The Drowning Ground

The Drowning Ground by James Marrison Page B

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Authors: James Marrison
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said she was glad he was dead, and that he deserved it. I couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t tell me why either. Just flat out refused. The sweetest old granny you’re ever likely to see as well.’ Graves swallowed as if he had just tasted something unpleasant. ‘It was a bit creepy, in truth,’ he said.
    I let out a long sigh. ‘I imagine it’s because they all think he murdered his wife.’ It came out as almost flippant. But I was actually horrified by the way the gossip had been festering for the past five years.
    â€˜But it was an accident, wasn’t it?’ Graves said indignantly. ‘She drowned in the swimming pool. That’s what you told me.’
    â€˜It was an accident all right.’
    Graves looked vaguely disappointed.
    â€˜His second wife used to go swimming most days in the summer,’ I explained. ‘They had a big outside pool. And one day she just fell in. Simple as that. Happens all the time, apparently. Slipped as she was walking back towards the house and smacked the back of her head before she hit the water. It was the housekeeper … Nancy Williams … who saw her and called the ambulance. But she was dead by the time they got there.’ I folded my arms. ‘You managed to talk to her yet?’
    â€˜Only on the phone. She’s moved … to Brighton. Said she hasn’t heard from him in years. Didn’t seem all that bothered, when I told her.’
    That didn’t surprise me either. I watched the snow swirling out over the grey horizon, remembering Hurst slumped on a sofa in the grand surroundings of his house, and the fading sun slanting through the French windows. It had been the first of many visits to Dashwood Manor.
    Graves still looked confused. ‘But if it was an accident, why do they automatically assume that he killed her? It doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t they all be feeling sorry for him?’
    â€˜Believe me,’ I said, ‘Hurst was not the kind of man who invited pity. And for some reason he seems to have locked himself away in his house and turned recluse. Villagers probably took it for a sure sign of a guilty conscience.’ I lowered my voice, as if I were just about to impart a juicy piece of village gossip myself. ‘The thing is, it was his second wife, like I said. Villagers never thought much of her. Thought she’d set her sights on him for his money, and in the end she proved them right. It didn’t take her long either. Ended up having an affair with some chap.’ I frowned. ‘God, I can’t remember who now. Lived locally, I think. A builder. She wasn’t exactly discreet about it. Used to meet him before she picked up her kid from school. She was late the whole time – you know, keeping the poor kid waiting.
    â€˜Somebody must have tipped Hurst off about it. Hurst tracked him down and made a big scene in a pub. Beat him up pretty badly and threatened to do it all over again and a lot worse. And he could have done, if he’d wanted to: Hurst was no walk in the park, believe me. A few weeks later, and she’s lying face up in the swimming pool. So now you can see how it all looked.’
    â€˜But you checked it?’ Graves said, with a great deal of caution. ‘His alibi checked out, sir?’
    I nodded. I had checked it all right. ‘He was out buying a pony for his daughter. His foreman on the farm went along with him to help him choose the right one – big old guy called Sam Griffin. It might be worth talking to him too.’
    We drove on. The farther we went, the narrower the lanes became, and they took us deeper and deeper into the folds of the fields.
    â€˜A lot of the newer villagers don’t even know who he is,’ Graves said. ‘And one of them told me he’d gone round to Hurst’s house and the old man had set the dog on him.’
    â€˜One of the commuters, you mean?’
    â€˜An

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