morning after tip-offs from local people. Both men are members of a group of New Age Travellers encamped on common land near Yalderton Heath and have been described as Satanists. Later they were released after questioning.
Mrs Lynda Hearnesley, the mother of the victim, was unavailable for comment. However, all day, letters of support and comfort have been arriving at her Grigbourne home from relatives and friends. This afternoon some of Gemma’s classmates delivered flowers and messages of sympathy to her door, shocked and stunned by the news of her death. Mrs Hearnesley’s neighbour, Mrs Dixey Foster, said that Gemma’s mother was too distressed to comment. She added, ‘Gemma was a lovely girl, popular with us all. Nothing was ever too much for her. When her mother was ill earlier on this year Gemma nursed her devotedly through it. We are all horrified to hear of her death and the sooner the police catch the madman who did this the better.’
Another neighbour expressed his opinion that the reintroduction of capital punishment would act as a deterrent for this type of crime.
Cynthia Chapman
Since she gave up teaching, Cynthia Chapman’s occupations have included market stallholder, pub pianist and running a fancy-dress hire business from her home in Kent. She has been writing for about five years and has had over thirty stories published in magazines. At present she is trying to find a publisher for her first novel while working on her second.
At twelve-thirty Mrs Oliphant removed her gardening gloves and laid them in the trug with the secateurs and bass. She straightened up from her task of staking delphiniums, conscious of a familiar twinge in the small of her back. Naturally one ignored this evidence of the advancing years; nothing was more boring than one’s own minor ailments. The way to keep young was to follow the excellent advice of all those newspaper columnists; get out and about and take up new hobbies and interests so that one simply didn’t have time to feel sorry for oneself.
However, she did feel a little sorry for herself when, just as she had arranged a lightly boiled egg and thin fingers of brown bread and butter on a tray, the telephone rang. She had to watch the egg growing cold as her friend Marjorie prattled on about nothing. As soon as she could she cut the conversation short.
‘You must forgive me, my dear – I’m due at my art class at half past one. That’s right, we’re going to tackle drawing from the figure this term. Yes indeed – one only hopes it won’t be too illuminating!’
After eating her spoilt lunch Mrs Oliphant hurried upstairs to change out of her pale-green cotton trousers and loose-fitting shirt. One did not of course dress up for an Adult Education class but on the other hand one did try to look fresh and summery. She selected a dress in a light, silky fabric patterned in soft shades of blue – reminiscent of the delphiniums that one loved so much – and white shoes with a sensible medium heel. Her fair hair was worn in a short, casual style that needed little attention, but she carefully reapplied the rose-pink lipstick that these days seemed more flattering than stronger colours. After spraying a little lily of the valley toilet water behind her ears she was ready.
Since her husband had died Mrs Oliphant had been to classes in Embroidery, Flower Arranging, Yoga (for which one had been obliged to wear a track suit) and French Conversation. This year’s choice – ‘Discovering Drawing’ – had made her feel quite adventurous, for although one had of course always adored Art it was amazing to find that one could actually produce quite recognizable pictures of assorted flowerpots, a bunch of bananas, or a jumble of kitchen utensils on a checked tablecloth.
This term the members of the class were ready to progress to ‘Drawing from the Figure’ and had been asked to pay an extra two pounds towards the services of the models. Their tutor Mr Redfern had stressed that the important thing about figure drawing was not to feel inhibited or discouraged by one’s early efforts but just to have a go. He was a likeable, friendly man and they had now got over their initial reluctance to call him ‘Teddy’ as requested. He was in fact rather like a teddy bear, stockily built, with fluffy golden hair balding at the crown, a cheerful, ruddy face, and eyes the colour of brandy. After two terms with him they all felt like old friends.
Teddy Redfern was in his early forties and had a liking for alcohol and young women; a combination which had cost him both his previous teaching job at a sixth-form college and his marriage. These days he still drank a little more than he should, but his weakness for young women was not catered for in his Adult Education classes, for the majority of his pupils were ladies of indeterminate age with more enthusiasm than artistic talent. Like Mrs Oliphant, they were charming, cultured and conventional, and if they ever detected whisky fumes on his breath they were much too well-bred to give any sign of it.
Now they were all busily engaged in drawing the young West Indian in jeans and T-shirt who leant against a table, his chin cupped in one hand, as if deep in thought. Teddy Redfern withdrew to the side of the room and surreptitiously lit a cigarette, tapping his ash out of the open window. Idly he listened to the snatches of conversation interspersed with ripples of ladylike laughter.
‘My dear, I was quite expecting a nude!’
‘Oh, we’re not nearly ready for that yet, are we?’
‘One does rather hope that one wouldn’t have to cope with a male nude to start with!’
‘But artists have to cultivate a detached viewpoint – just like doctors and nurses. The human body’s simply a machine, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s too silly to be apprehensive about drawing the nude figure – most of us are married women, after all.’
Teddy Redfern threw his cigarette-end out of the window and began to drift round the room, making bluff, hearty comments about the work as he went. No good being too discouraging, he thought, or he’d find himself without a class next year. Mrs Oliphant’s attempt seemed to him slightly more competent than those of the other ladies.
‘I say, Anthea – I do believe you’re improving all the time! That head’s really very good.’
‘Oh, do you think so? I felt I was making a frightful botch of it.’
‘Nonsense! Just have a bash at it and don’t worry too much over the results. That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it?’
As he moved on, a faint frown crossed Mrs Oliphant’s face, for she found this simple philosophy quite alien to her nature. One could hardly ‘have a bash’ at everything in life; either one felt that one could be moderately successful at something, or one didn’t.
It would be no use, for instance, having a bash at changing the flat tyre of one’s car, she thought some forty-five minutes later, standing in the car park feeling particularly helpless. One would just have to go back into the centre and telephone one’s garage.
As she walked up the steps Teddy Redfern swung out of the glass doors, talking away so busily to the West Indian boy that he nearly bumped into her. ‘… like a couple of balloons in a binliner. Ah – forgotten something, Anthea? I’d better come back with you. I’ve just locked up.’
‘Oh, no, no –’
