Rough And Deadly (A Much Winchmoor Mystery Book 2)

by Paula Williams

  “No.” I came back into the living room while I waited for the kettle to boil. “It’s something really serious. I’m afraid Margot Duckett-Trimble was found dead this morning.”

  I felt a little thrill of triumph at being able to tell Elsie something she didn’t know. Usually, she had this uncanny knack of knowing everything that was going on. In fact, I often joked that if Elsie Flintlock didn’t know about something, then it probably hadn’t happened yet.

  Only, of course, it had happened. And it was nothing to joke about, I realised with sudden shame. Nor should it be used to score points with Elsie. It was a cruel and horrible murder, not a juicy bit of gossip to be enjoyed over a cup of tea and a plate of ginger nuts.

  “Dead?” Elsie’s small puckered mouth went slack with surprise. “How? And what’s that got to do with Abe Compton?”

  “It seems she was found in a vat of Abe’s cider,” I said as the kettle gave a shrill whistle. “And the police think it was Abe who put her there.”

  I made the tea, poured it out and took the tray into the sitting room where Elsie was deep in thought.

  She hardly looked up as I came back.

  “Are you saying the police think she’s been murdered?” she said.

  “Well, I shouldn’t think she put herself in there, would you?” I said, as I moved last week’s Dintscombe Chronicle and the church magazine to make room for the tray on the overcrowded side table.

  I thought of poor little Millie, as short and dumpy as Olive was tall and lanky. The two sisters always put me in mind of a couple of birds. Olive was a stooping, spindly-legged heron while Millie was a plump little wood pigeon, with her bobbing head and soft cooing voice

  Only she wouldn’t be cooing softly now. Poor, poor little Millie.

  “So who did put her there?” Elsie’s shrewd blue eyes peered at me over the rim of her cup. “Will you be investigating this one, Miss Marple? Seeing as how you were so successful in finding Marjorie Hampton’s murderer?”

  A chill ran down my back, in spite of the sauna-like temperature of Elsie’s bungalow. Getting involved in another murder was the last thing in the world I wanted.

  “That was different,” I said quickly. “I knew the police had got the wrong person.”

  “And you think Abe Compton’s the right one?” Elsie shook her head so vehemently a bit more of her Brillo pad hair unravelled. She brushed it back with an impatient flick of her hand. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Apparently, he was saying some pretty wild things about what he’d do to Margot if she got his cider-making stopped. Which it looked as if she had every intention of doing.”

  Elsie snorted. “According to Olive, the man’s a fool when sober and an even bigger one when drunk. He’s barely got the wit to tie his own shoelaces, let alone murder someone.”

  “It could have been an accident,” I said. “Maybe they were having an argument, Margot got a bit too close to the vat, he pushed her in a moment of anger and she toppled over and fell in.”

  “You can’t topple over into a vat of cider,” Elsie said scornfully. “Olive took me up there one afternoon to have a look round and the top is a good six feet off the ground. With a great big lid that locks down. Take it from me, girlie, she didn’t get in there by accident.”

  “But if it wasn’t Abe, then who could it have been?”

  “Strikes me there’s plenty of folk in the village, aside from Abe Compton, who’d be only too pleased to see the back of her. Myself included.”

  “Surely you didn’t—?”

  “With this?” She tapped the plaster cast on her leg. “Of course not. But I can’t abide folks who put on airs and graces, pretending they’re that much better than the rest of us, when all the time they’re no better than they should be. Olive says…”

  She broke off and twitched the curtain as a car pulled up outside. The sound sent Prescott into hysterical overdrive. He raced into the hall.

  “Surely Olive’s not back already?” I had to raise my voice to make myself heard above the sound of Prescott hurling himself at the front door.

  Elsie turned away from the window and back to me, her cheeks faintly pink. “Would you believe it?” she murmured. “It’s not Olive. It’s my grandson, Danny.”

  I glanced up at the array of photographs of the geeky little boy that covered most of the wall behind me.

  The temptation was too much.

  “Now, would this be the same Danny, as in, your useless grandson who only lives ten minutes’ drive away but can never be bothered to come and see you?” I asked with a grin.

  Elsie glared at me so fiercely I thought I’d gone too far. Then she smiled. Not a big, full-on one but a small, wry smile, that softened the hard lines around her mouth and made her bird-bright eyes twinkle.

  “Yes, that Danny,” she admitted grudgingly. “Now, for goodness sake, let him in, will you? Before Prescott knocks the front door clean off its hinges.”

  I grabbed Prescott by the collar, herded him into the kitchen, then opened the front door.

  Oh wow! I’d been expecting a grown-up version of the geeky schoolboy in the photographs. Danny had grown up all right – and in all the right places. He was seriously gorgeous in a cool Johnny Depp (when he was Jack Sparrow) kind of way.

  “Hi,” he said and his voice set me off fancying a piece of rich dark chocolate. “I’ve come to see my grandmother.”

  He had one of those amazing smiles, kind of slow and lazy. I cursed myself for choosing, today of all days, to wind Elsie up by spraying my hair (which had been toned down from its earlier purple to a rich shade of aubergine) with green and orange streaks. I’d also added a (temporary) tattoo to my left arm that announced I was ‘born to be wild’ for good measure.

  “Come along in, Danny,” Elsie sang out. “You’re just in time. Katie’s made me a cup of tea but she’ll soon put the kettle on again for you.”

  “Actually, my name’s Kat…” I began to say, but he was too busy fending off his grandmother’s third degree to hear me. I opened the kitchen door and Prescott shot out like a stone from a catapult.

  As I waited for the kettle to boil I couldn’t help overhearing their conversation. With Elsie’s paper-thin walls, it was almost impossible not to – particularly if you stood over by the broom cupboard in the corner and opened the door.

  “So you see, Gran, I’m broke,” I heard him say. “If you could just see your way clear to lending me £250, that would be brilliant. I’ll pay you back, honest.”

  The creep. He’d only come to see his gran to touch her for money. I didn’t visit mine that often on account of how she was always banging on about what had I done to my hair this time, when was I going to get a proper job and how did I ever think I’d get myself a nice young man if I went around showing everything I’ve got?

  Very much like Elsie, come to think of it. Even so, I wouldn’t dream of asking her for money.

  I’m referring to Grandma Kingham, by the way, my mum’s mum. Dad’s mum, Gran Latcham, really got me and would never have given me that sort of grief. She was the one who encouraged me to believe that there was life beyond Much Winchmoor and to apply for uni. It grieved me that she’d died before I graduated.

  I still missed her and hated going past what used to be her cottage. It was now one of Margot Duckface’s holiday cottages with tasteful Farrow & Ball paint everywhere, a trendy log burner and bare sanded floorboards throughout.

  Gran would have hated it. As did I.

  “I’m sorry, Danny,” Elsie’s voice brought me sharply back to the present – and to the broom cupboard. “I don’t have that sort of money,” she was saying. “I can let you have £20 if that will help?”

  “’Fraid not, Gran, but thanks anyway. Don’t worry. I’ll ask Dad.” He sounded remarkably cheerful for someone who’d just been knocked back. “But how do you mean, you’ve got no money? I thought you’d sold your house in Dintscombe for megabucks? Don’t tell me you’ve been through all that alre
ady? If so, you must have really been living the high life these last few years.”

  “It’s none of your business, Daniel,” Elsie said tartly. “But I’ll tell you anyway. If you must know, I gave the money to your dad.”

  “What did you do that for? Dad’s loaded.”

  “Because – because he told me…” Even from the depths of the broom cupboard I could hear the tremor in Elsie’s voice and wanted to break cover and go and give her a big hug, even though she’d have probably cracked me round the head with one of her crutches for doing so. “He told me he’d put the money in a safe place in case I ended up having to go into a nursing home, where they’d take all my money to pay the fees so the fat cat owners could swan around in their Ferraris. So I did as he asked, and he promised I could have whatever money I wanted whenever I wanted it. Only when I asked him for the money to buy a new fridge the other day, he – he said…”

  Danny gave a weary sigh.

  “Let me guess. He said there was nothing wrong with the old one.”

  “He said I wasn’t to add to that there globe warning by littering the planet with old fridges.”

  “Scumbag.” Danny echoed my sentiments exactly. “But I don’t get it. If you’re broke, how did you afford—?” he broke off.

  “Go on,” Elsie said. “Afford what?”

  “Well, I heard you on the phone to Mum the other day about how you’d bought this piece of land.”

  “Oh that,” Elsie laughed. “Yes, I did indeed. It’s in a lovely spot, overlooking the village church. You see, when I’m dead and gone…”

  I’d heard enough. Poor Elsie. It was bad enough her family didn’t visit her from one decade to the next (apart from when they wanted to touch her for money, of course) without them quizzing her on the state of her finances and the contents of her will when they did so.

  I took the tea in, glared at Danny as I deliberately slopped it in his (non matching, chipped) saucer and told Elsie I’d see her the same time tomorrow.

  “She doesn’t seem too friendly,” I heard Danny say as I let myself out.

  “Boyfriend trouble,” Elsie replied, raising her voice to make sure I could hear. “She keeps getting dumped. Mostly likely because she scowls so much and does daft things to her hair. Makes a half-decent cup of tea, though.”

  ***

  I stood on the doorstep for a while, still smarting from Elsie’s parting shot. Not about the hair, of course. That didn’t bother me. It was the bit about being dumped. Will hadn’t dumped me, had he? It was just that he was busy and had forgotten to call me back. Nothing more.

  I wasn’t in any hurry to go home, even though I still had my potholes piece to finish. Ok, maybe the use of the word ‘finish’ was a tad optimistic there, seeing as I’d only got as far as the heading.

  “Not much in the pot for Much Winchmoor potholes.”

  I went next door to make sure Olive’s cat was ok then took the long way home, going along the High Street rather than cutting through the back lane that led to our house – and the house guest from hell.

  I had no idea why Mum put up with her. But I got such a snippy reply when I suggested that the couple of days Tanya had said she needed to ‘get her head straight’ was up, and maybe Mum should start dropping hints about her moving on, that I hadn’t dare broach it since.

  Dad, the coward, voted with his feet and was spending his time either at his allotment or propping up the bar in the pub.

  I needed time to clear my head before settling down to work, and Tanya’s non-stop chatter was not going to do it for me. The news of Margot’s murder had shaken me more than I wanted to let on to Elsie. It had brought back a flood of memories of a horror that had never really gone away.

  You watch TV detective shows and murder is just entertainment. A light-hearted puzzle. But the reality is different. Very, very different.

  Murder takes your nice, joined-up world and smashes it into a thousand little pieces. It’s disorientating and frightening. Cruel and messy.

  As for the thought that there could be another murderer loose in our tiny village, that was too horrible to contemplate. Olive must have got things wrong. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time. Every time the clocks went back or forward, Olive always managed to be plus or minus two hours out of sync with the rest of the country.

  “Too stuck up for your old friends now, I see, Katie Latcham.”

  I whirled around and saw the girl I’d had my first cigarette with (I was sick, she wasn’t); giggled over my first kiss with (I found it gross, she laughed at me when I told her); lusted after Justin Timberlake with (we were as one on that particular question).

  “Jules! I was miles away. I didn’t see you. And this must be… Oh my goodness, how you’ve grown,” I cooed at the baby, hoping Jules didn’t notice that not only could I not remember its name but its gender escaped me as well.

  “Not entirely unexpected, seeing as the last time you saw Zeke he was six days old and he’s now three months,” she said crisply. “Babies tend to grow quite a bit in that time, you know.”

  “Three months? Has it really been that long? Doesn’t time fly? Anyway, how are you?”

  “Well, you know,” Jules stifled a yawn and pointed at the scarlet-cheeked baby, who was slumped in the buggy like a miniature drunk, a large fleecy hat covering most of his tiny cross face. “Busy. Broke. Bone weary. The usual. What about you?” Her gaze travelled from my (temporary) tattoo up to my aubergine, orange and green hair and rested there. “You’re looking pretty cool, Katie,” she said in an unflatteringly surprised voice.

  I was about to remind her that I preferred to be called Kat but at that moment, in my scruffy T-shirt and dust-covered joggers, I didn’t feel much like Kat.

  Kat would never have spent an entire morning scrubbing an old lady’s bathroom and sorting through the contents of two medicine cabinets.

  (Why two? Trust me, you really, really don’t want to know.)

  “Do you know what’s going on?” Jules asked. “Police cars have been up and down the village all morning. And I’m really worried because I’ve just noticed a whole fleet of them up at Uncle Abe’s as I went past the bottom of their road. I’ve tried phoning Aunty Millie, but got no reply.”

  Most people in Much Winchmoor are related to each other and the Comptons were no exception. Abe was married to Olive’s sister, Millie. And Jules was Olive’s granddaughter. So technically Abe was Jules’s great-uncle, but take it from me, there was nothing great about Abe Compton, either in stature or intellect.

  “According to your gran, Margot Duckett-Trimble was found dead this morning,” I told her. I resisted saying Margot Duckface in view of the gravity of the situation. “In a vat of Abe’s cider. And the police think he did it.”

  “Uncle Abe?” Jules’ hoot of laughter caused the miniature drunk to stir ominously. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. But that’s totally ridiculous. Margot’s a good six inches taller than him for starters. And way more steady on her feet. He’d be far more likely to tip himself into the vat.”

  “I know. It’s bonkers, isn’t it? But he has been sounding off all over the place about what he’d like to do to her, after she persuaded Mary to stop selling his cider in the pub.”

  “Yeah, but everyone knows Uncle Abe’s all talk and not much else.” She frowned and checked her watch. “I ought to go up there and check it out but I’ve got to pick up Jenson from Little Ducklings.”

  Who is Jenson? I wanted to ask, but didn’t dare. At the last count, I’d thought Jules only had two children, but after forgetting this baby’s name and gender I wasn’t prepared to chance it.

  “Little what?”

  “Little Ducklings. It’s what they call the village playgroup now. Look, I don’t suppose you’d do it, would you? Just while I pop up to make sure Aunty Millie’s ok?”

  Before I left home, I’d kind of got used to Jules landing me in trouble with her mad schemes. And I’d never quite got the knack of saying no t
o her. But this was something else.

  “You don’t mean pick up…? Oh no, no. I couldn’t – I mean, how old is… is Jason?”

  “It’s Jenson. And he’s three.”

  “But they won’t let him come with me. You know, security and all that,” I gabbled. “Besides, I’m no good with children, Jules. I’d probably give the poor little kid nightmares.”

  Jules gave another hoot of laughter. Once again, the baby stirred, and whimpered.

  “Your face!” she crowed. “It was a picture. Talk about panic stricken. Of course I wasn’t asking you to collect Jenson. His mother would have a fit. And you’re quite right. They wouldn’t let you anyway.”

  I tried not to let my relief show. “So, he’s not yours, then?”

  “No, thank God. I’ve got enough with my own two, thank you very much. He’s my neighbour’s kid. She has Zeke on a Monday when I do my couple of hours up at the Manor. In return, I pick up Jenson from Little Ducklings on a Friday and keep him for a couple of hours so she can do a shift in the pub. Fancy walking with me? We could go up to Uncle Abe’s as soon as I’ve picked up Jenson and see what’s going on. Or do you have to be somewhere?”

  Like back to Tanya’s snarky comments and Mum’s tight-lipped responses?

  “Sure. So where are these Little Ducklings? Not in the village pond, I imagine?”

  “In the village hall.” The miniature drunk settled back down again as the buggy began to move. “So, seeing as you’re now officially Much Winchmoor’s very own Miss Marple, who do you think ‘done it’? Because obviously it wasn’t Uncle Abe.”

  I didn’t much like being called Miss Marple for the second time that morning. I couldn’t knit, for starters. Not to mention the fact that I’m at least fifty years younger than her.

  “You’re probably right,” I conceded. “But the police must think they’ve got something on him because they’ve taken him in for questioning. Which is why Millie’s lost it.”

  “What?” She stopped abruptly and the baby was jerked awake and protested so loudly that a pair of rooks spiralled upwards in panic from their perch on the Old Bakehouse chimney. “They’ve actually arrested him?”