Once Too Often by Dorothy Simpson

Author:Dorothy Simpson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

ELEVEN

‘We’re looking for Mr Covin.’ Thanet had to raise his voice above the barking of a Labrador/Collie cross.

Covin’s house was shut up and they had gone to the main house to inquire whereabouts on the farm he might be working. It was a typical Kentish farmhouse of rosy red bricks to the first floor with tilehanging above. Someone was a keen gardener: the lawns were trim, the flowerbeds immaculate and still colourful with Michaelmas daisies, late roses and dahlias. The door had been opened by one of the tallest men Thanet had ever come across. He reckoned that Covin’s employer must be a good six foot five and his build matched his height. He was in his sixties with grizzled hair cropped very short and the kind of tan acquired only by those who work outdoors in all weathers. He was wearing sturdy corduroys worn thin on the thighs and knees and a padded waistcoat over a thick checked shirt. ‘Quiet, Ben! Sit!’ he said, and the dog subsided, reluctantly lowering its haunches on to the flagstone floor.

‘Do you happen to know where Mr Covin might be, Mr . . .?’ said Thanet into the blissful silence.

‘Wargreave. James Wargreave,’ said the farmer.

‘We’re investigating the death of his sister-in-law, Mr Wargreave.’ Thanet produced his warrant card.

‘I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He’s out and won’t be back until around five.’

‘May I ask how long he’s been working for you?’

‘Twenty years or so.’ Wargreave frowned. ‘Why? Is he in trouble?’

‘Not at all. It’s just that we’re trying to fill in some family background. I wonder, would it inconvenience you too much if we had a brief talk?’

Wargreave stood back. ‘If you think it’ll help.’

There was a savoury smell in the hall and a clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

‘I hope we’re not interrupting your lunch.’

‘Oh no, we’ve just finished. We were washing up.’

He took them into a square sitting room which had a comfortable lived-in air. The soft furnishings were faded and threadbare in places but there were books and newspapers and some knitting bundled up on one of the armchairs as if its owner had just put it down for a moment and would soon return.

‘Who is it, James?’

A little barrel of a woman appeared in the doorway drying her hands on a tea towel. She went to stand beside her husband. Jack Sprat and his wife, thought Thanet. She couldn’t have been above five feet tall and with her rosy cheeks, untidy bun and voluminous apron she was almost a caricature of a farmer’s wife, a model for the illustrations in children’s picture books. But her eyes were bright with intelligence as she listened to her husband’s explanation and Thanet guessed that she didn’t miss much. Good, he thought. If anyone could sum up the Covin household, she would.

‘Sit yourselves down,’ she said. ‘Though I can’t see how we can help. We hardly knew her really, did we, James? Poor girl, what a terrible thing to happen.’

When they were all

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