Hotspur’s remains were left to rot here as a warning to other rebels that the might of King Henry IV was absolute, his response to treason merciless.
The town was now dark, deserted and quiet. For the first time she would have welcomed Saturday crowds. Noisy families, sweethearts, shoppers. Buskers.
Big Issue
sellers. She hurried uphill to the corner, let herself into the Barclays foyer and heaved a deep breath. The thirteenth century receded. She was back on familiar ground. But the walk had cured her. She strode, with confidence, back across the English Bridge and did not stare at people walking the other way, wondering.
It was late by the time she arrived home. The English Bridge was closed to traffic again and there was gridlock round the Abbey. Turning out of the Gay Meadows took precious minutes. She was anxious to get home now. It was only when she was on the ring road, driving steadily, that she returned to the encounter on the bridge. Had it been Humphreys or had she been deluded? If it was him, what had he been doing there? “Silly,” she said to herself.“He practically
lives
there.”
But he had been heading away from Marine Terrace. He could have been going anywhere. To the pub, to a shop. Anywhere. OK then. Who had he been talking to on the phone? She narrowed her eyes and gripped the steering wheel. She didn’t even know that it was John Humphreys. It could have been anyone. But her mind was not listening to reason. It rippled on. What connection was there really between Humphreys and the dead man and Haddonfield, the window cleaner? Because she didn’t buy the story that it was all pure chance.
As she covered the last few metres of the drive she could pick out lights on the top floor. A silhouette crossing in front of the window. Sam’s curtains were closed and she could tell by the light from behind it that his television was on. But downstairs was in darkness. She pulled up outside the front door and switched her engine and headlights off. Something had caught her eye on the doorstep. Something red.
She locked the car and bent down. It was a wreath. Of red roses. She scooped them up, searched for a card and couldn’t find one. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside, puzzling. If someone was leaving flowers why hadn’t they rung the doorbell and delivered them properly?
Someone
would have been in for most of the day – Vera all morning, Agnetha throughout the afternoon, joined by the twins after four thirty. How long had the flowers lain on the step? Both Vera and Agnetha would have noticed them. They always used the front door. They had to enter and exit through the front door to set the burglar alarm. Why had they left them there? She would have thought that Agnetha would have taken the flowers inside. She loved flowers. She would have put them in the sink to keep them watered, preserved the card. Marthaglanced upwards again. She should be running down the stairs to share the experience with her. Flowers delivered were not an everyday occurrence in the White House. They were special. She fingered the wire which bound the flowers to the circlet of moss. They must have arrived after four-thirty and Agnetha could not have heard the doorbell. But had no one been required to sign for them?
Once inside, in the light, she searched for the card and still couldn’t find it. It must have fallen off, maybe on the step. So, still holding the flowers, she went back outside with the porch light full on. And still couldn’t find it. She kicked the door closed behind her and carried the flowers into the kitchen. She put them on the draining board and splashed them with water. They still looked fresh. Agnetha and Sukey were running downstairs.
“The flowers, Agnetha,” she said. “On the front doorstep. Why did you leave them there?”
The two Abba lookalikes stared at each other.
“I did not see any flowers when we came home, Mrs Gunn. Someone must have left them since we arrive back from
The town was now dark, deserted and quiet. For the first time she would have welcomed Saturday crowds. Noisy families, sweethearts, shoppers. Buskers.
Big Issue
sellers. She hurried uphill to the corner, let herself into the Barclays foyer and heaved a deep breath. The thirteenth century receded. She was back on familiar ground. But the walk had cured her. She strode, with confidence, back across the English Bridge and did not stare at people walking the other way, wondering.
It was late by the time she arrived home. The English Bridge was closed to traffic again and there was gridlock round the Abbey. Turning out of the Gay Meadows took precious minutes. She was anxious to get home now. It was only when she was on the ring road, driving steadily, that she returned to the encounter on the bridge. Had it been Humphreys or had she been deluded? If it was him, what had he been doing there? “Silly,” she said to herself.“He practically
lives
there.”
But he had been heading away from Marine Terrace. He could have been going anywhere. To the pub, to a shop. Anywhere. OK then. Who had he been talking to on the phone? She narrowed her eyes and gripped the steering wheel. She didn’t even know that it was John Humphreys. It could have been anyone. But her mind was not listening to reason. It rippled on. What connection was there really between Humphreys and the dead man and Haddonfield, the window cleaner? Because she didn’t buy the story that it was all pure chance.
As she covered the last few metres of the drive she could pick out lights on the top floor. A silhouette crossing in front of the window. Sam’s curtains were closed and she could tell by the light from behind it that his television was on. But downstairs was in darkness. She pulled up outside the front door and switched her engine and headlights off. Something had caught her eye on the doorstep. Something red.
She locked the car and bent down. It was a wreath. Of red roses. She scooped them up, searched for a card and couldn’t find one. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside, puzzling. If someone was leaving flowers why hadn’t they rung the doorbell and delivered them properly?
Someone
would have been in for most of the day – Vera all morning, Agnetha throughout the afternoon, joined by the twins after four thirty. How long had the flowers lain on the step? Both Vera and Agnetha would have noticed them. They always used the front door. They had to enter and exit through the front door to set the burglar alarm. Why had they left them there? She would have thought that Agnetha would have taken the flowers inside. She loved flowers. She would have put them in the sink to keep them watered, preserved the card. Marthaglanced upwards again. She should be running down the stairs to share the experience with her. Flowers delivered were not an everyday occurrence in the White House. They were special. She fingered the wire which bound the flowers to the circlet of moss. They must have arrived after four-thirty and Agnetha could not have heard the doorbell. But had no one been required to sign for them?
Once inside, in the light, she searched for the card and still couldn’t find it. It must have fallen off, maybe on the step. So, still holding the flowers, she went back outside with the porch light full on. And still couldn’t find it. She kicked the door closed behind her and carried the flowers into the kitchen. She put them on the draining board and splashed them with water. They still looked fresh. Agnetha and Sukey were running downstairs.
“The flowers, Agnetha,” she said. “On the front doorstep. Why did you leave them there?”
The two Abba lookalikes stared at each other.
“I did not see any flowers when we came home, Mrs Gunn. Someone must have left them since we arrive back from
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