‘So, he wasn’t popular?’ said Liz.
‘I wouldn’t saythatso much,’ said Sidrah. ‘I mean there was no actual harm in the guy. It’s just no one actually liked him very much.’ She was about to say more when the hollow clop of hooves made her look up, eyes widening in alarm. ‘Hello, Ffion,’ she called with the false brightness of someone rapidly changing the subject.
With a thrill of fear Liz turned to see the taut, ramrod figure of the second Mrs Hilton, advancing in stately fashion down the lane atop a vast brown horse. With her look of stony detachment, she put Liz in mind of a general leading her troops into battle. Ffion nodded briefly at Sidrah and would probably not have even noticed Liz had it not been for the two loud sneezes she gave vent to. The woman’s eyes slid over to her and disinterest shifted into a puzzled frown of recognition. Hastily Liz turned away, taking a sudden interest in some rather hideous stripy socks.
‘Does she have a stable at the Old Barn?’ Liz asked when she was sure that the disdainful figure was out of earshot. Sidrah shook her head.
‘No. There’s these stables at the edge of the village on the Marley Road. It’s where she works. I don’t mind saying’ – shelowered her voice conspiratorially – ‘she can have a right temper on her. And she’s been right funny lately, ever since Nev died.’
‘She’s likely upset,’ ventured Liz.
Sidrah shook her head. ‘I know for a fact a couple of people have called round to see if she was okay. I mean I was only too glad to see people after my Nick passed. But apparently, she all but shut the door in their face.’
‘Grief can take people in different ways,’ said Liz gently. She looked thoughtfully down the lane where the disdainful figure on the huge horse had disappeared round the corner.
Sidrah rolled her eyes. ‘If sheisgrieving,’ she said. ‘Funny sort if grieving in my book.’
‘Do you think,’ said Liz, feeling another sneeze brewing, ‘she was lying to the police about being in Carlisle?’
Sidrah nodded. ‘She must have been. But having said that I don’t know how she did it.’
Liz frowned. ‘Did what?’
‘Well, she must be a bit of a magician.’ Sidrah glanced uneasily in the direction of the disappearing horse. ‘The camera doesn’t lie, does it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Liz. ‘Camera?’
‘I have CCTV,’ said Sidrah. ‘When I heard what had happened, I had a look to see if shehadcome home. I usually see her if I’m in the garden. Hard to miss her, that ruddy great tank she drives. But when I get on the Zoom – well, as my Nick used to say, a helicopter could land in the garden and I wouldn’t notice.’
‘So, you checked your CCTV?’ prompted Liz.
Sidrah nodded avidly. ‘That’s the odd bit,’ she said. ‘Nothing and no one came to the house until Nev gets in. So, either Ffion must’ve been in the house all along or she had a cloak of invisibility.’
In the distance the brass band had stopped, leaving only the soporific hum of insects. Unlike her friends, Thelma wasn’tactually talking to any stallholders. Instead, she was standing in the overgrown playing fields at the back of the Old Barn, seeing what she could see of the property behind its thick hawthorn hedge. At one time the Old Barn had been exactly that – a barn – but now, like so many agricultural buildings, it had been handsomely and expensively remade into an embalmed version of its former self. What had been utilitarian gaps in the walls for light and access had been remodelled into features of stone lintels and deep-set glass. The doors that had once admitted livestock and machinery were now imposing oak barriers studded with iron.
Taking care to avoid the nettles, Thelma moved closer to the hedge into which was set a tall black gate, which was actually more of a door, with one of those old-fashioned latch handles. She tried peering through the unkempt hedge, where she could just make out the vague shapes of buildings. The Old Barn and to the right of it a squat square building – presumably the Snuggery where Neville had been found. Was the gate open? Would anyone notice if she took a quick look? She stepped back, unsure, and sent up a quick prayer for guidance.
‘Are you looking for summat?’ The voice was grim and belonged to a large woman with a dour face sporting, in spite of the heat, a thick brown cardigan and orange pedal pushers. Beside her stood a tiny chihuahua dog; both were regarding her accusingly.
‘I’m here for the village festival,’ said Thelma.
‘Well, you won’t find ithere,’ said the woman with dour satisfaction. ‘In fact, you’d be hard put to find much of itanywhere. I said to people, “Why bother with a community festival when there’s no fookin’ community to speak of?”’
‘There seemed to be some people,’ said Thelma mildly.
The woman snorted. ‘The tea tent’s from Leeds, the cake stall’s from Boroughbridge and the brass band’s from the other side of Darlington. And if you’re wondering why it’s all gone quiet, thetenor horn’s passed out from heat exhaustion.’ She nodded with grim satisfaction.
‘Oh dear,’ said Thelma and, nodding politely, turned to go.
‘I saw you at Neville Hilton’s funeral,’ said the woman, and such was the command in her voice that Thelma found herself stopping in her tracks. ‘You’re friends with that Liz whatserface – her who goes to pre-diabetes awareness.’
So, thought Thelma, this must be the famous Zippy Doodah.
‘I am,’ she acknowledged.
‘And you knew Nev Hilton?’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Thelma.
