The Skeleton Tree by Diane Janes (reading women TXT) 📕

The conversation regarding plans for the Easter weekend did not resume until Saturday afternoon, when Wendy was annoyed to discover that Bruce had yet to appraise his parents of the fact that she did not intend to accompany him and the younger children to Leicestershire.

‘I thought you might have changed your mind.’

‘That’s very unfair,’ Wendy said. ‘Because now your mother will be able to say that I cried off at short notice.’

‘I really don’t see—’

Bruce never finished the sentence, his protest cut short by the sound of the doorbell. Wendy went to answer and found Helen’s father, John Newbould, standing smiling on the doorstep. Inwardly deploring his timing, she showed her visitor into the sitting room. A couple of weeks had passed since she’d asked Tara to make enquiries with him as to whether anyone in the local history society happened to have come across anything of interest regarding The Ashes. She knew that it was disingenuous to pose her enquiry in that way, but she guessed that any violent episodes in the past would be grist to their mill, and although involving John Newbould opened up the possibility that Tara would get to hear about the murder, Wendy figured that her eldest would be more interested than upset, and this way, if Bruce got to hear about it, it would be via a channel that didn’t involve Joan or Peggy Disberry. Bruce still knew nothing about the visit to Peggy Disberry, not least because Wendy knew that he would disapprove of Joan’s deceitful method of gaining Peggy’s confidence, and it therefore naturally followed that he knew nothing of the story of the supposed Victorian murder either.

She assumed that John Newbould hadn’t said anything to his own daughter about the murder, because Tara certainly hadn’t mentioned it a couple of days ago, when she’d told Wendy in passing that Helen’s father intended to call round and talk to her about the house. Wendy had hoped the visit would take place on a weekday evening when Bruce was safely down in Ashby, not just because this avoided him getting wind of the murder story, but also because Bruce did not particularly like John Newbould and would be irritated by Wendy’s having extended an invitation to him.

‘It’s John,’ Wendy announced brightly, as she ushered him into the sitting room. ‘Goodness, how long is it since you two talked rubbish together? John’s helping to organize the big party for the Royal Wedding.’ It was just possible, she thought, that she might divert John onto this topic long enough for Bruce to be fooled into thinking that it was the main purpose of his visit.

Bruce did not even smile at her attempted joke about their one-time membership of the rubbish tip committee. ‘Oh yes?’ he said. ‘Weren’t you on the committee for the Silver Jubilee party as well? Are some people still not speaking after the big fall out over the Under Eights Fancy Dress?’

John Newbould laughed. ‘Well, after 1977 I did say “never again”. I think we all did, but the village likes a bit of a show on these national occasions, and if it’s going to happen, someone’s got to bring it all together.’

‘I’m sure everyone appreciates what you do,’ Wendy said quickly. ‘Have you brought your catering lists?’

‘I have as it happens. I noticed I hadn’t got you down for anything yet and I know you can always be counted on to volunteer.’

‘How about sausage rolls?’ Wendy suggested. Anyone could make a success of them, now that you could get those bags of frozen ones.

John consulted a rather battered sheet of paper. ‘No … I’ve got sausage rolls covered. Moira Cox is doing some, and so are Thelma Scott and Pat Gilby. I still need 100 toffee apples …’ As Wendy blanched, he continued, ‘Oh, no … Barbara and Josie have promised the toffee apples …’

He pulled out a pencil and made a swift annotation, while Bruce took the opportunity to give Wendy a look.

‘What about things on sticks?’ John asked.

‘I think even I can spear cheese and pineapple.’

‘Say two hundred cheese and pineapple and I’ll get someone else to do the sausages on sticks.’

Wendy’s mouth dropped open, but John was making another mark on his list and failed to see her expression.

‘Now then,’ John said, refolding his sheet of paper as he spoke. ‘To what I really came about.’

Bruce shot Wendy a questioning look which she pretended not to see.

‘I asked around at the local history society and, sure enough, someone came up with this.’ John produced a thin booklet from his jacket pocket with a flourish. ‘Fascinating stuff. Apparently the chap who produced it was a retired schoolteacher. Real old character from what I can gather. Seems to have spent his entire retirement at the record office. What he didn’t know about the history of Bishop Barnard wasn’t worth knowing. Self-published several of these little booklets about the local area. And to a jolly high standard for an amateur. He did a lot of good work on census indexing for the Family History Society as well.’

Wendy noticed that Bruce was managing to look irritated, mystified and bored, all at the same time.

‘And The Ashes is mentioned in this book?’ Wendy prompted.

‘Yes, indeed! The whole business was obviously a cause célèbre at the time. I’m amazed I’d never heard about it before: something that happened just over a hundred years ago, in our own village. Here it is …’ He handed the booklet across to Wendy. ‘The place is marked.’

The pale blue paper cover, no thicker than the inner pages, had the words ‘Local Law Breakers by J H W Warmsworth’ printed on the front. A bookmark commemorating a visit to Ripon Cathedral had been inserted at page nine, where the heading was ‘Alice Croft 1853–1872’.

Wendy scanned the words swiftly, giving less than half an ear to John’s attempts to engage Bruce’s interest regarding the wisdom or