by JJ Marsh
When Matthew arrived home, Beatrice was still hunched over the kitchen table amid the tea things an hour after her guests had left. She had filled half a dozen sheets of paper with questions and theories and a mind map of connections, with Vaughan Mason at the centre. Huggy Bear heard the door open and rushed to greet Matthew with bounces and wags. Several guilty sensations slithered around Beatrice’s insides.
She hadn’t walked the dog. She’d prepared nothing for dinner. She hadn’t checked in with Adrian all day. She had cancelled her new counsellor. And she was still sitting at a dirty table in the half dark, obsessing over Vaughan Mason’s attitude to women, when she should have been wrapping Christmas presents or baking a plum pudding.
“Hard at it, Old Thing?” Matthew stuck his head around the door.
“Got carried away. Sorry. Why don’t you take the dog for a stroll while I clear up and start dinner? Then you can tell me all about his daughter and I can fill you in on the latest developments.”
“Sounds just the thing. If I’m allowed to make a request, comfort food would fit the bill tonight. The journey back was touch and go in this weather. We won’t be long.”
Beatrice heard the clatter of claws on tiles as Huggy Bear skittered about at the sight of her lead. What had they done without that bundle of energy before now? She turned her attention to dinner but her mind ran on parallel lines.
Fish stew. With fresh crusty bread. She cleared the table and rummaged in the fridge for the ingredients. While she set the oven to heat, a name popped into her mind.
Gabriel Shaw. She’d not spoken to him on the subject of Vaughan Mason’s death and nor had anyone else, at least as far as she knew. At her surprise visit after the funeral, she had intended to catch him and his mother together. Just a friendly chat with them both, to reassure them of her neighbourly concern. But Gabriel had not materialised.
She chopped onions, garlic, celery and leeks, and ran through her options. Matthew knew and liked Gabriel. He might be able to initiate a conversation. Whether he could steer a dialogue as well as a seasoned detective, who could say? She herself would be a far more reliable interrogator, if he chose to talk. But she’d never spoken to the man in her life, so she would be coming in cold, with no emotional leverage.
A thought occurred as she threw chunks of potatoes into boiling water. If Matthew was to be believed, a romance with Tanya had once been on the cards. Smart, emotional, empathetic, strong and principled Tanya. Who could resist her engaging manner, enthusiasm for life and persistent questions?
Beatrice grinned to herself as she filleted the fish. It might even enable a deeper understanding between the two and reignite the flames of passion. And it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that this time next year, they might be celebrating all over again. A shadow slunk into the kitchen and rubbed around Beatrice’s ankles.
“Hello, Dumpling! Fancy a bit of fish skin? It’ll do wonders for your hair and nails.” She offered a piece to the grey fluffball, who sniffed Beatrice’s offering and opened his mouth. “Mmm, that barely touched the sides. Here’s a bit more. You’ve got quite an appetite! When Matthew gets back, he’ll give you some kibble and tomorrow, if the weather’s not too hideous, you can go out in the garden.”
The chartreuse eyes blinked and Beatrice returned her attention to the stew, adding the fish stock cubes and stirring. Dumpling padded off, licking his lips. When Beatrice looked up from adding stock and aioli, he had curled up on the battered old armchair beside the Aga, better known as Matthew’s chair. She smiled again and tore some parsley from the plant on the kitchen window.
Matthew’s chair!
Her head snapped around, staring at the cat. Matthew’s chair. Lionel’s corner. Vaughan’s tankard. Being a creature of habit could be deadly.
Chapter Twelve
“I think we should go to the police with all this,” said Matthew, emerging from the bathroom in his pyjamas, smelling of toothpaste and talcum powder.
Beatrice glared at him from the bed. “With a half-baked set of suspicions founded on rumour and hearsay? Don’t be ridiculous. I need to conduct several more interviews before I can offer any kind of theory.”
“What interviews? We already have three likely suspects. The police can pursue these leads with all their resources and arrest suspicious sorts without us getting involved. You did what I asked and I’m grateful. Now we should turn our findings over to the police and our attention to the future. Adrian’s wedding for one thing.”
“We don’t have three likely suspects at all. A suspect must have motive, means and opportunity. Look, Maggie and Rose are completely sure it must have been Gordon. He lost money at those card games, he had access to Vaughan’s personal tankard and ample occasions upon which he might have added a toxin to a pint of Badger’s Backside or whatever they call that foul swill he drinks. Used to drink.”
“That’s what I mean. We have credible evidence which needs investigating by the professionals. Shall I switch the big light off?” Matthew asked.
“Yes, go ahead. But when I presented you with ‘credible evidence’ against Lionel Ruddock, you dismissed it out of hand. In your own words, Lionel is a miserable man who had a brief affair with... what was her name again?”
“Josephine. Very pretty girl who worked at The Star.”
“Yes, exactly. Lionel tells it as if Vaughan stole his soul mate. Whereas you describe it as a summer liaison which finished long before Josephine ended up in Vaughan’s bed.”
Matthew got under the duvet, folded his arms behind his head and exhaled. “When I said three suspects, I certainly didn’t include Lionel Ruddock. He’s a moaner and full of resentment, but he thrives on that. He wouldn’t ever do anything about it. In fact, he’s probably even more bitter that Vaughan is dead because he has no one else to blame. Hate can be just as energising as love, you know.”
“True, but love is much healthier.” Beatrice leaned over him to look at Huggy Bear, fast asleep in her bed. “So the other two suspects you mention would be?”
“Is this an exercise to prove how dim I am? The second suspect would be his daughter. Grace Mason is his sole heir. She’s a very unpleasant, grasping person whose grief took the form of evaluating his possessions and chucking anything she saw as ‘tat’ towards Mungo and me. We weren’t beneficiaries, we were house cleaners. She wanted nothing more than financial gain. To tell you the truth, her demeanour made me feel physically sick.”
“She’s not his sole heir, though, is she? Vaughan left her everything except the rights to An Empty Vessel. Those he left to Rose. Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know why. But I do know it upset Grace Mason dreadfully. She was in a terrific temper, muttering on and on about it. Called her father some appalling names and I won’t repeat what she said about Rose. I told you she intends to contest the will?”
Beatrice nodded then shook her head slowly. “Some people are just... vile. But while Grace does indeed have financial gain as a motive, I don’t see means. How do you poison someone from the other side of the Atlantic?”
They lay in silence for several moments.
“Regarding the intellectual property rights, I tend to agree with what Rose said. It was a reciprocal gesture,” Matthew offered. “While they were married, Rose was the breadwinner. She supported him while he wrote that novel, which propelled him into the upper echelons of the literary world and made him a fortune, not to mention reputation. But by then, they were already divorced, so...”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Beatrice interrupted. “But that makes no sense either. If he felt beholden to her, why not give her some money back then? He’s never written anything equal to An Empty Vessel since, so it has to be his main source of income. If you leave all your worldly goods to your daughter, why deprive her of its greatest jewel? He must have known it would widen the rift between mother and daughter.”
“As I say, a debt of gratitude. They split up months before its publication, so I doubt Rose r
eaped the benefits of her sacrifice. I’m surprised she holds no bitterness.”
“Hmm. She described him this afternoon as ‘an absolute shit’, but I got the impression she was stating an objective truth rather than a subjective opinion.”
Matthew did not reply so she opted to steer the conversation into safer waters.
“Suspect Three?” she asked.
“To me, it seems obvious to suspect Heather Shaw. The jilted lover. Crime of passion, cold vengeance sort of thing is her motive. Plus intimate knowledge of the man and his habits give her means and opportunity. She cannot be dismissed.”
“Crime of passion and cold vengeance are quite different means of operation. But yes, she does have opportunity. She was rehearsing in Upton till seven. She could have easily made a detour via Vaughan’s house, knowing full well he’d be in the pub. Does she have a key too?”
“No. He was adamant none of lady friends had access to his house. The only spare keys are with me and Mungo and his cleaning lady.”
“Right then, tomorrow I need to find a way of getting into Gabriel Shaw’s head.”
Matthew yawned, rubbed his eyes and leaned over for a goodnight kiss. “Sleep well, my love. And this may be an old romantic speaking, but the best way into Gabriel’s head is through his heart. If I were you, I’d call Tanya.”
“What a marvellous idea! I’ll do that first thing in the morning. Goodnight, Matthew, you are quite brilliant, you know.”
He grunted as he switched off the bedside lamp. “You had every intention of calling her anyway. I just gave you permission.”
She squeezed his arm with a smile. He did know her awfully well.
When she awoke on Thursday morning, something had changed. The world was brilliant and quiet, in a Sundayish sort of way. She sat up and realised why. The garden was under a thick white cover of snow. Shrubs, furniture, plant pots had been transformed into unrecognisable lumps and the weak winter sun sparkled off the crystals, turning an unkempt wilderness into a wonderland perfectly in keeping with the wedding theme. She beamed at the beauty of the scene in front of her, willing it to remain until the wedding on Sunday. Would that not be the perfect present for Adrian?
By the time she descended, Matthew and Huggy Bear were returning from their walk. Through the frosted glass door to the porch, she could see him stamping his boots, drying the dog and removing his outdoor things. She went into the kitchen and prepared the coffee machine. Dumpling, curled up like a dustball on Matthew’s chair, looked up at her and mimed a miaow.
“Good morning to you too. Would you like some milk?”
A rattle of claws announced an excitable terrier who jumped up to leave wet paw-prints on Beatrice’s trousers until Matthew broke off his rendition of ‘Good King Wenceslas’ and whistled her back into the hall for some food. Beatrice poured some milk into a bowl for Dumpling and the rest into a pan for their coffee, her attention drawn repeatedly to the white-shrouded foliage outdoors.
“Looks like Adrian may well get his wish,” said Matthew, closing the kitchen door as he came in. “Forecast is for more of the same.”
“I do hope so. I know it’s disruptive and dangerous and going to get on my wick in a matter of days, but this morning, it’s beautiful.”
“It certainly is. You know I’d swear Huggy Bear has never seen snow before. She went quite daft this morning, rolling and diving and trying to eat it. Have you spoken to Tanya yet?”
“No, I decided to leave it till she got to work. Weekday mornings trying to prepare oneself and a small child before leaving the house must be very stressful. I’ll call her when she gets to her office. Best catch her when she’s bored out of her mind.”
“But she’s not at the office today. Oh, is that coffee?”
“The black liquid bubbling away in the Moka pot? Could be. Do a taste test to be sure. Why isn’t she in the office today?”
Matthew made quite a performance of tasting the coffee, by which time Dumpling had returned to his seat and Huggy Bear was scratching outside the kitchen door.
“Nothing like a punchy Brazilian brew after a walk in the snow. So, what had you in mind for breakfast?”
Beatrice sniffed. “I asked you a question. Why is Tanya not at work today?”
“Oh she is at work, as far as I know. She simply mentioned she was doing site visits this morning. I was worried about her, trying to negotiate country lanes after all this.” He waved an arm at the window and let the dog in.
Beatrice dismissed his dissembling as vagueness and focused on her tasks ahead. She handed Matthew a jar of oats. “Crack on and make us some porridge. I’ll call Adrian first and then get hold of Tanya. Don’t forget, add salt after ten minutes. Once it’s cooking, you might want to feed the cat.”
Adrian did not answer his phone. Odd. It was always on his person like some kind of life support. Why would he ignore her? She left a message offering any help or assistance required. Next she called Tanya on her mobile. The ring tone buzzed for an age before a familiar voice came on the line.
“Beatrice! You all right? How did London go?”
“Fine. Completely fine. Now I’m home and keen to progress with my enquiries. Tanya, how well do you know Gabriel Shaw on a scale of one to ten? One being you’d not recognise him in the street and ten being a knowledge of his whereabouts at any given time.”
Tanya laughed. “Six, I suppose. We’re the same age and went to school together. He’s local and we stop for a chat now and then. Why?”
Beatrice launched into her request with a great deal of specific detail. Tanya listened, clarified and agreed to ask Gabriel out for lunch in a few hours’ time. They said their goodbyes and Beatrice ended the call with a satisfied smile. That was when suspicion set in.
Tanya, contrary to expectations, had been the opposite of defensive. She was engaged, curious, knowledgeable and very well informed. Beatrice realised the ground had been prepared. Someone had got there before her and she had a good idea who. She glared at the kitchen door, listening to the sounds of the Today programme and Matthew’s muffled but cheerful voice talking to the animals.
She got up and strode to the kitchen, determined to call him out on such interfering deviousness on a case he had asked her to take. Her purpose was delayed by the ringing of the doorbell. She opened the door intending to get rid of the postman as rapidly as manners would allow. But standing in the snow, a good deal smaller than the postie, was a pale-faced Rose Mason.
“Sorry, Beatrice. It’s early, I know. I’m sorry to disturb you. It’s just I could do with some support. I need to talk to my daughter. This might be the last chance I ever have to build a bridge between us. I can’t ask Maggie as she takes the concept of partisan to a new level. Could you spare me half an hour? I really must talk to Grace and I...” Her voice broke. “I don’t want to do it alone.”
Beatrice reached out to grasp Rose’s shoulders. “Of course I’ll come with you. Hold on one second while I get my coat.”
The Land Rover proved a real asset in the country lanes and Rose’s driving skills left Beatrice in awe. Seventy-something years old, the woman used the vehicle more as an attacking weapon than a means of transport. No wonder it was covered with scars and dents. Within fifteen minutes, they pulled up outside Vaughan Mason’s semi-detached, Beatrice reflecting on how some of the best drivers she’d ever met were women.
They rang the bell and waited, small talk out of the question. Sounds within indicated someone had attached the chain. The door opened a crack to reveal a sliver of Grace Mason. One eye, abundant curls and dark red fingernails.
“You shouldn’t be here. We have nothing to discuss. I made my feelings clear on Tuesday. Further communication should be via our respective legal teams. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”
Her voice had a strangled quality, as if she’d inhaled the opposite of helium, and her American accent sounded affected.
“Grace,” said Rose, her tone sincere, “I come here with open hands a
nd if you’ll forgive me, an open heart. I only want to talk. This is my friend Beatrice. She knew your father. Can we just sit down and have a chat?”
“We’re going to be in court in a few months. I think any contact is unwise. How do I know who this woman is and why you brought her? Why would I be dumb enough to let you into this house, putting myself and my father’s legacy at risk?”
She spoke as if she were being recorded. Perhaps she was.
Beatrice snorted and turned away from the door. She followed the passageway between the house and its neighbour, opened the kitchen door and walked up behind Grace as she continued to spout soap opera dramatic phrases at Rose across a chain.
“Open the door and talk to your mother like an adult. To see a grown woman behaving like a petulant child is embarrassing for all of us, not to mention the fact it’s downright rude to leave an elderly lady out in the snow. Open the door. Now!”
Her temper surprised her. The heat in her voice obviously touched Grace, who closed the door, released the chain and allowed Rose to enter. She walked away from them, into the kitchen and made a point of locking the back door.
Beatrice shot an apologetic glance at Rose. “Perhaps I should wait in the living room, give you both some space.”
Rose gave an emphatic shake of her head before Grace turned from the window with an imperious glare. “I don’t think so. The living room is full of my father’s personal papers. I won’t allow a total stranger to go snooping through his things.” She gave Rose an insolent once over. “I’m extremely busy so would you ever just say your piece and get out?”
“Very well.” Rose looked at the chairs around the kitchen table as if she would like to sit down, but Grace folded her arms, demonstrably unwilling to show even the most basic hospitality.
“I came here to tell you that I would very much like to get to know you. We’ve missed out on many years of a relationship and now we have a chance to change things. I appreciate you may not feel you need a mother figure in your life, but it would mean a great deal to me if we could be friends.”