No longer was it possible on the day of the village fête to swarm all over the Manor gardens and be entertained by the sight of Lady Huyton-Corbett, gently drunk in georgette and a shady picture hat, bowling for (and frequently hitting) the pig. No longer did the squire present a silver cup for the finest sweet peas, with rosettes for the runners-up.
In 1980 the property was sold again and the house was transformed into a conference centre. The villagers’ deep distrust of change and resentment of newcomers was much consoled by the creation of over thirty jobs, albeit of a rather menial nature. Five years later, muddled and inefficient management having forced the property once more on the market, one of Mrs Thatcher’s designer gladiators took it on. He also purchased a thousand acres of adjacent farmland with the (concealed) intention of creating a Tudor theme park. Horrified Dandonians of every rank and political persuasion joined forces against this vile despoliation of England’s green and pleasant. Neighbouring villages, imagining the hooting traffic jams outside their own front doors if not actually in their own back yards, rallied in support and, after petitions had been handed in and a banner dramatically unfurled in the public gallery of the House of Commons, planning permission was refused and the entrepreneur went off in a huff to attempt malfeasance elsewhere.
Relieved though the locals were to see the back of him, they had at least understood, if not appreciated, his simple profit-making rationale. The present situation was quite beyond their comprehension. For a start the newcomers kept themselves strictly to themselves. The village, sturdily resentful at the slightest hint of seigneurial familiarity from a succession of visiting parvenus, was doubly resentful when no such hint was seen to be forthcoming. It was not used to being ignored. Even the half dozen or so weekenders who drove down from London at the first sign of a clement Friday, Golf GTI boots crammed with bottles of wine and stone-ground pasta, made hopeful attempts at integration in the saloon bar of The Swan - receiving by way of return many a falsely jocular put-down.
But the second black mark against the Windhorse contingent was much more serious. They did not spend. Not once had a resident entered Bob’s Emporium or even the Post Office (‘Use It Or Lose It’), let alone their friendly neighbourhood local. This had been grudgingly accepted when the community, tilling and hoeing its three acres, was thought to be self-sufficient but when one of them was spotted getting off the bus with two Sainsbury’s carrier bags, umbrage was well and truly taken. And so it was with a quite justified sense of grievance as well as happy anticipation that a large crowd trooped into the Coroner’s Court to see the drama unfold and justice done.
The dead man, fifty-three at the time of his demise, was named as James Carter. The proceedings opened with written evidence from an ambulance attendant who had arrived at the Manor House following an emergency telephone call to find the body of Mr Carter lying at the foot of a flight of stairs.
‘I carried out a brief examination of the deceased,’ read out the clerk, ‘and contacted my control who sent out a doctor and informed the police.’
Doctor Lessiter gave evidence next. He was a pompous little man who refused to use one word where five could be conjured and his audience soon got bored and turned their attention to members of the commune.
These were eight in number and something of a disappointment. Primed by Mrs Bulstrode, the courtroom was expecting a rare exotic species piquantly marked to distinguish it from the common herd. True, one girl had floaty muslin trousers and a reddish dot on her forehead, but you could see that sort of thing any day of the week in Slough or Uxbridge. Rather peeved, they all tuned back into the doctor’s gist just in time to hear the satisfying words ‘strong smell of brandy’.
The constable who followed confirmed that he had questioned the ambulance man as to his opinion on the possibility of foul play of which he himself had seen no outward sign. Then the first witness from the Windhorse took the stand. A tall, wide woman clothed in a brilliantly coloured Liberty silk two-piece and presenting a splendid figure. Agreeing that she was indeed Miss May Cuttle, she recounted her movements on the day in question in greater detail than was strictly necessary. All this in ringing confident vowels that would not have disgraced the chair of the local WI.
She’d had a dental appointment in Causton - ‘a recalcitrant molar’ - and left the house just after eleven with three companions who required a lift to Spinnakers Wood where they were to dowse for animal ley lines.
‘Had to wait at the surgery. Child being awkward. Ducks, teddies, promise of ice cream - wouldn’t budge. Persuaded him to think orange - all over in a trice. Hence the saying “good as gold” of course ... where was I?’
‘Molar,’ said the coroner.
‘Ah, yes! That tackled I went to Hi Notes to collect some music. Boccherini’s - the G5 - Sonata and a piece by Offenbach. I always think of him as the Liszt of the cello don’t you?’ She beamed at the coroner whose half moons jigged on his nose in disbelief. ‘Bought a cucumber and a cream bun. Ate them down by the river and drove home arriving a quarter to two and finding poor Jim. Rest you’ve already heard.’
Asked if she had touched the body, Miss Cuttle replied in the negative. ‘Could see he’d already transmuted to the astral.’
‘Quite so,’ replied the coroner taking a sip of water and wishing it were something stronger.
Miss Cuttle explained that as far as she’d been aware no one else was in the house. People hadn’t started trickling back until nearly tea time. Asked if she could think of anything else that might be helpful, she said: ‘One odd thing. Someone rang up asking for Jim just after I got home. Very strange. He was hardly ever in contact with the outside world. Quite a reclusive sort of chap really.’
Given permission, she then retired to her seat blissfully unaware that the cucumber and ley lines had come within a whisker of undermining the excellent groundwork laid by the pure silk and the chime of authoritative vowels.
After the first person to see James Carter dead, came the last two to see him alive. Giving his name as Arno Gibbs, a small man with a beard like a little red spade dipped to a respectfully sombre angle explained that he had left the house at eleven-thirty to drive the Master-
‘Could you use the correct name, please,’ interrupted the clerk.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the bearded man, ‘Mr Craigie and Mr Riley - to Causton in the van. When we left Jim was watering the pots on the terrace. He seemed in good spirits. Said he was going to get some tomatoes from the greenhouse and make soup for lunch. It was his turn to milk Calypso and he’d missed breakfast you see.’
A buzz of speculation in re Calypso was briskly put down. Asked about the drinking habits of the dead man, Mr Gibbs said that the community was teetotal although a bottle of brandy was kept in the medicine chest for emergencies. Mr Carter had certainly not been drinking when they’d parted from him.
Next the coroner asked for Timothy Riley but the clerk crossed quickly to his table, murmuring something in a low voice. The coroner frowned, nodded, shuffled his papers and called for Mr Craig.
By now the air in the room was stifling. Faces were runnelled with sweat, shirts and dresses darkly patched. The ancient ceiling-fan’s whangee propellors creaked, sluggishly pushing at the heat. Several large bluebottles buzz-bombed the windows. But the man who now came forward to speak looked very cool. He wore a pale silky suit and his hair was pure white (no trace of yellow or grey), and gathered into a rubber band. The resultant ponytail fell to below his shoulders. Mrs Bulstrode was heard to mutter that white hair could be very deceiving and it was true that the man’s eyes were not at all rheumy but a vivid cerulean blue and his clear pale skin was hardly wrinkled. When he began to speak the quality of the court’s attention changed. His voice, though gentle, had a strange almost revelatory quality as if the most tremendous news were about to be imparted for those who had ears to hear. Everyone leaned forward as if to miss even a syllable might deprive them of something precious.