Free The Quick and the Dead (A Sister Agnes Mystery) by Alison Joseph Page A

into the fast lane as soon as she could and drove hard, her jaw clenched, flashing her lights at anyone who got in her way.
    Sam ran to greet her. The fire smouldered as usual, but there was no one else about. ‘Paz has hitched into Brentwood to sign on, Jeff’s up in the chestnut there, the others are somewhere. Do you want some tea?’
    Jeff descended from a tree and asked Sam if she wanted to climb. A few moments later, all rigged up in abseil harness, she disappeared after him into the branches. Agnes surveyed the deserted camp, the benders, their blanket coverings lifted to air in the sunshine, the makeshift clothes-line with one filthy pair of jeans swinging from it; beyond the camp the gentle slope away from the forest down to the village, the church spire just visible through the trees. To the right of the church Agnes could see Nicholson’s farmhouse. The man whose family had acquired the land before passing it on to the DoT. Agnes picked up her bag and set off.
    Half an hour later the farmhouse door was opened by a ginger-haired boy of about fourteen, who squinted up at Agnes, then turned and called, ‘Dad — someone to see you.’ A man appeared from an inside door, stooping under the lintel, his shirt-sleeves rolled up above his elbows.
    ‘Sister Agnes,’ Agnes said. ‘I’m involved with the road protest camp, in particular with Becky, who — um, died. I wondered if you had a moment.’
    He gestured with his head for her to come in, and she followed him into the dark hallway and then beyond to the kitchen. She sat at the wide oak table and he sat heavily opposite her, waiting. She looked beyond him to the peeling beige paint of the walls, the crumbling, dirty window frames. A black Labrador was sleeping in a basket on the old flagstone floor, and now it lifted its head, considered Agnes for a moment and then lay down again.
    ‘They said you owned the land here,’ Agnes began.
    The farmer nodded. ‘Nicholson,’ he said. ‘James Nicholson. My great-uncle bought it in the fifties, cheap.’
    ‘Were you from round here, your family?’
    ‘Lincolnshire, to start with. My great-uncle, called James like me, he moved away, settled here.’ He paused, waiting.
    ‘But now you’ve sold it.’
    ‘For ten times what he paid for it, yes.’
    ‘For the road.’
    James Nicholson nodded again. ‘It’s been time for us to go for a long while now.’ A shadow passed across his face. He slowly unrolled his shirt-sleeves over his arms. ‘Sometimes I look across the land, early in the morning, when the sun touches the edges of the trees there … I loved this place once.’
    Agnes hesitated. ‘So — what went wrong?’
    He looked up from fastening his cuffs. ‘Are you with them, that lot up the hill, then?’
    ‘I knew Becky, the one who was murdered. That’s how I got involved.’
    He shook his head. ‘I know nothing about that. All I know is, this place is trouble. Them road-builders is welcome to it. Though them’ll find they’s tractors don’t work any better ’n mine.’
    ‘Has it been difficult to farm?’
    ‘Didn’t question the price, you see, Old Jim. What I reckon is, they were desperate. Desperate to get rid, they were.’
    ‘Why?’
    James Nicholson shrugged. ‘It’s just never gone right. And since my wife died, it’s got worse. Our kid there, you saw ’im — he needs a better life than this. I’m back to Suffolk come the spring, my brother’s there, nice little school nearby.’
    Agnes frowned. ‘Do you think — if something had gone wrong in the past, for example —’ She stopped.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Would it cause problems for the land? I mean, if something to do with the farm had gone awry?’
    ‘What kind of awry?’
    Agnes smiled at him, ‘Oh, I don’t know.’
    ‘What’ve you heard?’ he said.
    ‘Me? Nothing.’
    ‘There was some story, the old people used to talk of it from time to time — someone buried here or something. But I en’t seen nothing