Free Murder Most Fab by Julian Clary

was pricked. I
knew a lot about plants from helping my mother. Besides, Thornchurch House was
the oldest and grandest residence in the village. Sitting high above us mere
mortals on a majestic hill, it was painted a pale yellow, had a sweeping drive
leading up to it, and grand pillars on either side of a large, oak double front
door. The Thornchurches had lived there for generations, surrounded by their
ample acreage of farm- and woodland. The current lord and lady were decidedly
aloof, seen once in a while driving through the village in a Land Rover or
Daimler; they never stopped for a chat with anyone. They seemed to think of us
villagers as their inferiors and were so intimidating that if they ever pulled
up outside the post office we would scatter out of their path like the pheasants
they shot in the fields.
    Every
Sunday Lady Thornchurch was to be seen in church, sitting in the pew reserved
for the family, and giving off the cold, heartless air of the fervently
religious. After the service, she shook hands curtly with the vicar but never
lingered, although some of the more aspirational village ladies bobbed
hopefully into her line of vision, trying to engage her attention. She wore a
fur coat — a mortal sin to my mother, who hissed whenever Hilary Thornchurch’s
name was mentioned. Lord Thornchurch was never seen in church but he once
opened the village fête, and was a tall, stately, handsome man, as one would
expect a lord to be, but brusque and standoffish.
    There
were two Thornchurch offspring, a son and a daughter, but they were not allowed
to play with the village children and seemed to have been away at
boarding-school since they were about five. They were posh and mysterious.
Regina, the eldest, was now working in London at a Mayfair art gallery, and
Timothy was finishing his A levels at Eton.
    I read
the card in the post-office window again. Here was an opportunity to get a
glimpse inside the closed aristocratic world that lay behind the huge
wrought-iron gates, and it appealed to me. Some pocket money would be welcome
too, and I rather fancied the idea of myself as a son of the sod, sowing seed
in the fertile earth.
    I
finished my lolly, dropped the stick into the bin and decided that I would
write to the head gardener that very day.
     
    Before long I was
interviewed for the position, and the Sunday after that, I was set to weeding
the flowerbeds adjoining the stables. It was a fresh, late-spring morning and I
was chopping away dead daffodil leaves when I heard someone approaching. I
stood up, secateurs in hand, and turned round.
    I saw a
tall, beautiful boy with curly blond hair, piercing blue eyes and full lips.
His eyes flickered as he looked me up and down. ‘Hello. I’m Timothy Thornchurch,’
he said. ‘What are you doing?’
    ‘I’m
Johnny,’ I said. ‘I’m gardening.’
    He
hadn’t needed to say who he was — I already knew. I’d seen him once or twice,
sometimes as a shaggy mop of blond hair in the back of a speeding Daimler, and
once larking with his pals by the canal during the annual village raft race. He
was fit and muscular, and I’d admired him from afar but never thought of
talking to him. After all, I was a simple country lad and he was a sophisticated
public-school boy, boarding at Eton in term-time and shut away in the grandeur
of Thornchurch House during the holidays. Although we were almost the same age
and hailed from the same place, I had barely given him a second thought. Before
now I had never looked into his eyes. Even if I had, he was way beyond my reach
— not that I was reaching.
    Now he
stood in front of me in all his patrician glory. We stood five yards apart but
remained motionless and stared for an inordinate amount of time. Then, almost
unconsciously, I imitated one of my mother’s flirtatious little tricks: I
licked my lips, pushed out my chest and half smiled. A moment later, Timothy
said carelessly, ‘See you around, perhaps, Johnny,’ and walked