Snow Angel

by JJ Marsh

  SNOW ANGEL

  By JJ MARSH

  Get your free copy of prequel Black Dogs, Yellow Butterflies when you sign up for the mailing list.

  See back of book for details.

  Snow Angel

  Copyright © 2018 by Prewett Bielmann Ltd.

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

  Cover design: JD Smith

  Published by Prewett Bielmann Ltd.

  All enquiries to admin@beatrice-stubbs.com

  First printing, 2018

  ISBN 978-3-9524796-6-7

  Prologue

  Upton St Nicholas is proud of its annual festival and rightly so. Villagers spend much of the year preparing costumes and decorating floats, crafting gifts and rehearsing music. Logistics preoccupy the council from September onwards and it attracts onlookers from as far as Barnstaple, Plymouth and Taunton. The village green is closed off for the day so pedestrians can wander amongst the mulled wine stalls, browse original paintings or patchwork quilts, sample homemade jams and pickles and enjoy the entertainment. Jugglers and fire-eaters wander the green displaying their skills, leaving children wide-eyed and agape. Morris dancers jump and caper, waving handkerchiefs and rapping their wooden sticks, each movement accompanied by the tinkle of bells around their knees. If it snows, as it often does in early December, the festive charm is complete.

  At no particular signal, the crowds spread along the road, each spectator seeking an unimpeded vantage point to observe the main event; the procession.

  Ask one of the locals what it is all about and you’ll get a different story each time. The majority agree the old fella in the hat and purple cloak is Saint Nicholas, or Archie the wood merchant in a fake beard, if you want the truth. Yet no such consensus can be found on whose patron saint he might be. Children, say some. Sailors, argue others. Heads shake and insist he is the champion of the poor. Claims are made with some vehemence for prisoners, pawnbrokers and virgins.

  Whoever he represents, the saint sits high on a golden throne atop a tractor decorated with painted canvas as a mediaeval vessel. He wears a bishop’s red mitre and holds three golden bags into which he regularly dips and scatters gold (chocolate) coins to the accompanying children and watching crowd. The audience are at liberty to consume theirs immediately with steaming paper cups of coffee. St Nicholas’s young escorts must wait, stuffing their pockets until they have completed the carol singing.

  In the wake of the saint’s disguised Massey-Fergusson capers a more alarming figure. Dressed in a brown monk’s habit with hood and black beard, he has neither boat nor tractor. On foot, he has licence to run at passers-by as if to snatch their chocolate coins or even their children. Shrieks and squeals of pretend fear accompany the sinister creature, whose soot-smudged face is half hidden by folds of brown cloth.

  That is where the Christian theme tails away, as the next section of the parade takes on a pagan feel. Forest folk wassail past wearing antlers or ivy head-dresses, carrying holly branches and mistletoe, and cups of spicy cider. Towering over them plods a handsome grey Percheron wearing a festive wreath as horse collar and wicker panniers over his withers. The horse bears a pretty red-headed girl in a white dress, silvery cloak and ornate crown. She reaches into the panniers and throws gifts to the smiling faces lining the pavement. Tied bundles of lavender or cinnamon sticks, ears of wheat or small apples. Catch her eye and she might gently bowl you an orange studded with cloves. The folk musicians following the mighty horse play jigs on flutes, fiddles, guitars and timpani, in a lively rhythm to get cold feet stamping.

  For years, people have been telling you it’s worth the trip. They’re not wrong. You find yourself beaming at the carollers and bouncing on your heels, feeling right at home.

  A young man to your right claps in time to the rhythm, nodding in approval as the auburn-haired nymph and her steed pass.

  “What’s she got to do with St Nicholas?” you ask, lifting your voice over the noise.

  His gaze remains fixed ahead and for a moment you think he hasn’t heard. Then he speaks, his voice accented with the Devon twang. “Nothin’. That’s The Winter Queen. We honour her before the solstice, offer her gifts and ask her to be kind.”

  “She doesn’t have a festival of her own?”

  A woman replies, “She used to. A long time ago.” Her features, an older version of the man’s, identify her as his mother. But where his jaw is stern, her face is softened by a kind smile. “We’ve always had the St Nicholas parade on the sixth of December, or the first Saturday afterwards. The pagan festival of Yule would be on the twenty-first, but times have changed. Now everyone is in thrall to the commercialism of Christmas.” She sighs. “So the village celebrates its name day by honouring St Nicholas and showing our respect for The Winter Queen together.”

  “I see. She’s very pretty.”

  Under his thick black brow, the man’s eyes assess the back of the white-clad figure on the horse. “The prettiest girl in the village plays The Winter Queen. We vote on it. First time in years it’s gone to someone new.” He flushes, as if he has said too much, and nudges his mother. Time to leave. She smiles a goodbye and follows him into the crowd, blending into green-grey-brown shades of country jackets and stone walls.

  The procession continues out of the green, past the post office and turns into the main street, the music lilting through the brisk December air. You follow them as far as the pub then leave the villagers to their eclectic celebrations and head back to the green to browse the stalls and seek some hot chocolate.

  You take a left and find yourself walking along a row of semi-detached cottages, many of whose windows are lit with festive lights and doors hung with holly wreaths. Deep in admiration for the picturesque nature of this place, it takes you a minute to realise you are walking away from the village green and further from your car. You stop to get your bearings. Clouds pass over the sun and the frosty blue sky of the afternoon turns gunmetal grey.

  You turn around in the quiet street and a flicker of movement makes you look up. A gasp escapes you. There in the window, pressed up against the glass, is a face. Twisted and ugly as a gargoyle, it is contorted with rage, all directed at you. A bare-chested man is mouthing words you cannot hear, words that must be violent and filthy. He scratches at the window as if he wants to gouge out your eyes.

  You hurry back to your car, shaken and chilled to your bones. The streets no longer seem charming and joyous, but slushy and grey. You remind yourself of how tourists are detested by many people living in beauty spots. Grockles, they call people like you. You are not welcome here. Time to go, far from this toxic place.

  Hot chocolate forgotten, you drive away from Upton St Nicholas. You doubt you will ever return.

  Chapter One

  “Good God. Wallace Pryor is dead.” Butter dripped from Matthew’s crumpet onto the obituary section of The Times.

  Beatrice poured the coffee. “Who?”

  “Writer. You know, horror. Very successful series about humanity’s inner demons taking over Earth. You read one. Loathed it, as I recall.”

  He continued to scan the column, shaking his head and reading salient points aloud as Beatrice added warm milk. “Sixty-seven. That’s no age. Died a wealthy man, apparently. In Ecuador.”

  Beatrice sighed
and set down her spoon. “Matthew, is this to be our daily routine? Get up, make breakfast, see who’s dead? Your fascination with the recently deceased could be described as morbid.”

  He folded the paper with a grin. “Fair point. Don’t want to put you off your crumpets. Oh, was that the lot?”

  “No, there are two more in the toaster. Anyway, you’ve already had three.” Beatrice sipped her coffee and opened The Paris Review.

  “Yes, but I am preparing for a full morning of physical exercise. I have to shift all those slabs from the patio after my round of golf with the chaps.”

  “Why don’t you ask the chaps round here to give you a hand? That way you get your gardening jobs done and spend some time together in the fresh air.”

  The toaster popped and Matthew reached behind him for the hot crumpets. He plopped them onto his plate and shook his head. “No, no, not a good idea. Midge will still have a hangover from the weekend and Mungo hates anything resembling manual labour. His catchphrase is ‘I have a man for that’. Anyway, to return to my point, it’s on my mind.”

  Beatrice looked up from a review of a Dorothea Lange exhibition at The Barbican. “What? The patio?”

  “No. Death.”

  Watching him slather butter onto both crumpets, Beatrice saw no evidence of a preoccupation with The Other Side.

  She frowned. “One of those is for me, actually. Why is death on your mind, or does this happen to everyone at your age?”

  He handed over a crumpet, with evident reluctance. “You see, so many of the names I’ve grown up with have disappeared. Not just people I know, but the icons of academia and the arts seem to be dropping on a daily basis. Gilles D’Or died last week. Seventy-five. Tragic loss to the world of jazz. He was the hell-raising trailblazer of my generation. Every last one of us wanted to be just like him. Last week, an enormous stroke, over and out. Meanwhile, those who try to fill such shoes in the spheres of literature, music, fine art, cinema, philosophy and even politics are snot-nosed and still in short trousers. What have you done with the blackcurrant jam?”

  Beatrice pushed across the jar. “It’s called getting old. Perhaps we should try and appreciate contemporary culture a little more. How about tonight we order ourselves a ‘fusion menu’ from the takeaway, watch The Pop Factor and have our own poetry slam before bed?”

  His expression, flared nostrils and retracted lips, reminded Beatrice of an expression she’d once seen on a cat when encountering a dead hedgehog.

  “There are few fouler phrases on the planet than ‘fusion menu’. My stomach riots at the thought. Let’s stick with your original suggestion. Sticky venison with red cabbage and chestnut stuffed mushrooms. What are your plans whilst I don my overalls and perform rugged manly tasks in the garden?”

  Beatrice wiped her fingers on a napkin. “This morning, I’m off to the city to meet Tanya. There’s a book event we want to attend. After lunch, back to writing. I’m not happy with Friday’s chapter. It needs work.”

  “Give Tanya my love. You do realise you say ‘it needs work’ every day?”

  “That’s because it’s true. Right, I’m off to get changed. Enjoy your golf and mind yourself with heavy lifting on the patio. You can have this crumpet, after all.”

  The drive back from Exeter, usually an opportunity for reflection, sped by as Beatrice listened to her new purchase; Dr Henry Moffatt’s History of Europe. If she had spent some moments examining her feelings, there would have been a frisson of excitement. On Sundays, she had some Me-Time, an indulgence she sometimes missed.

  The chapter ended and Beatrice pressed stop. She would savour this audio book and ration herself to one chapter at a time. No point in starting another as she was nearly at the new cottage. She corrected herself. Nearly home. A small sigh escaped. She should be grateful. After so many years in his solitary bungalow, Matthew had sold up to buy a bigger cottage in the next village, all because of her. It was beautiful, with a large garden, light rooms and a glorious view across to the River Creedy. But when would it feel like home?

  A memory of her counsellor’s voice echoed through her mind. What’s the hurry? Look on it as an extended weekend. How many times have you wished for just another day together? One extra day to go somewhere, do something, cook a new recipe. Trying seeing each day as a bonus. A chance to do something you’ve always wanted.

  Bless James. She was looking forward to next month’s appointment with unusual enthusiasm. She missed him. She missed London.

  It was a shame there’d been such a poor show at the bookshop, but Devon’s apathy had worked to Beatrice’s advantage. She and Tanya had buttonholed the poor author, bulldozing him with enthusiasm and curiosity, but failed in their pre-planned strategy of taking him to lunch. He had to leave for St David’s and catch a train to London. So armed with her signed stash, Beatrice hugged Tanya goodbye and headed back to the car, in the happy knowledge she had gained some hours alone. Matthew would still be at the golf course and more than likely to stop in at The Boat for a pie and a pint before returning for a light doze on the sofa. Patio postponed for another day.

  Her relationship with Tanya was an odd one. Beatrice never thought of herself as a stepmother. Probably because she wasn’t, as Beatrice had resolutely refused to marry Matthew. Could she be described as a common-law stepmother? Or stepmother-in-sin? Now that sounded much more like it. She must tell Tanya next time they met; she’d enjoy that. They always had such fun together, partly because Tanya had an insatiable curiosity for the unusual, the quirky and the downright odd. Her wide eyes and perennial smile, not to mention her delightful six-year-old son, Luke, were some of Beatrice’s favourite things about Devon.

  Her stomach growled as she parked in front of the house and bundled her packages into an awkward armful. As she walked across the drive, her mind on what to make for lunch, she saw Matthew standing in the doorway. The look on his face stopped her dead in her tracks. Something was wrong.

  “Matthew? What is it?”

  “It’s Vaughan.”

  Beatrice’s mind scrambled for a second. She was unused to Matthew calling the man by his real name. “Something’s happened to Midge? What is it?”

  “Midge, or Vaughan Mason, is dead.”

  At the kitchen table, Matthew ran his hands repeatedly through his hair, his attention distracted. Beatrice sensed he was trying to articulate events more for himself than for her.

  “We knocked at his door just before ten. He’s often late to answer, especially after a heavy night, so we waited a good few minutes before ringing again. Mungo and I were chatting and discussing the news, but there was a nip in the air so we rang again. After the third try, we unlocked the door. Both Mungo and I have a key, after so many nights bringing him home drunk. We called him over and over again to no avail and searched each room in the house. Eventually we went upstairs and found him on his bed. In a bit of a mess, tell the truth. I’ll spare you the detail. Stone cold and judging by the colour of him, he’d been gone a while. I called the police and while we waited, Mungo and I checked the house for some explanation for what had happened. Don’t worry, we didn’t touch a thing. Empty wine bottles, full ashtrays, dirty plates and discarded clothes are nothing unusual. A typical weekend chez Midge. Seems the old bugger choked on his own vomit.”

  Beatrice reached for Matthew’s hand. His skin against hers was dry and cold, his grip limp, his eyes bleak.

  “You poor thing. That must have been quite horrible for you. I’m so sorry, my love. What a dreadful way to lose a friend of over thirty years.”

  “Thirty-two. He joined the faculty thirty-two years ago although we didn’t become friends until a good while later. In fact, I used to hate the sight of the man.” Matthew shook his head, his focus decades distant.

  Beatrice focused on the practical. “What did the police say?”

  “Not a great deal. They would like statements from us tomorrow but don’t see anything to warrant further investigation, pending the coroner’s verd
ict. Let’s face it, Vaughan Mason was a hard-drinking, heavy smoker who gambled daily with his health, even aged seventy-one. Looks like his luck ran out.” Matthew placed a palm over his eyes and squeezed Beatrice’s hand.

  She squeezed back. There was nothing else she could do.

  Chapter Two

  The atmosphere after Vaughan Mason’s death affected the whole village. Not a soul referred to him by nickname. People recalled his literary talent and long-distant fame. Everyone was just a little kinder and more appreciative of one another, grateful for the simple fact they were still alive. Guilt crept into the conversation, with many voicing regret they had not called to check on him since he drunkenly left the pub on Friday night. Platitudes and reassurances such as, ‘Nothing you could do’, ‘It wasn’t unusual for him to get plastered’, and ‘How could you have known?’ echoed from the bakery to the delicatessen to the post office.

  Matthew had become quiet and withdrawn since returning from the police station on Monday morning so Beatrice chose not to press him. He spent hours in his study, out for long walks, or assisting Mungo in trying to find Vaughan’s family and making funeral arrangements. She knew he would talk when he was ready.

  As it turned out, circumstances came knocking, whether he was ready or not.

  On Wednesday morning the sun came out, melting the frost and casting a delicate light over the overgrown mess which would one day be their garden. Matthew and Beatrice finished breakfasting on bagels with salmon and cream cheese, while reading their respective papers. It had been three days since Matthew had mentioned the obituaries. He stacked the dishwasher and Beatrice pegged a basket of laundry onto the garden washing-line, to make the most of the weather. So the first thing she knew of their visitors was when a tall uniformed police officer came out of the kitchen door and across the lawn.

  “Excuse me, Ms Stubbs? My name is DS Perowne. Sorry to bother you. Could we have a word?”