Bunburry--Murder in High Places

by Helena Marchmont

  “Isobel was moaning that she’d broken a heel on her favourite shoes and the other pair she had weren’t as nice, so I went to see if I could get some glue for her.” Cogs were slowly turning. “Oh my God, the heel must have given way.”

  Alfie looked at his fellow members of the Bunburry Triangle and saw they had reached the same conclusion. There was no reason to think this wasn’t true. And if it was, Charlie Tennison was going to be a free man very soon. And Alfie knew from bitter experience that that wouldn’t ease the widower’s grief one iota.

  11. Back to Bunburry

  “I suppose you two want a lift back,” said Marge. “I’m afraid it won’t be as comfortable as Alfie’s Jaguar.”

  “Jaguar,” mused Liz. “Isn’t that the name for those ladies who-”

  “Cougar!” snapped Marge in frustration. “Not a jaguar, not a leopard, not a cheetah, not a lion, not a camel, not a mouse – will you try to keep the right animal in your brain for longer than ten seconds?”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Liz humbly, but Alfie spotted a gleam in her eye that suggested she was having fun winding her friend up.

  “It’s a charming car,” said Oscar as they set off. “Very stylish.”

  “Alfie bought it for me,” said Marge with a touch of pride. “My previous car got totalled. Not by me, I hasten to add.”

  “Yes, I believe I heard the story,” Oscar murmured. “Life down here is so much more exciting than in the metropolis. And it was a privilege to see the Bunburry Triangle at work.”

  “We have our moments,” said Liz.

  “Marge, did you get a selfie with Dorian?” Alfie asked.

  “No, it was impossible – he and Paige were so loved up, they were oblivious to anyone else. He’s an amazing actor.”

  “He is,” agreed Oscar. “Star of stage and screen.”

  “And library,” said Marge.

  “I don’t quite follow,” said Oscar.

  “All that ‘you’re the only woman for me, I would never be unfaithful’ nonsense.”

  Alfie laughed. “Marge, you’re far too cynical. I was watching Dorian the whole time and there’s absolutely no doubt he meant every word.”

  “And you, young man, are far too gullible. I was watching him the whole time as well. You didn’t see the film, did you? He looked exactly the same way as Mr Darcy when he finally fell in love with Elizabeth Bennet. And he couldn’t stand his co-star.”

  “Oh, really,” Alfie protested. “I’m sure actors must draw on their real-life emotions. He was probably thinking of Paige when he had to act opposite his co-star.”

  Marge swerved to avoid a small creature that had decided to scurry across the road. “You never think of successful businessmen being so naïve, do you?” she said to Liz.

  “I think it’s very touching that he doesn’t think the worst of everyone,” said Liz. “Unlike you.”

  “In this case it was completely justified. I told you Dorian had had an affair while he was filming here. Dorothy just confirmed it was with Isobel Tennison. Caught in the act, they were, absolutely no doubt.”

  “As always, the Divine Oscar put it so well,” said Oscar. “‘There is one thing worse than an absolutely loveless marriage. A marriage in which there is love, but on one side only.’”

  Alfie felt a wave of disappointment tinged with embarrassment at having been fooled. Could you trust anybody? Yes, he could trust Betty. He had never known anyone so honest – painfully honest at times. He had behaved appallingly to her, said dreadful things because he was drunk, and his pride was wounded. Now it was up to him to be honest: tell her he cared about her and ask for her forgiveness.

  Marge dropped Oscar off first at The Drunken Horse. “How much longer are you staying in our stagnant backwater?” she asked.

  “Theoretically one more night, but if you can promise me more excitement with the Bunburry Triangle, I shall stay indefinitely.”

  “Come and have dinner tomorrow night,” said Liz. “We’ll try to organise a bit of excitement by then.”

  They dropped off Alfie at the end of the lane rather than at Windermere Cottage because Marge said she wasn’t going to do a fifteen-point turn to get past the Jaguar.

  When Alfie got into the cottage, he found the car keys in an envelope behind the door. There was no note. He rang Betty again, and this time there was simply silence, no voicemail.

  He got into the car and drove to her isolated cottage. He had never been invited in, and was slightly apprehensive about turning up uninvited. But once she heard what he had to say …

  He left the car at the end of the tarmacked road and walked the length of the rough track. The front door was locked. Wooden shutters were closed behind the windows. There was no sign of Betty’s bicycle, no sign of Betty.

  He returned to Windermere Cottage and didn’t set foot over the threshold until it was time to meet Oscar for dinner in The Horse.

  His friend gave him a quizzical look. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” said Alfie with a forced smile. “I suppose I’m still processing what happened with Charlie Tennison. I thought he was my mortal enemy and now I can only feel sorry for him.”

  “David rang me,” said Oscar. “Charlie’s been released without charge, much to Sergeant Wilson’s disappointment, and has gone straight back to London. Probably on the prowl for the next Mrs Tennison.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Alfie quietly. “You don’t just bounce back from a loss like that.”

  “But neither do you become a hermit for the rest of your life,” said Oscar. “It was good to see you hooking up with the Green goddess. You still haven’t told me why she left so suddenly. I’m guessing it wasn’t because she was about to turn into a pumpkin.”

  “You were there,” said Alfie harshly. “You saw how I was behaving with Isobel.”

  “Yes, and I know why. You mean you haven’t explained?”

  “Betty doesn’t know anything about Charlie Tennison and my grandparents. And then when she threw me out of the room, I didn’t have the chance to talk to her before the dinner.”

  Oscar raised his eyebrows. “You had the chance to talk to her after the dinner.”

  Alfie hesitated. “That didn’t go quite as planned. I may have said some things … I’d possibly drunk a little too much.”

  “Alfie. You dolt. Well, what you have to do now is-”

  He was interrupted by Edith coming to take their order.

  “Where’s your girlfriend off to?” she said to Alfie.

  “Betty?” he asked.

  “How many girlfriends do you have?”

  Alfie failed to make his usual response, that Edith was the only one for him. She sniffed. “So where’s she gone to? The Pennines? Machu Picchu? The North Pole?”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Yesterday. Walking to the station with a backpack practically as big as herself. All I’m asking is where she’s headed.”

  “I wish I knew,” said Alfie.

  “Oh dear.” Edith gave a laugh. “Trouble in paradise? What did you do, forget her birthday? Anyway, what can I get you?”

  Oscar persisted in giving advice once Edith had left. “All you have to do is be honest with her. Explain yourself. And make an abject apology. As the Divine Oscar said, ‘Women are not meant to judge us, but to forgive us when we need forgiveness.’”

  “You’ve not been listening,” said Alfie wearily. “There’s no opportunity for me to be honest with her, explain myself and plead for forgiveness. She’s gone, I’ve no idea where, but I know it’s to get away from me.”

  “You don’t know that,” said Oscar. “She may have received the Bat-Signal, or Frog-Signal, or whatever the Greens respond to, and had to rush to save a tree from being cut down, or a badger from being culled.”

  Alfie couldn’t m
uster the energy to keep arguing. “It must have been an interesting conversation with David and Dorian about Japanese art. What were they saying?”

  The next day, Oscar announced that he wanted a tour of the area. Alfie took him out in the Jag along the narrow hedge-lined roads he now navigated without a second thought.

  After a while, Oscar said plaintively: “Is there anything to see apart from hills and churches?”

  Alfie took him to Cheltenham, which Oscar found a great improvement. “The problem with hills and churches,” he said, “is that they don’t offer much in the way of retail therapy.”

  They walked round the Regency spa town, Oscar dragging Alfie into shops to look at curtain material, carpets, paint colours, beds, and bathroom suites.

  “The bathroom has to be completely gutted,” he declared. “And I’d really prefer some changes to the guest room. That sleigh bed over there is really very attractive, and the peacock curtains we saw would blend in with it beautifully.”

  Despite himself, Alfie began to feel quite enthused. Windermere Cottage was very much Aunt Augusta’s, not his, and he had felt unsettled in it since discovering she had left it to him out of guilt. He would feel much better about living there if he put his own stamp on it. Or possibly Oscar’s stamp. He had to admit that Oscar was much better at interior design than he would ever be.

  After a late lunch, they returned to Bunburry. The mail had arrived, and in the middle of the bills and advertising leaflets was a handwritten envelope with a London postmark.

  Alfie ripped it open. It contained a single handwritten page.

  Alfie, it began. She had never called him Alfie. It didn’t suit him, she said, because the film Alfie was about a shameless womaniser, and he was one of the good guys.

  I’ve signed up for some more work with Greenpeace, flying out later today. I won’t be back for some time. I think we can both agree the party wasn’t a success for us. I’ve been hurt in the past: I don’t want it to happen again, and I guess I’m just not ready for a relationship right now.

  Have a good life.

  Betty

  So that was it. She would never hear his explanation, and so she would never forgive him. He felt as empty and lonely as he had after losing Vivian. It was only now, now that it was too late, that he admitted to himself that he had seen a future with Betty.

  He became aware that Oscar was asking what the matter was and handed him the letter.

  “I won’t go to Liz and Marge’s this evening,” he said. “Tell them I’ve got a cold and don’t want to pass on my germs. In fact, tell them whatever you like.”

  He went into the bedroom, lay on top of the bed, and stared unseeingly at the ceiling.

  By morning, he had reached a decision. He rang Oscar, who was breakfasting in The Horse.

  “Is David’s driver taking you back to London?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I haven’t made any arrangement. David said just to ring whenever I was ready. After that letter – Alfie, I’ll stay on here for as long as you want.”

  “No need,” said Alfie. “And no need to bother David’s driver. I’ll take you. It’s time I got back to London.”

  Epilogue

  Marge stood at the window of Jasmine Cottage, staring down the slope of the garden to the roadway. It was a week since Alfie had left.

  “Is something the matter, dear?” asked Liz.

  “Just thinking,” said Marge.

  If the conversation had been the other way round, thought Liz, Marge would have made an acerbic remark. But that wasn’t Liz’s way.

  “About what, dear?” asked Liz.

  “Wondering whether to take the car out for a bit of a spin. What do you think?”

  “Of course. Why not?”

  “Do you want to come?”

  “We’re up to date with the fudge orders. Yes, that would be very nice.”

  Marge peered at her through the over-sized spectacles. “It might take a while. We might not be back in time for dinner.”

  “That’s not a problem, dear. We can stop somewhere.”

  They got into the car and Marge laboriously put a postcode into the satnav.

  “Blasted thing,” she muttered. “I’m not going on the M40.”

  But somehow, they ended up on the M40, Marge’s knuckles whitening as she gripped the steering wheel.

  “You’re doing very well, dear,” soothed Liz. “We’ll be fine once we get into London. They say the traffic is slower now than it was in Victorian days when there were horses and carriages.”

  Marge wore an expression of ferocious concentration as she followed the satnav’s instructions into the capital. She looked grimly ahead at the road, but Liz was able to take in the buildings, the vistas and conclude that Alfie lived in a very nice part of town.

  “I think we’re almost there, dear,” she said.

  The satnav directed them off the main road into a narrow street. Liz gazed in awe at the glass and chrome building rising up beside the Thames.

  “You have arrived at your destination,” the satnav lady announced in her usual quietly triumphant voice.

  “I don’t see anywhere to park,” cried Marge. “Now what do we do?”

  “Just pull in to the side, dear, and I’ll go to the flat.”

  “What if the blue meanies get me?”

  “They won’t. If you see one coming, drive on. Then come round again and find me.”

  Liz got out of the car and crossed the road. She had never imagined such an opulent home. The front door consisted of two massive panes of glass. And inside she could see a man in a peaked hat sitting at a desk in front of a row of lifts. A doorman. She wasn’t sure what to do. There was no bell visible, and certainly no door knocker. But as she stood uncertainly at the entrance, the doorman pressed a button, and one of the glass doors swung inwards.

  “Oh, goodness,” said Liz, stepping into the atrium and seeing the row of lifts. “Thank you. I’m here for Alfie, Mr McAlister.”

  “I’ll see if he’s in.” The doorman reached for the phone. “May I take your name, ma’am?”

  “Clarissa Hopkins. No, don’t say that, I mean, that’s my name, but just tell him it’s Liz. Liz and Marge. Tell him we’ve come to take him back.”

  Next episode

  Sweet Revenge

  BUNBURRY – A Cosy Mystery Series

  by Helena Marchmont

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