Free Beneath the Soil by Fay Sampson

towards the crowded square, at a walk so fast it was almost a run.

NINE
    T he burial was over. There were still knots of people about in the square, conspicuous in their black funeral clothes. Philip and his warder had been driven back to prison. But most mourners were drifting away, back to everyday reality. At Suzie’s Methodist church, there would have been an invitation for anyone at the service to stay and join the family afterwards for refreshments. No such general invitation had been given here. She suspected that the family’s friends would have been invited to a funeral tea in some hotel function room.
    The press photographers and television crews had packed up and gone, Suzie was relieved to see.
    Her heartbeat was quietening, but she was still tense. Should she risk turning her head to see if that man in the black raincoat was following her? Why was she of interest to him? Why had he scared her?
    A hand grasped her wrist. She gasped.
    â€˜I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’
    It was a woman’s voice. Suzie brought her panic under control and turned.
    The woman was dressed in a black suit with a crisp white shirt. She wore her funeral clothes with an understated elegance, almost like an habitual uniform. A coil of dark hair fell forward over one shoulder. She was, Suzie guessed, about her own age, with a diamond-shaped face slanting from pronounced cheekbones.
    She smiled now, though she was watching Suzie keenly. Her narrow fingers still held Suzie’s wrist, like a bird’s claw.
    Behind her, Suzie saw the party of chief mourners coming slowly down the path from the grave. The rector’s white surplice flapped in the breeze. Her hurried eyes thought they saw the watcher in the raincoat following them. A broad-brimmed leather hat hid his bare head now. The summer day was overcast, but his shielding clothes looked out of place for this time of year.
    She tore her eyes away and made herself speak with a semblance of naturalness to the woman partly blocking her view.
    â€˜It’s all right. I think I’m just a bit strung up.’
    The woman’s dark eyes narrowed. She let go of Suzie’s arm and held out a small hand.
    â€˜Frances Nosworthy. I’m Philip Caseley’s solicitor.’
    The image jumped into place. It was easy to imagine this smart but soberly dressed woman in a law court, as well as at a funeral. It was a few seconds before the oddness of the introduction caught up with Suzie.
    â€˜His solicitor?’ The unspoken question was, ‘
What do you want with me?
’ She had only come because of a moment of unsatisfied curiosity, and a sadness for the woman so briefly met.
    â€˜I hope you won’t think me intrusive, but I wondered who you were. We’re a fairly close-knit community here. I think I know most people in Moortown. But you obviously knew Eileen well enough to want to follow her to her grave.’ A thought seemed to strike her. ‘You’re not a reporter, are you?’
    â€˜No! No.’ Suzie found herself blushing. ‘I probably shouldn’t be here. It’s just …’ She heard herself repeating the story of their expedition to Saddlers Wood, the gunshot, Eileen’s evident distress, but then her gallant attempt at hospitality to the Fewings.
    â€˜I felt – I don’t know – that I owed her something.’
    â€˜Yes, Eileen had a warm heart. You wouldn’t have got away from her without a cup of tea, no matter what was happening.’
    â€˜But you’re representing Philip.’
    Frances Nosworthy made a face of distaste. ‘It’s a tricky situation. The Nosworthys are the family’s solicitors, have been for generations. My grandfather and old Michael Caseley. My cousin John is representing Eileen’s side, and the son, of course. But my father branched out into his own law firm, so I’m representing Philip. It’s a bad business. We’re