by JJ Marsh
By the time Dawn had shoved her way through the throng of smokers huddled outside The Speaker, Beatrice was on her second glass of white. She raised a hand and despite her grim frame of mind, managed a smile at the sight of her friend. She stood up for the greeting hug, Dawn’s cheek cold against her own wine-warmed face.
“New hairdo?” she asked, reaching for the wine bottle and filling the spare glass.
“Yeah, thought I’d have some highlights done in a pathetic attempt to stave off old age.” Dawn shrugged off her coat and glanced at the half empty Sauvignon Blanc. “You been waiting long? I thought you were seeing James this afternoon?”
In lieu of a reply, Beatrice lifted a glass. “Cheers! Here’s to girls’ night!”
“Cheers!” Dawn chinked her glass and took a sip, her steady grey eyes on Beatrice.
“So fill me in on all the gossip. What’s the latest at Scotland Yard? Who’s doing what with whom?”
Dawn shook her head with a vague frown. “In a minute. When we spoke at the weekend, you couldn’t wait to see James. So how did it go today?”
“The counsellor-client relationship is confidential, you know that. It’s not something I can talk about.”
Dawn placed her glass on the table and sat back with her arms folded. “Beatrice Stubbs, you are an unbelievable hypocrite. When it suits you, you’ll talk about your therapy sessions till my ears fall off. And in any case, I’m not asking for a blow-by-blow account. I just wondered why you got here so early. Did you or did you not see James?”
“Yes,” Beatrice muttered. “But I won’t be seeing him again. He’s dumped me.”
Dawn gazed at her in silence and waited for her to continue. Beatrice should have known her calm and sensible friend would not rise to the bait of melodrama.
“He thinks we’re not making any more progress and I’m using him as a crutch. He wants me to see another counsellor, in Devon. After all these years, he wants to pass me on to some tie-dyed flake from Totnes who makes dream-catchers, wears crystals and will want to interact with my inner child. It must be against some kind of medical ethics to chuck out clients whose mental health depends on their counsellors.”
“It probably would be, if that is what he’s doing. But it sounds to me like he’s got your best interests at heart. It would be more convenient to see someone local, and a change could be exactly what you need.”
Beatrice tutted in exasperation. “And now you’re siding with him. Is there no loyalty left in this world? It was incredibly difficult for me to see a counsellor in the first place. Many people never find someone they can talk to openly and honestly. I got lucky with James and he has proved a lifesaver. And I say that literally, without fear of exaggeration. How can he just end it all, after everything we’ve been through?”
“Talking of exaggeration, how do you know the new counsellor is... what did you call her? A tie-dyed hippie? Have you already met her?”
“No,” Beatrice admitted. “But he told me her name.”
“Which is...?”
“Gaia.”
“Gaia?” Dawn repeated.
Beatrice took a large slug of wine. “Exactly. I think that tells me all I need to know.”
“Good gracious, you’re absolutely right. I don’t blame you in the slightest for building a wall of prejudice and judgement based on the simple fact of her name. Giving her a chance by actually meeting the woman would be foolhardy in the extreme. Far better to fume and rage at James for randomly picking some name out of the ether with no consideration for whether you would be a good match. Typically cavalier and unprofessional of him.”
Beatrice glowered at her from under her eyebrows. “You’re not making yourself any friends here, you know. He gave me a file of their correspondence and some background information on her to read and consider.”
“Let me guess. You took the file, stomped out of his office and spent the last hour winding yourself up into a state of self-righteous pity rather than reading it in order to make an informed decision. Top-up?” She poured them both another glass with a knowing smile.
“I’ll read it tomorrow. Tonight I want to drink wine and feel sorry for myself.”
“In that case, that is exactly what we should do. Then when we’ve raged against the injustices of the world and condemned everyone in it, can we get a curry?”
With some reluctance, Beatrice gave in to a smile. “Sounds like a plan.”
Chapter Eleven
The following day, on the 12.20 from Paddington to Exeter St David’s, Beatrice made several decisions.
Firstly, she bought two bottles of water from the buffet car to assuage her hangover. Then she read the file James had given her, forcing her ego into the background in order to appreciate the care and consideration these two professionals had shown in her development. Gaia Dee was from Marazion in Cornwall, a qualified counsellor and Registered Member of the British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy. Her emails in response to James’s query appeared professional, if there were a few too many questions about her potential client’s dietary habits for Beatrice’s liking. Why on earth would she need to know what I eat for breakfast? she wondered, and immediately had a fancy for a bacon sandwich. All things considered, she decided to give the woman a try.
She dragged out her phone and sent a polite email enquiry.
‘Dear Ms Dee, Re: Change of Counsellor. Would there be any chance of a brief chat sometime in the New Year? Best wishes, Beatrice Stubbs.’
She hesitated over James’s name in her contacts, an apology in mind, but chose to delay any conversation until she’d met Gaia.
Remembering her manners, she sent a flurry of text messages. One to Dawn with thanks for the emotional support and guest bedroom. One for Matthew to let him know she was en route and needed collecting from the station. One to Adrian asking if Moor Hall had met all his requirements. After a quick trip back to the buffet car for a bacon sandwich and a cappuccino, she withdrew her ‘case file’ and settled down to work.
Suspects in the case of Vaughan Mason’s unexpected death (by poisoning?)
Heather Shaw (ex-lover, familiar with his habits)
Gabriel Shaw (Heather’s son, detested Vaughan, at property on Friday)
Gordon Hancock (gambling landlord, monetary debts?)
Bankrupted card-players?
Neighbour he aggravated – Demelza Something?
Rose Mason (ex-wife, estranged)
Grace Mason (Vaughan’s daughter, lives in NY, likely heiress)
Mungo Digby (friend, key to house, worried about potential book)
Matthew Bailey (friend, key to house)
To Dos
Debrief Rose and Maggie for news on Gordon
Ask Matthew to grill Gabriel, interview Grace myself
Probe Rose and Mungo on relationships with deceased
Check each suspect’s alibis from Friday to Sunday
Ask each if they know anyone who would wish Vaughan harm
Contact DI Axe for any forensic clues (off-the-record?)
Research toxic local fungus
Find out what happened at reading of the will
Pick Heather’s brains – Vaughan’s passwords?
The next concern was where to take Maggie and Rose for a debrief. The likelihood of their having found something significant was slim but the truth often lay in the most mundane detail. Discussing the hosts of The Angel on the premises was evidently a bad idea. Yet it seemed equally inappropriate to invite them to the cottage with Matthew in situ. A coffee shop? A walk in the woods?
An envelope flashed up on her laptop.
‘Hello, Beatrice. I’d love to have an informal chat. This is a quiet time of year for me, so I could offer you a slot this afternoon, if that suits you? I’m available from 3pm-5pm. Let me know if you can spare half an hour and I’ll send you a map. My house isn’t easy to find. Otherwise, of course we can find a time to meet in the New Year. I look forward to meeting you. Best wishes, Gaia.’<
br />
Hmm. Nothing hokey at first glance, but these people were good at maintaining a normal façade whilst being off-the-scale weird when you met them. Still, an optimistic start and her address was not that far from their own cottage. Beatrice decided to give it a try, already composing a smug message to Dawn in her head.
‘Dear Gaia
That is very kind of you. I could manage half an hour today – can we say four thirty? I look forward to meeting you too. Best wishes, Beatrice.’
There. An adult, professional and mature response. James would be proud of her. As if she cared what he thought. She finished her water and wondered if it was too early to have lunch.
She was still puzzling over how and where to do her interviews as the train pulled into Exeter. Her concerns soon turned out to be unnecessary. Matthew took her case in his left hand and embraced her with his right.
“Good trip, Old Thing?”
“Yes and no. But more of that later. How are our houseguests?”
“This way, the car’s over here. Well, Huggy Bear won’t let me out of her sight. I gave in to her whining last night and took her bed into our room. She settled down instantly and we both got a good eight hours. Dumpling emerged from the cellar and has chosen the conservatory as his personal sun spot. Both eating well and apparently content. Although I do have to go out this afternoon, so I’m glad you’re back. It feels a touch too early to leave them alone.”
“That’s fine with me. I want to proceed with my investigations and will invite witnesses to my interrogation room, also known as the kitchen. Where are you going and who with?”
Matthew placed the case into the boot and opened Beatrice’s door for her. “Been summoned, don’t you know. Vaughan’s daughter wishes to speak to me and Mungo. We have arranged to go round at two. I’ve left lunch for you and all the other creatures in the fridge.”
Beatrice looked at her watch. “Best crack on then. There are one or two things I’d like to do myself, starting with a decent meal.”
Matthew started the car and smiled. “Wine and doubtless Indian food with Dawn last night, egg muffin at the station or possibly on the train, several coffees, a bottle of water and a light snack around Westbury but she’s still hungry.”
“Travel broadens the mind and expands the appetite. What’s the latest on the wedding? Is Adrian calm?”
Matthew glanced in the rear-view mirror before pulling into the stream of traffic. “All going like clockwork. Catinca has it all under control. That girl is incredibly attentive to detail, I must say. Speaking of which, I was presumptuous enough to ask Adrian and Will if they could handle the arrangements from here. You’ve done the grunt work, so I thought you’d prefer to hand over the baton and focus on your core competence. Good Lord, I just said ‘Core Competence’, didn’t I? Please don’t leave me. I promise I can change.”
Beatrice laughed to cover her discomfort. She hated hiding things from Matthew. She hated it even more when he hid things from her, but somehow she wasn’t ready to talk about the whole change of counsellor issue. She would make up her own mind and then tell him her decision. Snowflakes spattered the windscreen and muddied the view of the road ahead.
When she called them to arrange a debrief meeting, Maggie and Rose surprised her by refusing the offer of a lift. They had their own transport, Rose assured her, complete with Satnav and would arrive at the cottage no later than three pm. Beatrice was laying the kitchen table with tea things and trying not to trip over a skipping Huggy Bear when she heard a vehicle crunching over the gravel. She opened the door to see a huge battered beast of an old Land Rover parked on the drive. The driver’s door opened and rather than a shotgun-wielding farmer in gaiters emerging, a slight figure in shades of powder blue hopped out with a wave.
“Hello, Beatrice! How’s that for timekeeping?” Rose called, turning to reach something from the cab. Maggie slammed the passenger door and came across to greet her.
“What a lovely cottage! You are so lucky to have so much green space. And who’s this wee creature?”
“That’s Huggy Bear. We’ve only had her for a couple of days so please excuse her manners. Whose vehicle is that?”
“Ours! Rose bought Black Betty for a song at an auction years ago and fixed her up. All-terrain, four-wheel drive, bags of room for everything we need in the back. We’ve taken her all over Europe and she’s still going strong. A wee bit worse for wear after a few scrapes but when you drive one of these, no one gives you any bother.”
“No, the main reason people leave us alone is because I stuck a picture in the back window of Maggie’s face after she ate a vegetarian haggis. Beatrice, we brought you these. Going local,” said Rose, handing over a bag from the bakery.
Beatrice ushered them in from the cold and set the scones on a plate. Once they were settled around the kitchen table with a fresh pot of tea, Maggie got straight down to business.
“Right, we did as you asked and got chatting to staff, customers and management at the pub. Based on what we learned and our own observations, we have identified a prime suspect. Have we not, Rose?”
Rose nodded once. “That’s our conclusion, right enough, but Beatrice needs the whole story. She’s the professional here. We took notes on all the conversations we had, although the last one gave the most away.”
“Didn’t he just!” Maggie’s expression was bright and knowing. “Ply them with drink and they’ll give you their life story.”
Beatrice took a sip of tea. Scotland Yard this was not.
“First things first,” said Rose, clasping her hands together. “Breakfast was a bit chaotic at the pub this morning. Only one waitress and no chef. Poor girl was trying to handle the whole thing on her own, so Maggie and I rolled up our sleeves and pitched in to help. We fried and toasted and grilled while Amanda served. When things calmed down, the three of us sat down and ate the leftovers. Apparently it’s not the first time this has happened. Amanda arrives to find no prep done and Gordon and Susie either still in bed or too hungover to cook. That’s usually at the weekend, but after the funeral...”
“Drink was taken and they had a row,” said Maggie, her expression full of significance. “Apparently. We heard nothing. It was a late night for us because we had a nightcap with your lovely friends. They are just charming! I’ve a real soft spot for gay men, always have, and those two are so...”
“Maggie, Beatrice needs the facts. As she says, we had a drink with the lads and turned in before last orders. So we can’t honestly say we heard a thing.”
“Not personally, no. But other guests reported a fierce commotion in the wee small hours.”
Beatrice looked from one to the other. She could remember faster, more pertinent reports from her detective sergeants. “Is there anything else to this than a couple having a drunken argument? I can’t see how this leads anyone to a prime suspect.”
“Nor could we,” Rose acknowledged. “Only when we started discussing the disturbance with other guests did we start to form a theory. Mr Anderson is a regular and stays in Room 8. He heard them blaming each other for all the money Vaughan had taken.”
Maggie spread jam on a scone. “Two of the customers backed him up. One friendly old dear with a dog like yours told me Susie hated Tuesday evenings. She was left at home to pull pints while Gordon went out to play cards. He wasnae good at it. That weekly poker game pulled in some big spenders. Most people were losers, but Vaughan Mason made a lot of cash.”
“Then after dinner last night, we met Lionel,” said Rose, with the tone of someone with the Royal Flush. “He used to drive the school bus until the council let him go. A Londoner originally, he used to work in a casino. When he heard about Vaughan’s card nights, he wangled an invitation. He knew the tricks and thought he could earn a bit from these wealthy amateurs.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “I think I know Lionel. Bit of a morose sort, drinks rum and coke and often gets miserable of an evening. Always sits in the corner?”
&nbs
p; “That’s your man. Last night, he and Maggie fell into conversation and she bought him a rum and coke. She made it a double.”
The two women smiled at each other with impish glee and Beatrice set aside her impatience for facts. She sat back and listened between the lines.
“Oh aye, the rum loosened his tongue, “said Maggie. “Everything he had, he said, Vaughan Mason took from him. He’s a very bitter man, after gambling away his pension and losing the love of his life to a man who treated her like dirt.”
“But that’s not all,” Rose interjected. “He told us Vaughan was a blackmailer. He seduced wealthy women and threatened to tell their husbands unless they paid him hush-money. According to Lionel, Vaughan was dropping some very heavy hints about how much money Gordon had lost and how awful it would be if Susie were to find out.”
“That convinced us. Gordon Hancock had two very good reasons to want Vaughan Mason dead.”
Rose nodded her agreement. “Frankly, Beatrice, all the above tallies with the man I married. He was then, and clearly remained until his death, an absolute shit.”
Beatrice poured more tea, trying to sort gossip and personal enmity from useful detail. Snowfall and darkening skies made the kitchen gloomy so she switched on the lights. Huggy Bear sat up in her bed by the Aga, only relaxing when Beatrice returned to her seat.
“Before we go any further, I have some questions about what you’ve told me.”
Rose and Maggie exchanged a glance. “You might like to hear the most important part first. Yesterday morning, we went to the reading of the will.”
She glanced at the clock. Twenty to four. If she intended to make her meeting, she would have to leave in the next fifteen minutes. Maggie and Rose waited, alert and engaged, willing to share an insider’s perspective. This was business. She had far too much to do to go traipsing around Devon meeting total strangers who knew all kinds of details about her personal life. In fact, all things considered, she wasn’t even sure if she wanted a new counsellor. She came to a decision.
“Give me two minutes to cancel an appointment and let’s get to work. Rose, would you boil the kettle? We’re going to need more tea.”