I think this will be him,’ Nick said, making a note of the address in his pocketbook. ‘There’s no telephone number on the letterhead, so I’ll ring Birmingham City Police and get one of their foot patrols to inform Kevin.’

  He and Kate were about to leave when the front door opened and a man’s voice called, ‘Hello, Mr Rowan?’

  When Nick reached the door, he saw Walter Pettigrew standing there.

  Walter, a miserable-faced man in his fifties, ran a smallholding near the Siddons estate. He kept a few goats and pigs, and bred pigeons in the hope he’d win a major race. But success of any kind had always eluded him. ‘Hello, Walter. What can I do for you?’ ‘Well, I just heard, in the pub, about Mary. I didn’t know whether it was true or not, so I thought I’d pop down to check.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kate told him. ‘This morning, she died very peacefully in her chair.’

  ‘Them Siddonses should have cared better for her, called more often.’ There was a hint of bitterness in Walter’s voice. ‘She should never have been left on her own like this…’

  ‘She had a family, they live away,’ Nick volunteered. ‘Aye, a grandson, that’s all. Siddons wouldn’t let him

  live here with her, he had to go away to work. That was a condition of her getting this house. Chasing away her only family …’

  ‘Why would Mr Siddons do that? He cared for her, Walter,’ said Nick. ‘He gave her the house.’

  ‘That lad of hers, Kevin. He was courting Siddons’s lass, Gillian, but he wasn’t good enough, not for the high-and-mighty Siddonses. They wanted rid of him, and that’s how they did it. Mary and the lad lived in the big house till then, you see, in a flat on the west wing, when he was younger, that was, but, well, when he grew older he started courting Gillian.’

  ‘She’s a pretty girl,’ said Nick.

  ‘Aye, that was the trouble. Jack had his heart set on somebody higher than Kevin Begg for a son-in-law, and when he found out about Kevin, he sent him packing. He did it by giving Mary that cottage, and making it a condition that only she could live in it. Crafty sod! He’ll be coming back, will he, Kevin, for the funeral?’

  ‘Yes, I expect so, I’ve got to contact him.’

  ‘Aye, well, I’ll be able to pay my last respects when she’s buried. A fine woman, she was. But they should have cared better for her.’

  ‘She was eighty-three, Mr Pettigrew,’ Kate told him. ‘Gillian came almost every day, but there was nothing anyone could have done this morning. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Well, I hope they let her have a decent and proper funeral before they take the church over for that big wedding!’ and Walter Pettigrew turned on his heel and walked away.

  ‘What’s got into him?’ asked Kate, taken aback, as the middle-aged man stalked away towards the village.

  ‘Walter? He grumbles about everything and everyone,’ smiled Nick. ‘Nothing’s right for Walter. If it’s fine, he wants rain, and when it rains he wants the sun to shine. He’s that sort of fellow. If he’s not grumbling about something, he turns into a right misery!’

  ‘He doesn’t like the Siddonses, does he?’ she said.

  ‘Well, they do play a bit high and mighty. There are times you’d think Jack was Lord of the Manor the way he behaves. He thinks himself a cut above the rest of the local farmers but he’s only the same as them when all’s said and done, even if he happens to have made a few pounds.’

  ‘And while making his money, he’s made the Walter Pettigrews of this world very envious.’

  ‘You always get people who are jealous of success, Kate,’ said Nick. ‘Even in the police force! There’s something deep in the English mentality that criticises success. Come along, I’ve got to start asking about stolen prawns now!’

  ‘And I’ve got some sick visits to make.’

  Nick first rang Birmingham City Police to ask if they would deliver a ‘request message’ to Kevin Begg, the term used for this kind of emergency service to those who did not have telephones. The duty inspector assured Nick that an officer would call at Kevin’s address and ask him to go to Aidensfield immediately. Leaving his motorcycle at home, Nick did a foot patrol around the village, asking about the prawns. Bill Francis the butcher said he’d not been offered any, and neither had George Ward at the Aidensfield Arms. The post office and shop did not sell fish anyway, and a travelling butcher who came to the village from Ashfordly also shook his head. Nonetheless, Nick did ask them to notify him if they received such an offer and warned them that the stuff might well be the proceeds of crime.

  As he was walking past the Aidensfield Arms, a short and rather dapper little man hailed him. He climbed out of a clean and very smart Rover car.

  ‘Ah, Constable,’ he smiled. He was about fifty, Nick reckoned, perhaps a little older, and he wore an expensive tweed suit with gold cufflinks in his sleeves and well-polished brogues.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m looking for the home of a Mr C. J. Greengrass,’ said the little fellow, ‘I believe he lives hereabouts?’

  ‘Yes, he does. A friend of his, are you?’

  ‘Old comrades in arms, we served together in the war and I’ve always been promising myself that I’d look up Claude if I was in the area. I thought I’d come for the point-to-point at Ashfordly next week. It’s in the grounds of Ashfordly Hall, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nick. “This coming Tuesday is the date. We’re expecting a big crowd.’

  ‘That’s good news. Well, I’m a few days early so I thought it was a chance to visit my old comrade! Bailey’s the name,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Well, Mr Bailey, Claude lives along that road,’ Nick pointed, giving the man instructions as to how to reach

  Claude’s tumbledown house, which looked more like a scrapyard than a home. Nick wondered how this smart gentleman had become acquainted with Claude. It was another minor task for him - to discover what Claude was up to now!

  The main talking point in Aidensfield was the big wedding: all the well known and influential people in the area had been invited, as had most of the villagers. There were to be more than two hundred guests who would see the beautiful daughter of the Siddons family marry Richard Talbot, the son of the estate manager at Carnforth. Kate was a guest, being the family doctor, and Nick was invited too, as her husband. A relief constable would be drafted in, most likely Phil Bellamy from Ashfordly to park the cars and act as security man for the wedding gifts: already, lots of expensive presents from wealthy friends and relations had arrived and were on display at the farm. A marquee had been erected in the grounds ready for the reception and car parking facilities had been organised. Already, the floor of the marquee was being laid, even though there were five whole days before the big event. As was the new fashion, the future bride and groom had written out a list of presents and this was being circulated among the guests. Flowers had been arranged through a florist in Ashfordly and Nick had been up to the house several times to discuss details like signs to the farm for strangers, car parking both at the farm and outside the church, and whether or not Jack had considered the problems of putting toilets near the marquee. From a policing point of view, the wedding was not likely to cause any problems; George’s pub was not being used and so even if any of the guests became too boisterous, the problem of unruliness and unwelcome noise in the village would not arise. Anything of that sort would go on on private property well out of earshot. Where wedding arrangements were concerned, therefore, Nick felt he could relax.

  The next day, Kevin Begg arrived from Birmingham. He’d travelled by hitching lifts from friendly lorry drivers and private motorists and arrived at Aidensfield around ten thirty in the morning. He’d left his own flat at six o’clock and had made very good time, thanks to a sports car which brought him all the way from Bromsgrove to Thirsk. A lorry had picked him up near Thirsk and, fortunately, had been heading for Ashfordly. His first call was at his grandmother’s cottage; he had a key, he’d cut himself one some time ago in case he was ever faced with a situation such as this, and he was able to let himself in.

  Capable and efficient, he spent the morning tidying the cottage and preparing himself a bed, then went to the undertaker to see the body of his grandmother and to discuss the funeral arrangements. At lunch time, he decided to visit the Aidensfield Arms for a pint and a snack.

  As he walked towards the pub, he encountered Gillian riding a horse towards him. She was about to turn into the lane which led to her home, so he waited as she drew closer.

  ‘Hi, Gillian,’ he greeted her, reaching out to pat the horse’s head.

  ‘Hello, Kevin. You’ve got here in good time. I was sorry about your grandmother.’

  He smiled gently at her. ‘She had a good long life, Gillian, she looks at peace now. I’ve just been to see her. Thanks for looking after her the way you did. She often wrote to me and said how caring you were.’

  ‘Well, she looked after me when I was little …’

  ‘I often think about those times, Gillian,’ Kevin said suddenly lost in thought. ‘And when we were at school, going out like we did. Walking on the moors, going to the pictures together …’

  Gillian looked down, obviously upset. ‘Don’t, please, Kevin, it’s over, finished.’

  ‘But now I’m here, well, can’t we have a night out, when the funeral’s over. Or just a drink somewhere on our own? I do miss you, you know,’ he pleaded. ‘No, Kevin, don’t …’

  At that moment, Sergeant Blaketon’s car appeared and turned into the farm entrance.

  ‘Something happening at your place, is there?’ Kevin nodded towards the police car.

  Thinking quickly, Gillian said, ‘There’s been a spate of robberies recently, isolated premises are being attacked, they’re going round warning us all and giving advice about crime prevention.’

  ‘You’d never get that sort of personal service in Birmingham!’ He smiled ruefully. ‘But look, maybe before I go back, we’ll see each other around the place? I want to see your dad sometime anyway, about the future of the cottage.’

  ‘I’m sure we will see one another, Kevin, and pop in any time to see Dad about Mary’s cottage. Well, I must go, lunch will be ready and I promised Mum I’d drive her into Strensford.’ ‘OK, see you. ‘Bye.’

  Kevin stood and watched as Gillian guided the horse along the lane breaking into a fast trot as she approached the magnificent farmhouse. She looked splendid, Kevin thought. Very splendid indeed. Then he turned into the Aidensfield Arms. He arrived in the bar in time to hear Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, in the company of a smart-looking little man, boasting to George and the assembled regulars about his past acquaintanceship with the well-dressed gentleman.

  ‘Banger Bailey,’ beamed Claude. ‘We were squaddies together, mind that’s going back twenty years. He was in the Catering Corps.’

  ‘Why are you called Banger?’ laughed Gina. ‘That’s no sort of a name!’

  ‘He made the best sausages in the Northern Union, did this chap. That’s why we called him Banger,’ breezed Claude.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ George asked Banger.

  ‘I’m in the catering business, I’ve got a mobile canteen. We cater for gymkhanas, country fairs, events on racecourses, rural shows, that sort of thing. I’ll be at the point-to-point in Ashfordly, but had a few days to spare. So I thought I’d look up my old comrade in arms, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.’