Midsomer Maiden |1| The Trials of Midsomer

13. Beyond the Grave

On a fine sunny morning in Aspern Tallow, one Alan Bradford, curator of the local museum, was leading a group of visitors on a tour around the village. Among them was PC Kevin Angel. "By three-thirty that afternoon," Alan declared, "August the first, 1644, the fighting was over. The Battle of Aspern Tallow had been lost. Royalists had fallen around the king like ripe corn, but Jonathan Lowrie was not among the dead. He had fought that day bravely for king and country, paying dearly for the privilege. But who would care? He was a wealthy man very much in the king's favour, and had few friends in this Roundhead part of the world. He made his way down this very lane and paused here to gather strength and draw water from the well."

Just then, a bicycle bell cut the air of mystery, startling them all. Eleanor Bunsall was hurtling down the lane on her rickety old bicycle, calling out, "Stand aside, please! I'm coming through!" They did stand aside, or perhaps dodge is the better term.

Alan narrowed his eyes at her retreating back. "Do mind the gradient, Ms. Bunsall." Then he turned back to his group, raising his voice once more. "He drank and moved on." He led them back towards the museum. "When he reached this point, Cromwellian thugs on the rampage caught sight of him from yonder. For the first time in his life, Jonathan Lowrie ran. Blood poured from a wound to his left shoulder, leaving a trail. But on he pressed... until here before him stood the family home. Aspern Hall." They entered the museum once more. "And as he entered the great hall, he called out to his wife, Florence, and as he reached this very spot, a Roundhead musketeer at the door shot him dead. And in accordance with his wish to be buried where he fell that day, this became his final resting place. Although I know for a fact he is not at peace."

Kevin Angel rolled his eyes. "You're not trying to sell us a ghost, are you, Mr. Bradford?"

"Why? Don't you believe in such things?" Alan asked.

The PC hesitated. "What, have you seen it?"

Alan nodded. "Many have. And before he walks abroad, he gives fair warning, tolling the church bell mournfully." He led them over to a wall covered with a curtain. "We are blessed with a fine portrait of Jonathan, crafted at the height of his powers by the artist Robert Walker..." And he drew back the curtain revealing the portrait of Jonathan Lowrie... and the vicious slash through its face. Alan stared, horrified, then turned to Angel. "You're a policeman! Do something!"

***

Meanwhile, Tom Barnaby was chuckling to himself as he read the newspaper over breakfast. "Who says justice is dead? George Burton fell off the twig while being interviewed about his book."

Joyce raised an eyebrow. "I gather you and George weren't close?"

"Last of a gang," he told her. "Hijacked four lorries in Dover, 1985. Nailed one of the drivers to a fence."

She made a face. "And then wrote about it?"

"Well, it's all the rage, isn't it?" He set down his newspaper. "What time did Cully eventually get in?"

"Two," Joyce replied. "... ish. They've got a favour to ask you."

He blinked. "They?"

And ten minutes later, Cully was there pleading their case. "But Dad, the lease on Nico's flat has just run out."

"I don't care," Tom insisted. "He's not moving in."

"What about the box room, Tom?" Joyce suggested. "I mean, we could put your stuff in the garage."

"Stuff?!"

"It's only for two weeks," Cully implored.

He scoffed. "Why is it when I say no, you both hear yes?" Just then, Nico entered the kitchen. "Good morning, Nico."