by JJ Marsh
A waitress deposited the drinks on little paper coasters and Will muttered his thanks as the girl walked away, Adrian picked up his glass, wishing he’d chosen a whisky or something more suited to a dramatic down-in-one gesture, removed the curly celery and drank a good third in three gulps. His eyes watered and heat rose in his cheeks like a blush.
“Right.” Catinca scooted past Will to sit beside Adrian. “You pissed off, mate, I know. But listen for a minute is all. When you and me was looking at wedding venues, we liked that place with the fountains, ’member? Big posh gardens like a BBC drama, closer to Matthew’s village and bedrooms real old school. All that wooden shit in the ceilings. You loved it. But we couldn’t have it. They said minimum guests gotta be hundred people.” She rapped her nail on the glossy brochure. “This is it, mate! Silverwood Manor. Bloody gorgeous. Was our first choice. Adrian, look!”
She caught hold of his chin and forced him to look at the beautifully shot images of a country house. He brushed her hand off his face but kept looking. He remembered the fantasy of snowflakes settling on their heads as they posed in front of that fountain. He recalled the imaginary thrill of chasing Will through the maze. He recognised the classic William Morris decor of the dining room. Flipping the brochure to the back, he checked the map. Catinca was right. This was the venue closest to Beatrice and Matthew’s cottage and a classic Jane Austen country manor, perfect for a family wedding.
Will leant across Catinca and reached for Adrian’s hand. “I don’t want to wait till next year to marry you. Nor do I want to get married in a tent and spend our first night as a married couple in a place that stinks of sewage. Let’s be adaptable, switch venues and have the wedding we want. Over the top, glamorous, beautiful and every bit as stylish as you are.”
Adrian knew he was being manipulated. He looked at the pictures again. White tablecloths, gilt-edged glasses, sparkles and all the magic of Narnia.
“Go and ask him how soon we can see it.”
Will released his hand to high-five Catinca, and Adrian drank the rest of his Bloody Mary.
Chapter Eight
After Beatrice left her two co-conspirators at the pub, she took a brief detour before heading home. Rose and Maggie had been thoroughly briefed to make the gentlest and most innocent enquiries to the staff and management at The Angel. Who could suspect two white-haired old ladies of snooping? That left Beatrice to pursue Heather Shaw and her son, then to try and coax some opinions from Mungo. Tonight offered the perfect opportunity, as Matthew had invited his old friend round to dinner. Mungo’s brilliant but impatient wife had already returned to Oxford to continue her research, so the poor chap would be glad of the company. And as chilly as Beatrice’s feelings had been towards Vaughan, she adored Mungo, his clever spouse and exceptionally intelligent offspring.
She drove out of the village, wipers on to clear the windscreen of sleet, and followed the country lane another mile until she saw the sign to Sweetham. Heather Shaw’s bungalow, lit from within, had an enticing air. The warm glow, smoke curling from the chimney and twinkling fairy lights in the windows made her quite convinced she could smell gingerbread. As soon as she rang the doorbell, a barrage of barks echoed down the hallway and she could hear the scrabble of claws on parquet flooring. The door opened and out poured a cascade of canines, in all shapes and sizes, circling, sniffing and wagging their tails.
“Hello, Beatrice. What are you doing here? Get down, Peanut, for goodness sake.”
“Just popped by to check you’re OK,” Beatrice said, not quite truthfully. “Today can’t have been easy for you.”
“Oh you are thoughtful. Come in, come in, it’s bitterly cold out there. Your timing is perfect. I just took a batch of mince pies out of the oven. Tea?”
“I’d love a cup, thank you.” Beatrice waded through the dogs, who escorted her back into the house. The scent of spices and baking filled her nostrils as she hung her coat on the overcrowded rack by the door. “Is your son here?”
Heather glanced up at the enormous kitchen clock. “No, Gabe won’t have finished work yet. And he usually goes home to change before coming round here for his tea. Did you want him for anything in particular? Because I can give him a ring if you like?”
Beatrice sat at the kitchen table while Heather put the kettle on the stove and unhooked a couple of mugs from the dresser. “Not at all. I only asked because I didn’t want to disturb your dinner.”
“We don’t usually eat till sevenish. I often have a snack when I get home from school, otherwise I’d be ravenous by five. But I’ve been off this week. The head gave me compassionate leave for a fortnight.”
“That’s kind of him. It occurred to me today that despite recent circumstances, you were probably the closest person to Vaughan.”
“Yes.” Heather wiped her hands on a tea towel. “We had our ups and downs but we’d been together for seven years, give or take. Sugar?”
“One, please. That long? I asked Matthew and he couldn’t recall.”
“Matthew’s probably seen so many women come and go from Vaughan’s life, he’s lost count. Let’s face it, the man was never short of admirers.”
To avoid replying, Beatrice reached down to pet one of the dogs, a Border Terrier with a pronounced underbite. Most of the other mutts had retired to their beds scattered around the cosy kitchen, satisfied the new arrival posed no threat.
Heather sat opposite and poured the tea from a battered enamel pot. “Have a mince pie. They’re vegan. No animal products whatsoever.”
Beatrice wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. How did one make mince pies without butter? But she bit into one anyway, and found it just as sweet and crumbly as those in Ashton’s of Crediton. “Mmm, these are absolutely delicious. I didn’t know you were vegan.”
“I’m not. I don’t eat red meat but I’m perfectly happy with fish or dairy or the odd organic chicken. But Gabe has very strong views on the damage done by industrial farming. That’s why most of the meals I cook are purely plant-based.”
Beatrice wanted to pursue this line of conversation, recalling Matthew’s mention of the man as a hunter, but remembered her stated mission. “So how are you feeling? I hope today gave you some sense of closure.”
Heather drank her tea, absently stroking the large hairy wolfhound at her feet. “It did and it didn’t. You were there on the fifth of November. Even if you didn’t hear what he said, you must have got the gist from local gossip. I swore I would never forgive him for that night. Even so, I still wanted him to apologise or show some contrition. That was the usual pattern. Big fight, weeks of silence, then he’d worm his way back in.”
“When you say ‘fight’, do you mean physical violence?” asked Beatrice.
“No, no, he never used his fists. Let’s face it, he was eighteen years my senior so if it had come to that, I could have flattened the old sod. His form of cruelty was mental. He could be vicious and nasty, particularly to those he really cared for.”
Alarms went off in Beatrice’s head. That mantra of he-does-it-because-he-loves-me chained so many women to abusive relationships. How come Vaughan had male friends of thirty years he had never abused verbally, with whom he had never had a big ‘fight’ and made up? Why was it only a series of women who suffered his arrogance and public humiliation? Her temper rose and she drank more tea, reminding herself of her situation.
“Heather, do you mind if I ask you a personal question? Did you love Vaughan?”
“Love him?” Heather started, as if the notion had never crossed her mind. “No, I couldn’t say that. I love my son, my animals and I’d even say love my job most of the time, but I didn’t love Vaughan. Not really. I was fond of him and he was very good company most of the time. I liked the sex and the attention, and I won’t deny I enjoyed reflecting in his celebrity status, but I couldn’t say I loved him. At our age, it’s more about the companionship, don’t you think?”
“I’d say that depends. What time do you usually get home
from school?”
“About four, if there’s no after-school activity.”
“Do you remember what time you got back the Friday before Vaughan died?”
“Yes, I do. It was late because we had rehearsals for the St Nicholas Day choir. I didn’t get home till gone seven. Why do you ask?”
Beatrice looked down at the little brown terrier whose teeth stuck out as if he were grinning. He wagged his tail and flattened his ears. “Just wondering. What’s this dog’s name?”
“She’s called Huggy Bear. Gabe rescued her from a puppy farm.” She looked around the room. “Almost all these dogs and cats are rescues. I admit I impress upon the whole school the importance of responsibility when it comes to pets, and try to persuade their parents into adopting. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to take on an elderly cat?” She reached over to an open drawer at the bottom of a dresser and ran her hand over some grey fur. “Dumpling here lived with a pensioner till a month ago when he passed away. Poor old fella finds all these dogs and cats and people quite stressful. He hides in the drawer most of the day.”
Beatrice looked into a pair of weary yellow-green eyes while still stroking the terrier’s ears. Having a creature to care for might make Matthew focus on the here and now as opposed to mourning his friend. New house, new garden, new furry companions ... a spark of energy made her impulsive.
“Why not? We have a big garden and peaceful environment. I’d be delighted to take Dumpling. Is there any chance we could adopt Huggy Bear too?”
In many ways, it was a relief to see Mungo’s car in the driveway. Firstly, the two men would have already discussed the idea of Vaughan’s accidental death being anything but accidental while preparing dinner. Secondly, Matthew would accept their new adopted housemates with far greater equanimity in front of his friend. Thirdly, the spare room was already made up, so Beatrice would insist Mungo enjoy a second glass of wine and stay the night, ensuring he was not alone.
When she opened the hall door, weighed down by cat carrier and bags of pet equipment, she was dragged forward regardless by the determined Border Terrier on the end of the lead. Huggy Bear’s tail whipped a frantic rhythm, straining to get to the kitchen and the scent of roasting chicken. Beatrice unclipped the lead, released the dog and deposited her baggage on the floor. First things first; butter.
In the kitchen, Mungo sat at the table, a glass of red in his hand, distracted by the small brown hairball bouncing between himself and Matthew with delirious joy.
“Hello there, where did you come from? You’re a friendly little chap, aren’t you?” Mungo offered the back of his hand to Huggy Bear, who sniffed and wagged then rushed to sit at Matthew’s feet, nostrils twitching.
“Good evening, gents. Sorry I’m a bit late. I went to visit Heather Shaw and came away with more than I bargained for. This little lady is a rescue dog called Huggy Bear and in the hallway, we have an ancient Persian Blue called Dumpling. They needed a home and I thought we could give them one,” she said, meeting Matthew’s alarmed eyes.
He blinked, shook his head and sighed. “As I’ve always said, there’s never a dull moment when you’re around.” He turned to the stove and reduced the heat. “A Persian Blue called Dumpling? I assume that is a cat? In which case, we shall need some butter. Mungo, would you hold onto Huggy Bear while we offer a formal welcome to Dumpling? Feel free to give her a bit of chicken skin.”
In the hallway, Matthew gazed into the cat carrier with a benevolent smile. “Let’s take him into the laundry room. It’s warm and quiet and he won’t be disturbed. Shall I butter his paws or should you?”
“I think that would be best coming from you. I’ll fill his litter tray and get food and water. Matthew, are you sure you don’t mind?”
He creaked up from his crouching position and looked into her eyes. “I don’t mind. In fact, I rather missed having a cat. Huggy Bear might be more of a challenge, but one I think I could meet. I’ll get Dumpling settled in. You go and chat to Mungo.”
At nine o’clock, the atmosphere in the kitchen was relaxed and comfortable. The chicken had been despatched, followed by several slices of custard tart and in front of the wood-burner, curled up in a nest of old bedsheets, a small brown hairy ball slept off her chicken scraps, occasionally twitching along with her dreams.
They had dissected the funeral and passed judgement on most of the guests. Beatrice and Mungo had their inevitable debate about whether Mungo should stay the night and Beatrice won, with greater ease than usual. Before heading to the cellar for a second bottle of Burgundy, Matthew confessed to a certain amount of chagrin. His offer of assistance in clearing Vaughan’s house had been met with a polite but firm refusal from his daughter.
“She actually said that Mungo and I would receive a memento in good time but before making any bequests, she first needed to assess her father’s estate. As if our motivation were to scavenge through Midge’s belongings!” He snorted like a bull and left the kitchen. Beatrice noted he took a carton of milk with him.
Beatrice turned back to Mungo. “I’ve already asked Matthew, but who do you think would have wanted Midge dead?”
“Not the right question, my dear. Half the village are feigning regret in public whilst rejoicing behind closed doors. Who wanted him dead and had the cunning to carry it through? That’s what we need to ask ourselves.”
“And who might that be, in your opinion?”
“My money’s on the Shaw boy. As I told the police, his dirty great vehicle was parked outside Midge’s house when I drove past on Friday afternoon. No love lost between the two of them, so even at the time I thought it odd.”
“What were you doing over that side of the village on a Friday afternoon?”
Mungo’s wine-stained lips stretched into a smile. “They do say a police officer never retires. Well, ma’am, my lovely wife instructed me to return a book to Demelza Price. They’re in the same book club, you know.” His fingers made inverted commas around the word ‘book’.
Beatrice raised her eyebrows, inviting him to expand.
He took another sip of Côte de Nuits. “Better described as a drinking club with a reading habit, if they’re honest. Anyway, I went over on Friday afternoon because I knew Demelza had a parish council meeting. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a good sort but can’t stop talking. So I put the book in a carrier bag and hung it on her front door handle. I can even tell you the title. A God in Venice by Kate Atkinson.”
“A God in Ruins. Your wife has excellent taste. Now tell me what you thought of Grace Mason?”
Mungo shuddered and clutched his arms as if cold. “Same way I feel about black ice. Chilly, nasty, dangerous and to be avoided. I’m jolly well relieved she refused our offer of help, tell the truth. Do you know, she offered not one word of thanks for organising her father’s funeral? She said that as long as we could provide receipts, her solicitor would reimburse all expenses once the will has been read. She seems very confident Midge left her everything.”
“She may well be right.” Beatrice dabbed up a few crumbs of shortcrust pastry with her finger and popped them into her mouth. “Who else should inherit what’s left of his fortune? If it includes his intellectual property, she stands to gain a great deal in the next few months. His books will almost certainly be reissued and his work will have a last gasp of fashionability.”
“Oh God,” Mungo groaned. “I’m almost glad the old devil’s not here to see that. He’d be insufferable. My only hope is that she doesn’t publish his current work-in-progress, if indeed there is such a thing. Midge always had an elastic relationship with the truth.”
“You think he was writing again?” Beatrice asked.
“So he said. But Matthew and I are of the same mind. We believe it was more of a threat than a promise. He told us he was writing Exeter’s version of Lucky Jim. Of course, any kind of university-set satire would put Matthew and me in the firing line. He never stopped claiming I stole his tenure, despite the reasons behind his dismi
ssal being an open secret. If he has written his own exaggerated version of the university in the 1980s, inevitably celebrating his own conquests, it will leave a very sour taste today.”
Beatrice wrinkled her nose. “When women are calling out power abuse and sexual harassment in every industry? No publisher would touch it with a bargepole.”
“I do hope you’re right.” Mungo’s jowls drooped and he gazed into his wine glass. “Anyway, dish the dirt on the ex-wife. Matthew says you’re old pals so you’ll have the insider info. Doesn’t she have any claim on his wealth?”
“Not old pals exactly. I met her in the course of a case. Despite her surname, I never suspected a connection. I just liked her and Maggie very much. As for claims, Rose has been deranged from both Vaughan and Grace for years.”
“You mean estranged.”
“Whatever. They’re divorced, he brought Grace up himself, so I can’t see any reason he’d leave Rose something as part of his legacy. I was actually surprised to hear she’d been invited to the reading of the will.”
Mungo’s eyes flicked to hers with a glance of concern. “You don’t think he’d do something ... unpleasant?”
Beatrice shook her head. “Sticking the knife into your ex after forty years? No, Vaughan had his faults, but I don’t think even he’d be that vindictive.”
Even as the words floated into the warm kitchen air, Beatrice knew neither she nor Mungo believed them. They lapsed into a thoughtful silence.
Matthew returned to the table and topped up each glass.
“How’s Dumpling?” asked Beatrice, with a pointed glance at the milk carton.
“Purring. He seems quite content so I might let him out to explore the house tomorrow. Then if all goes well, he can roam the garden in a few days. I think he and I might rub along quite nicely. Two old gents enjoying a peaceful retirement.”
Mungo leaned to look at the snoring Border Terrier, appraised Beatrice and raised his glass to Matthew with a smile. “With your womenfolk around? Good luck with that.”