Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

Perversely, this evening Manham looked almost cheery in the sunshine. The flowerbeds in the church and village green were like punches of colour, so bright they hurt. They were one of Manham's few sources of pride, scrupulously maintained by old George Mason and his grandson Tom, the two gardeners I'd met when I'd first arrived. On the edge of the green, even the Martyr's Stone had been garlanded with flowers by the local schoolchildren. It was an annual event, decorating the old millstone where in the sixteenth century a woman had supposedly been stoned to death by her neighbours. The story went that she'd cured an infant of some palsy, only to be accused of witchcraft. Henry joked that only Manham could martyr someone for doing a good turn, and claimed there was a lesson there for both of us.

I didn't feel like going home, so I headed for the surgery. I often went there, even when I didn't have to. At times my cottage could feel lonely, whereas at the big house there was always at least the illusion of work, if nothing else. I let myself into the back door that led into the self-contained clinic. An old conservatory, dense and humid with plants that Janice lovingly tended, served as a reception and waiting room. Part of the ground floor had been converted into Henry's private living quarters. But that was at the other end of the house, which was more than big enough to accommodate all of us. I'd taken over his old consulting room, and as I closed the door behind me the scent of old wood and beeswax was calming. Even though I'd been using it almost every day since I'd arrived it was still more a distillation of Henry's personality than mine, with its old hunting oil, roll-top desk and leather-seated captain's chair. The bookshelves were filled with his old medical books and journals, as well as less obvious subjects for a village GP. There were texts by Kant and Nietzsche, and an entire shelf given over to psychology – one of Henry's hobby-horses. My only contribution to the room was the computer monitor that hummed quietly on the desk, an innovation Henry had disgruntledly acquiesced to after months of persuasion.

He never had recovered enough to return to work full-time. Like his wheelchair, my temporary contract had developed into something more permanent. It had been first extended, then changed into a partnership when it became apparent that he would no longer be able to run the practice solo. Even the old Land Rover Defender I now drove had once been his. It was a battered old automatic, bought after the car crash that had left him a paraplegic and killed his wife Diana. Buying it had been a statement of intent, when he still clung to the hope of being able to drive – and walk – again. But he never had. Or ever would, the doctors had assured him.

'Idiots. Put someone in a white coat and they think they're God,' he'd scoffed.

Eventually, though, even Henry had to accept that they were right. And so I'd inherited not just the Land Rover, but bit by bit most of the practice as well. We'd split the workload more or less equally to begin with, but increasingly more and more of it had been left to me. That didn't stop him remaining 'the proper doctor' in most people's eyes, but I'd given up minding long ago. I was still a newcomer as far as Manham was concerned, and probably always would be.

Now, in the late-afternoon heat, I tried visiting a few medical websites, but my heart wasn't in it. I stood up and went to open the French windows. The fan on my desk whirred, noisily stirring the turgid air without cooling it. Even with the windows open, the difference was purely psychological. I stared out across the neatly tended garden. Like everything else it was parched; shrubs and grass almost visibly withering in the heat. The lake ran right up to the garden's border, with only a low embankment as protection from the inevitable winter flooding. Moored to a small jetty was Henry's old dinghy. It was little more than a glorified rowing boat, but Manham Water wasn't deep enough for anything else. It was hardly the Solent, and there were still areas that were too shallow or clogged with reeds to venture into, but both of us enjoyed going out on it even so.

There was no chance of raising a sail today, though. The lake was so still there was no movement at all. From this angle there was only a scribble of distant reeds separating it from the sky. All was flatness and water, an emptiness that, depending on your mood, could be either restful or desolate.

I didn't find it restful now.

'Thought I heard you.'

I turned as Henry wheeled himself into the room. 'Just sorting out a few things,' I said, pulling my thoughts back from where they'd wandered.

'Like a bloody oven in here,' he muttered, stopping in front of the fan. Except for the non-use of his legs he looked the picture of health; creamy-white hair over a tanned face and keen dark eyes.

'So what's this about the Yates boys finding a body? Janice was full of it when she brought my lunch.'

Most Sundays Janice would deliver a covered plate with whatever she'd cooked for herself. Henry insisted he was capable of cooking Sunday lunch himself, but I noticed he rarely put up much of a struggle. Janice was a good cook, and I suspected her feelings for Henry went beyond those of housekeeper. Unmarried herself, I guessed her disapproval of his late wife stemmed mainly from jealousy, although she'd hinted more than once at some old scandal. I'd made it clear I didn't want to know. Even if Henry's marriage hadn't been the idyllic affair he now seemed to recall, I'd no interest in raking over the bones of gossip.

But I wasn't surprised that Janice knew about the body. Half the village would be buzzing with the news by now.

'Over by Farnham Wood,' I told him.

'Some birdwatcher, probably. Yomping around with a backpack in this heat.'

'Probably.'

His dark eyebrows went up at my tone. 'What, then? Don't tell me we might have a murder? That'd liven things up a bit!' His smile faded when I didn't join in. 'Something tells me I shouldn't joke about it.'

I told him about my visit to Sally Palmer's house, hoping talking about it might make it seem less of a possibility. It didn't.

'Good Christ,' Henry said heavily, when I'd finished. 'And the police think it might be her?'

'They didn't say one way or the other. I don't suppose they can, yet.'

'God, what a bloody thing to happen.'

'It might not be her.'

'No, of course not,' he agreed. But I could see he didn't believe it any more than I did. 'Well, I don't know about you, but I could do with a drink.'

'Thanks, but I'll give it a miss.'

'Saving yourself for the Lamb later?'

The Black Lamb was the village's only pub. I often went there, but I knew that this evening the main topic of conversation wouldn't be one I wanted to join in.

'No, I think I'll just stay at home tonight,' I told him.

My house was an old stone cottage on the outskirts of the village. I'd bought it when it became obvious I'd be staying longer than six months after all. Henry had told me I was welcome to stay with him, and God knows Bank House was certainly big enough. Its wine cellar alone could have swallowed my cottage. But I'd been ready to move into my own place, to feel I was putting down permanent roots rather than continue as a lodger. And as much as I enjoyed my new work, I didn't want to live with it. There were times when it was still good to be able to close the door and walk away, and hope the phone didn't ring for a few hours at least.

This was one of them. A few people were drifting up the churchyard path for the evening service as I drove by on my way home. Scarsdale, the vicar, was in the church doorway. He was an elderly, dour man I couldn't pretend to like very much. But he'd been here for years and had a loyal, if small, congregation. I raised my hand to acknowledge Judith Sutton, a widow who lived with her adult son Rupert, an overweight hulk who always trudged along two paces behind his overbearing mother. She was talking to Lee and Marjory Goodchild, a prim couple of hypochondriacs who were regulars at the surgery. They regarded me as on-call twenty-four hours a day, and I hoped I wouldn't be flagged down now for an impromptu consultation.