David Webb 10 - Three, Three, the Rivals Read online

  David Webb 10 - Three, Three, the Rivals

  Anthea Fraser

  HarperCollins (1992)

  * * *

  Tags: Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, British Detectives, Thrillers & Suspense, Crime, Traditional Detectives, Thrillers

  Mystery; Thriller & Suspensettt Mysteryttt British Detectivesttt Thrillers & Suspensettt Crimettt Traditional Detectivesttt Thrillersttt

  When Sheila Fairchild wakes one night from a chilling nightmare, it brings back painful memories of the nightmares she suffered as a child.

  The following day, a prominent local landowner Billy Makepeace is found dead in the canal.

  It soon emerges that his death is anything but innocent, but when Sheila’s brother DCI Webb is assigned to the case, he has every reason for not wanting to get involved.

  Makepeace was an old rival of his father’s and it seems inevitable the investigation will stir up painful memories of an early life he had hoped to put behind him.

  But many questions still need to be answered.

  Why did Billy Makepeace telephone Sheila on the night he died? Especially when the two families, because of the old feud, never spoke.

  Why should Makepeace also have telephoned the local vicar?

  And whatever became of the third rival, Dick Vernon, who disappeared without a trace decades ago?

  When it emerges that Sheila’s nightmares may have their origins in a dreadful truth, it seems that DCI Webb may have to solve two murders instead of just one.

  In doing so, he may just find out the real reasons why there were three, three the rivals.

  ‘Three, Three, The Rivals’ is another absorbing detective mystery from Anthea Fraser in the DCI Webb series.

  Praise for Anthea Fraser:

  “A superbly crafted, riveting, page-turner of a read" - Booklist

  “Ms Fraser is her dependable elegant, guileful self withholding the killer's identity till a dying fall" - Sunday Times

  “A well-mannered, well-plotted and well-told story” - Birmingham Post

  “Sympathetic, well-executed book, in which full attention is paid to human feelings and failings” - Yorkshire Post

  “Anthea Fraser is a worthy follower of the traditional whodunit system...The plot is sustained throughout, and her artistic detective who literally "draws conclusions" is an original character.” - Sunderland Echo

  Anthea Fraser has written all her life but did not begin to take it seriously until after marriage, when she found herself at home with two small daughters and embarked on a correspondence course with the London School of Journalism. She wrote short stories before turning to novels of the supernatural, and then to crime. Her novels include ‘The Seven Stars’, ‘The Ten Commandments’, ‘Death Speaks Softly’ and ‘Pretty Maids All in a Row’.

  Endeavour Press is the UK's leading independent digital publisher. For more information on our titles please sign up to our newsletter at www.endeavourpress.com. Each week you will receive updates on free and discounted ebooks. Follow us on Twitter: @EndeavourPress and on Facebook via http://on.fb.me/1HweQV7. We are always interested in hearing from our readers. Endeavour Press believes that the future is now.

  **

  THREE, THREE,

  THE RIVALS

  ANTHEA FRASER

  © Anthea Fraser 1992

  Anthea Fraser has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in Great Britain in 1992 by The Crime Club, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  To Fiona and Forrest, with love.

  Table of Contents

  GREEN GROW THE RUSHES-O

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  GREEN GROW THE RUSHES-O

  I’ll sing you one-O!

  (Chorus) Green grow the rushes-O!

  What is your one-O?

  One is one and all alone and evermore shall be so.

  I’ll sing you two-O!

  (Chorus) Green grow the rushes-O!

  What are your two-O?

  Two, two, the lily-white Boys, clothed all in green-O,

  (Chorus) One is one and all alone and evermore shall be so.

  I’ll sing you three-O!

  (Chorus) Green grow the rushes-O!

  What are your three-O?

  Three, three, the Rivals,

  (Chorus) Two, two, the lily-white Boys, clothed all in green-O,

  One is one and all alone and evermore shall be so.

  Four for the Gospel-makers.

  Five for the Symbols at your door.

  Six for the six proud Walkers.

  Seven for the seven Stars in the sky.

  Eight for the April Rainers.

  Nine for the nine bright Shiners.

  Ten for the ten Commandments.

  Eleven for the Eleven that went up to Heaven.

  Twelve for the twelve Apostles.

  CHAPTER 1

  She woke suddenly, the scream which had echoed through her dream a strangled gargle in her throat. For a moment she lay unmoving, eyes stretched open to the darkness, still in the thrall of nightmare. Then, cautiously, she released her breath, easing tense muscles and aware of the sweat coursing over her body. Beside her, untouched by her fear, Colin slept serenely, his breathing deep and regular. With an effort, she forced her own to the same rhythm — in, out, in, out — until the clattering of her heart subsided.

  What had brought that on? she wondered shakily. It was thirty years since she’d experienced the night-terrors which had plagued her childhood, making every bedtime an endurance test. Humbling, too, that in adulthood the dream still had the power to devastate her.

  It would have been their conversation over tea, she thought as her head cleared. Though she’d firmly pushed it out of mind, it must have lodged in her subconscious and resurrected old fears.

  She levered herself on to one elbow and peered at the clock. Three-fifteen; an appropriate time for nightmares to ride, but four hours before she was due to wake. Yet she daren’t risk sleep again; the dream still lurked in the corners of her mind, ready to pounce as soon as she relaxed.

  She’d make a cup of tea; the familiarity of the kitchen would restore her balance. Despite the summer night, she shivered as she fumbled for her dressing-gown, located it and wrapped it tightly about her. Then, feeling her way, she moved towards the door.

  Once on the landing she switched the light on, and the everydayness of her surroundings was an immediate palliative. Stephen’s jacket over the banister and his closed bedroom door confirmed he was safely home despite the dreaded motorbike.

  She started down the stairs, walking at the edge of the treads to avoid the squeaks in the wood. At the window on the half-landing she paused as she always did to look down at the Garden Centre. Though its windows mirrored the lights of the main road, deep shadows surrounded it and, still reluctant to peer into shadows, she continued her descent. The grandfather clock ticked placidly in the hall and a remembrance of last night’s supper lingered in the air.

  She pushed open the kitchen door and, as the room flooded with light, Jason the labrador looked up from his basket and sleepily thudded his tail. The cat, as always stretched out on the boiler, opened one eye and closed it again. S
heila filled the kettle and plugged it in.

  Ridiculous, at her age, to be so thrown by a bad dream. In mitigation, though, it wasn’t just any dream, but the one that had haunted her all those years ago. God forbid she was in for another cycle.

  Waiting for the kettle to boil, she leaned against the work-surface and looked contentedly about her, grateful for the restoration of normality. Still basically a farm kitchen, the room was warm and welcoming, scented by the dried herbs which hung in clusters from the beams. They’d inherited the large, scrubbed table with the house and sometimes, standing at it to knead bread or prepare her jams and pickles, Sheila wondered about the other women who had used it over the years.

  She poured boiling water into the pot and, unhooking a mug, went to sit at the table. The cat abandoned the boiler and jumped on her knee, settling down with a contented purr. Sheila stroked him absent-mindedly, her thoughts still on her unwise disclosure.

  Stupid to have let herself be drawn like that; she should simply have let it go. But Angela’s dogmatic attitude annoyed her, and she’d spoken without thinking.

  What had started them on ghosts, anyway? It was an unusual topic for three down-to-earth countrywomen, whose conversation was more likely to revolve round the price of fertilizer and the long-range weather forecast. Then she remembered: it was the film Janet had seen. ‘Honestly,’ she’d finished laughingly, after describing its eerie goings-on, ‘when it came to bedtime, I was afraid to put the light out!’

  Which was when Angela started pontificating. ‘Really, Janet, I thought you’d more sense,’ she said in her committee voice. ‘Ghosts, indeed! How can you be frightened of something that doesn’t exist?’

  And Sheila, irritated by such bland assurance, had broken almost a lifetime’s silence before she realized what was happening. ‘Oh, they exist all right,’ she heard herself say. ‘I’ve seen one.’

  Immediately the words were out she’d have paid any price to retract them, but it was too late. Her friends were staring at her in disbelief. Sheila Fairchild, most level-headed and dependable of women, had seen a ghost?

  Angela, naturally, was the first to find her voice. ‘You’re not serious?’

  Instantly recanting, Sheila smiled and shook her head. ‘Not really.’ If only they’d accept that!

  But Janet was not to be sidetracked. ‘You sounded serious to me. Come on, Sheila — out with it! You saw a ghost? When? Who?’

  ‘Oh, it was forty-odd years ago. I probably imagined it.’ But she knew she had not. And of course they would not be satisfied till she’d gone through the whole thing — the forbidden excursion after dark, the quiet graveyard, the terrifying figure.

  It was a curious experience, talking about it after all these years. And the unreality was compounded when, coming to an end, she looked up to see Mr Makepeace at the next table, staring at her. The realization that he must have heard every word caused her cheeks to burn. He made her uncomfortable at the best of times, due to the family feud which had started before she was born. Now, he’d heard her make a complete fool of herself. No wonder he was staring.

  She had gathered her things together and made a hasty departure, as much to escape his gaze as her friends’ continuing questions. But that hadn’t been the end of it. Unbelievably, he had phoned last evening while she was out. Mr Makepeace! She’d never spoken to him in her life.

  ‘Sheila! What the hell are you doing?’

  She jumped, looking up to see her husband in the doorway, hair ruffled and eyes blinking in the bright light. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Getting on for four, I suppose. I’m sorry; did I wake you?’

  ‘No, I just turned over and you weren’t there. What are you doing?’

  ‘I — couldn’t sleep.’ She had never told Colin of her dream, and it seemed pointless to do so now.

  ‘Anything on your mind?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘You do too much, you know. I’m always telling you. Meetings and committees and Lord knows what, on top of a full day’s work here. No wonder your brain’s over-active.’ He came into the room, selected a mug and joined her at the table.

  ‘It doesn’t usually affect me.’ She watched him as he sipped his tea. He’d changed surprisingly little in the twenty years of their marriage. The shock of curly hair was only faintly tinged with grey and he still looked like an overgrown schoolboy, an impression enhanced by the outdoor life he’d chosen against the wishes of his father. His clear, healthily tanned skin was almost free of the stress lines apparent on other men his age.

  He met her assessing eyes over the rim of his mug, unperturbed by their scrutiny. ‘Did you see Lyn’s note about Makepeace phoning?’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it amazing? Whatever could he have wanted?’

  ‘To bury the hatchet, perhaps. Now your father and Dick Vernon are both gone, it’s all pretty pointless.’

  ‘But why wait this long?’ Sheila objected. ‘Dad’s been dead four years.’

  ‘Will you ring him back?’

  ‘Probably, out of curiosity. I’ll get the details from Lyn in the morning.’

  Colin stifled a yawn and she stood up, tipping the indignant cat to the floor. ‘Come on, you need your sleep. I’ll come back up with you.’

  It would be all right now, she thought as she preceded Colin up the stairs. The break had dispelled her attack of the vapours and she wouldn’t let it happen again. As for the story she told her friends, she’d try to persuade them it had been a joke.

  *

  In fact, the disquieting aura of the dream was not so easily dismissed, possibly because it was rooted in reality. It lingered on throughout the morning, leaving Sheila faintly uneasy and tainting the bright summer day with its menace.

  Nor could she get Mr Makepeace out of her mind, wishing uselessly that she’d been in to take his call; Lyn said he’d refused to leave a message. She was tempted to phone him, but the peculiar circumstances of their acquaintance deterred her. Better wait for him to ring back.

  Determinedly pushing such distractions aside, she turned to the routine matters of her day. Breakfast had been eaten in its customary silence, Lyn had caught the bus to college, Colin and Stephen were at the Garden Centre. Glancing out of the window, she saw that one or two cars were already turning into its gateway. Upstairs, the sound of the vacuum cleaner confirmed that Betty Marsworth was at work.

  Satisfied, Sheila walked through to the office which adjoined the kitchen and, leaning over the desk, studied her diary. The day’s programme was as always neatly set out, and she skimmed through it to check that nothing had been overlooked. It was of supreme importance to her that she should be organized and efficient, in control of herself and her affairs.

  This morning there were the week’s standing orders to see to. She must also remember to slip out to the greenhouse and check the stock of dieffenbachia; there’d been a run on them yesterday and a delivery wasn’t due till next week. This afternoon, since it was the beginning of the month, would be given over to the accounts, and she was guest speaker at a local meeting this evening. She made a quick note to look over her speech.

  There was also a list of phone-calls to make, but after a moment’s thought she decided to leave those until later and keep the line clear for Mr Makepeace.

  However, as the morning progressed and she dealt systematically with her workload, the phone remained stubbornly silent. Perhaps he’d changed his mind. Sheila promised herself that if she hadn’t heard from him by supper-time, she’d take the initiative and call him herself. Almost as she reached the decision, the phone at last rang, and, her mouth suddenly dry, she reached for it. ‘The Old Farmhouse.’

  But the voice that answered her was Janet’s. ‘Sheila, have you heard? About Billy Makepeace?’

  She frowned, confused to hear the name she’d expected in a different context. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was found in the canal this morning.’

  ‘The canal?’ she repe
ated blankly.

  ‘Yes, drowned. He started to walk home along the tow-path, and they think he lost his footing and fell in.’

  ‘You mean he’s dead?’

  ‘Of course he’s dead; he must have been in the water all night, poor old chap. And to think he was in the café as large as life only yesterday.’

  ‘But that’s — awful.’ Sheila thought of the old man as she’d last seen him, his large frame balanced precariously on the spindly chair, his eyes intent on her face. Now she’d never know why he phoned.

  ‘It seems worse, somehow, when we saw him so recently.’ Janet gave a nervous laugh. ‘He certainly seemed riveted by your ghost story!’

  ‘I hope he didn’t believe it,’ Sheila said, even at this point conscious of the need to retract.

  ‘Don’t tell me you were pulling our leg?’ Janet sounded both indignant and disappointed.

  ‘Oh, come on, Janet! What do you think?’

  ‘It sounded pretty convincing to me.’

  ‘It was meant to; Angela was being so superior, I decided to take her down a peg.’

  ‘Well, you certainly fooled me. And old Billy too, judging by his expression. He was probably looking over his shoulder for ghosties when he lost his footing.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Sheila said sharply. ‘He’d never have been taken in by such drivel, and I’m surprised you were.’ Uncomfortably aware that she sounded like Angela, she added more quietly, ‘What was he doing in La Brioche, anyway? It’s hardly his scene.’

  ‘Waiting for his daughter; she arrived just after you left. Well, I must make a start on the lunch but I thought you’d like to know, even though your families weren’t on speaking terms.’