Free Beneath the Soil by Fay Sampson Page A

trying to avoid a conflict of interest.’
    â€˜You don’t really think Philip killed her?’
    The solicitor’s hand was suddenly back on her arm, drawing her away from the gate. The rest of the mourning party were coming through into the square. Suzie fell silent as they passed. The tall, suntanned man she thought must be the Caseleys’ son passed her. His mouth was set in a grim line. He nodded curtly to Frances.
    She spoke in a low voice. ‘Matthew. I’m so sorry.’
    He walked on without answering. The black-clad party turned away along the pavement.
    The two detectives, who had watched the burial from a distance, left a tactful space before they followed. As they passed Suzie and Frances, the tall chief inspector let her eyes dwell on Suzie for an electrifying moment. Suzie read all too clearly her surprise and condemnation at seeing her here.
    It took a moment for Suzie to recover.
    When she did, she was relieved to see that the man in the raincoat and the broad-brimmed hat had gone.
    â€˜Sorry about that,’ Frances said, letting her go. ‘Matthew’s not speaking to me. Of course I’m defending Philip. That’s my job, but I’d do it anyway. Though at the moment, I’m searching for crumbs.’
    Words hovered on the tip of Suzie’s tongue. ‘Only …’
    â€˜Yes?’ Again that narrowing of the eyes. The sense of a sharp intelligence leaping into action.
    â€˜There was more than I told you. That afternoon, and again later.’
    The dark eyes summed her up. ‘Do you have time for a cup of tea? I’ve been invited to the official tea at the Tor Hotel, but it might be a bit delicate, under the circumstances. A bit like Banquo’s ghost at the feast. And if you have any information that might help Philip …’
    â€˜We told the police, but I’m not sure it made much of an impression.’
    â€˜Well, tell me.’
    Suzie let herself be steered to a tea shop, with chintz-covered cushions on the wheel-backed chairs. She would miss the bus she had intended to catch, but there would be another one in an hour.
    â€˜Now,’ said Frances Nosworthy, setting down her patent-leather handbag. ‘This one’s on me. Could you manage a cream tea? I don’t know about you, but I feel in need of something to cheer me up.’
    Suzie looked at the other woman’s enviably slender figure. But the lure of scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam was too much. ‘Yes, please. Me too.’
    Frances placed the order. ‘Now,’ she said, getting out a notepad from her handbag. ‘Let’s take it from the top, shall we? You went to Saddlers Wood on …?’
    â€˜Saturday, the thirteenth of July.’
    She told it all. The path Eileen Caseley said was infrequently used, down which they had seen Philip stride with his gun. The crack of wood snapping as they explored the ruined cottage. The sense of being watched. And then her joining Tom and Dave’s hare-brained adventure to discover more. The evidence of surveying in the patch of moorland just beyond the wood.
    â€˜It makes sense,’ Frances said, laying her pen down among the crumbs of scone on the tablecloth. ‘I can’t reveal the family business, of course, but I’m not actually surprised.’
    â€˜What I don’t understand,’ Suzie said, ‘is, if Philip was opposing the exploitation of mineral rights, why anyone should want to kill Eileen, and not him.’
    â€˜Hmm.’
    Frances’s narrow fingers tapped on the table top. ‘I can’t discuss the family’s affairs. But you’ve just said enough to make me sense it’s not an open and shut case of domestic violence. I was never convinced that it was, but what do I know? I sit in my snug little solicitor’s office; business goes on – wills mortgages, land sales, drink driving charges. The recession doesn’t really hit us.