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

to drop a hint in the right place. Maybe even provide an anonymous tip-off. Not a nice thing to do to the new owners, of course … But perhaps there were other clues anyway? Maybe justice would catch up with Peter Grayling without her ever having to become involved.

Joan Webb’s funeral took place the following Monday and was well attended. Wendy recognized no one, though she guessed that the slim, handsome women in the front pew must be Bunty’s daughters. Not technically Joan’s nieces, though they had evidently been accustomed to calling her ‘auntie’. She found herself a seat at the back, glad for Joan’s sake that so many people had turned out. At the end of the service the women she had earmarked as Fiona Huntley-Wilkes and her sister took up positions at either side of the outer doors, along with a tall, dark-haired man, who must be their cousin Charles, in order to greet the emerging mourners.

‘So good of you to come.’

Wendy recognized the voice of Fiona Huntley-Wilkes. ‘Thank you for taking the trouble to let me know,’ Wendy said. ‘I’m Wendy Thornton. I live in Elaine Duncan’s old house. I think she was your grandmother.’

‘Really? What an interesting coincidence that you should know Auntie Joan.’ The tone was polite, rather than interested.

‘It isn’t really a coincidence. You see your aunt … Joan … approached me. She was interested in the house because she used to stay there as a child.’

‘Yes … yes, I suppose she would have been.’

Wendy realized that the woman was waiting for her to move on and stop blocking the way for the handful of people who were still attempting to exit the building. ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ she repeated, as she moved down the steps, allowing Fiona Huntley-Wilkes to greet an elderly couple, both leaning on sticks.

‘So good of you to come,’ Wendy heard her say.

The small funeral reception at Joan’s bungalow was limited to close family. As Wendy rode the bus home she reflected that Fiona and her sister probably had not known Joan all that well. She hadn’t even been their auntie – a cousin of some degree, if truth be told. A middle-aged relative who’d spent a lot of time abroad and was therefore something of an unknown quantity. Someone who must not be accidentally omitted from wedding guest lists (even if she lived too far away to attend), a name on a reciprocal Christmas card each year. Someone who’d moved about a lot, making a mess of a page in their address books.

Fiona and her sister would care nothing for Joan’s precious albums of photographs. The information that she, Wendy, lived in the same house where her grandmother had lived and their own mother had grown up, had elicited not the slightest flicker of interest. Had Joan bequeathed her photographs to anyone? Wasn’t there a danger that they might end up trashed in a skip? That would be awful. The precious archive – and in particular photographs of The Ashes itself – lost forever. And surely, if Joan had known what was going to happen, she would have offered to pass on some of those images herself?

When she got off the bus in the village, Wendy all but ran along Green Lane. She had no idea where Fiona Huntley-Wilkes or her sister lived, and it was no use writing to them care of Joan’s bungalow, because by the time the letter got there, a house clearance firm might have been in and done their worst. Her only concrete hope of getting to Joan’s relatives was here and now. As soon as she entered the house, not even bothering to take off her coat, she turned up Joan’s details in the book which sat beside the telephone.

Suppose the line to the bungalow had already been cut off?

But it had not. It was answered immediately. Someone must have been standing right beside the telephone.

The woman who had answered sounded slightly startled. No doubt she had not been expecting the phone to ring.

‘Hullo,’ Wendy said. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. Is that Fiona Huntley-Wilkes?’

‘No. Hold on, I’ll get her for you. Who’s calling, please?’

‘My name is Mrs Thornton. I’m a friend of Joan’s. I was at the funeral today.’ She heard the faintest of clicks as the receiver was put down. The woman must have laid it on the little polished side table where Joan’s telephone was kept. There was a faint murmur of voices, then another sound as the receiver was lifted.

‘Hello? Fiona speaking.’

‘Hello. This is Wendy Thornton. You were kind enough to let me know that Joan had died. We met today at the funeral.’

‘Yes. I remember. How can I help you?’

‘I live in The Ashes, you see. The house where your grandmother used to live.’ Wendy paused, uncertain how to proceed, hoping for a little encouragement.

‘Yes, so I recall.’ Very cool. Precise diction. Almost certainly someone who’d been privately educated.

‘I don’t know whether you know this … but Joan has quite a number of photographs – old photographs – which show the house. And I was wondering …’ Wendy began to stumble, the impudence and impropriety of her call belatedly flooding her consciousness. ‘Well, I was thinking … that perhaps you wouldn’t want all of them. I wondered if I might be able to have one … just a snap …’

‘I’m aware that Aunt Joan had a lot of family photographs.’ Was it Wendy’s imagination, or was particular emphasis placed on the word ‘family’? ‘My cousin Charles has offered to deal with all that kind of thing. I will pass your request on to him. We already have your name and address, in Aunt Joan’s address book.’

‘Thank you … thank you so much. So sorry to intrude.’ Wendy stumbled through a farewell, red hot embarrassment prickling her entire body. She imagined the conversation as Fiona Huntley-Wilkes explained the interruption in proceedings to the rest of Joan’s family.

‘The nerve of it!’

‘If there are any pictures of Grandma Elaine,