by Fern Britton
Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2019
Copyright © Fern Britton 2019
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photographs © D.G.Farquhar / Alamy Stock Photo (front cover) Shutterstock.com (all other images)
Fern Britton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008225216
Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008225223
Version: 2019-02-19
Dedication
In memory of my mum Ruth
1924–2018
Her stories were the best
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the same author
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
The evening before Mamie Buchanan’s corpse was found had been an enjoyable one. Her niece, the Revd Angela Whitehorn, had thrown a gossipy dinner party for her new parish friends, where it was agreed that her aunt was the most entertaining newcomer Pendruggan had ever had.
This may have been due to her rackety stories and her genuine interest in the lives of others, or, more likely, it could have been her inability to pour anything less than very large measures of alcohol.
‘Your aunt is an admirable woman,’ said a squiffy Geoffrey Tipton, the last guest to say his goodbyes on the chilly, moonlit doorstep of Pendruggan vicarage. ‘My God, they don’t make women like that any more.’
Angela nodded in agreement. ‘They certainly don’t.’
‘GEOFFREY!’ The voice of Mrs Tipton came from beyond the gate, making both Angela and Geoffrey jump. He turned giddily. ‘Yes, my love. Just coming.’ He steadied himself with a gnarled hand on the doorframe. ‘Was thanking the vicar for a splendid party.’
‘You can do that in a letter. COME,’ commanded Audrey. She may as well have asked him to heel.
Geoffrey pushed himself from the doorframe and gave Angela a wobbly wave before staggering towards his wife.
Angela gratefully closed the door and walked to the kitchen where Mamie, the belle of the ball, was gaily polishing off a bottle of champagne.
‘Good God,’ she said theatrically, ‘I thought they’d never leave. Last glass before bed?’ She pointed the bottle towards Angela.
Angela shook her head and started to load the dishwasher. ‘I’ve already had too much.’ Over her shoulder she said, ‘You know Mike Bates is in love with you, don’t you?’
Mamie sank her glass in one. ‘Yes. He told me. And who can blame him, darling!’ Her eyes twinkled with laughter. ‘I’m very fond of him.’
Robert Whitehorn, Angela’s husband, entered with the last of the pudding plates balanced in his hands. ‘Mamie, you were outrageous. You mercilessly flirted with the dreadful Tipton man.’
Mamie became her usual heartless self again and leant out of her kitchen chair to drop her empty bottle into the recycling crate by the back door. ‘Me?’ she laughed. ‘Poor dear Geoff. A frightful old bore but such a sweetheart. That gorgon of a wife of his is hard work.’ Mamie looked to the ceiling and raised her immaculate eyebrows.
Angela, taking the plates Robert was offering, gave her aunt a fond but exasperated look. ‘You are a heartbreaker and you got everyone drunk.’
‘And there was I thinking I was brightening the dull and unsullied lives of your flock,’ Mamie smiled impishly.
Angela’s tired grin shifted into a yawn.
‘And you are exhausted,’ Mamie said kindly. ‘You two go up to bed and I’ll clear the last bits up.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Robert.
Mamie picked up a tea towel and flapped it at the pair of them. ‘You’ve got early church tomorrow. I can lie in.’ She kissed her niece and nephew-in-law affectionately. ‘Off you go. Bed. Now.’
‘Where does she get her energy from?’ Robert plumped the pillow under his head, his eyes already closing.
‘She’s always been the same.’ Angela lifted her legs onto her side of the mattress and pulled the duvet up. ‘Always.’
It was Angela who found Mamie’s body. She had woken at 3.20 with a post-alcohol thirst that needed at least a pint of water. In the dark, she had padded, barefoot and silent, to the top of the stairs and noted a line of light under her aunt’s bedroom door. She thought vaguely that Mamie was probably engaged in her usual nightly routine of make-up removal and meditation, so she decided not to disturb her.
Her fingers carefully held the smoothly worn stair rail as she counted the sixteen treads down to the hallway. She and Robert had been in the vicarage only six months but Angela knew by now most of its foibles and peculiarities: the sticky window in her office, the back door that needed an encouraging kick after rain, and the creaking third and fifth treads.
At this hour all was still and silent. The now-familiar warmth of the house wrapped itself around her.
The smell of garlic roast lamb and sherry still hung in the air, and something else. She stopped for a moment and sniffed. Ah, yes. Mamie’s perfume. Shalimar. Angela was surprised that it could override even last night’s cooking smells, but there it was. The very essence of her aunt.
She reached the bottom step and her naked toes felt the familiar texture of the Indian rug covering the oak floor of the hall.
Confidently, she let go of the wooden sphere on the end of the newel post, and turned left in the darkness, heading towards the kitchen.
It was then that her foot felt something unusual.
Soft.
Fleshy.
Her skin began to prickle.
‘Mr Worthington? Is t
hat you, boy?’ She knew it wasn’t the dog.
She stood stock-still and held her breath. But there was no answering thump of a wagging tail or whiskery nose sniffing her leg.
Fear crawled from her stomach, through her bowels and down her legs. She began to shake.
She was breathing faster and recognised panic. What should she do? Scared to progress further and tread on anything else that might be lying in the dark, but knowing she had to, she reached her foot forwards, feeling for anything else.
What was that?
She drew her foot back quickly.
‘Oh dear Lord,’ she whispered, and took two quick hops to where she hoped the light switch was.
In the sudden glaring light, she saw her beloved aunt’s body.
‘Robert! Robert!’
Robert was dreaming of Venice, sitting in the sun, under the shade of a bougainvillaea and having lunch alone, watching the beautiful women walk by. Where was Angela? He couldn’t remember why she wasn’t with him, but never mind. He could sit here without guilt. Of course Angela would be very cross if she caught him but it was innocent fun. Then he heard her. Upset. Angry? Her voice was coming in distressing sobs.
‘Robert, oh dear God. Robert! Robert. Robert.’
The vision faded and he sat up in bed, ready to apologise. It had only been lunch. Nothing more. Angela would understand. But Angela’s side of the bed was empty. He ran his hands through his thick, dark hair and heard her shout again, ‘Robert, it’s Auntie Mamie, she’s fallen.’
A dose of adrenaline hit him and he leapt out of bed. Six foot two, muscular and naked, he sped onto the landing and looked over the banisters. His wife had one hand to her mouth while the other clutched her nightdress to her heart. He saw the body on the rug. Twisted awkwardly. Her eyes half open. A bruise spreading on her temple. He knew she was dead.
He took the stairs two at a time. Stepping round the grim scene, he reached Angela and pulled her to his strong, naked chest.
‘Darling. Don’t look. Make some tea. I’ll call the police.’
‘She needs an ambulance.’ Angela pushed her way out of Robert’s arms. She stepped carefully over Mamie’s feet and went to the phone on the hall table. ‘Check her breathing, Robert, and fetch a blanket. She’ll get cold.’
Robert dashed for the blanket from the back of the sofa, then knelt and checked Mamie’s pulse. Nothing. He bent his ear to her nose. She wasn’t breathing.
‘Ambulance, please.’ Angela’s voice broke as the emergency operator asked for details.
Robert placed Mamie’s lifeless arm gently on her chest and stood up. ‘Darling, we need the police as well. I’m so sorry. She’s gone.’
Angela took the receiver from her ear and looked at Mamie, lying in her scarlet silk pyjamas, and her legs gave way.
Robert took the phone and gave the emergency operator their address and an assessment of what had happened. He put his hand fondly against Mamie’s cool cheek, before pulling the blanket snugly over her as though she was sleeping.
Finally, he collected Angela’s small frame in his arms and carried her to the kitchen. Tenderly he lowered her onto her chair by the Aga.
‘I’ll make tea. The police and ambulance will be here soon.’
‘Mamie,’ keened Angela, her head in her hands. ‘I didn’t hear her fall, Robert. I should have heard her. Why didn’t I hear her?’
‘Darling, it’s an accident. Somehow she tripped on the stairs and fell. I don’t think she would have known anything about it.’ He smiled into Angela’s green eyes. ‘In a funny sort of way, isn’t this so typically her? Exactly the way she would have liked to have gone? After a great party where everyone loved her … and full of gin.’
1
Six months earlier
‘Penny?’ Simon Canter shouted from the bottom of the vicarage stairs, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
‘Penny.’ He shouted a little louder.
He had been emptying and clearing his office for the last three hours and it had not put him in the happiest of moods. ‘Penny!’
‘What?’ Her voice from upstairs was irritated. ‘I’m sorting the bloody books in Jenna’s room.’
‘Where are the bin liners?’
‘Under the sink, where they usually are.’
‘I’ve looked and they are not.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ she muttered to herself, then shouted, more loudly, ‘Have you looked in the box by the back door?’
‘No.’
‘Well, look!’
Penny was not quite as busy as she was pretending. In truth she had been lying on her daughter’s bed for most of the morning, surrounded by packing cases and constantly being distracted by long-forgotten possessions. She had been flicking through her own old copy of Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes. She had won it at her boarding school. Her headmistress’s inscription still gave her a tiny thrill of pride.
Awarded to Penelope Leighton
For continued improvement in English Literature.
Congratulations
Miss Elsie Bird
Penny had had a difficult childhood. Her father had died when she was young and later she had discovered the woman she had been told was her mother was not. It had destroyed her sense of self-worth and left her with a need for praise and approval wherever she could find it. Even now, reading Miss Bird’s dedication to her more than thirty years later, she felt the pleasure of having done well.
It wasn’t until she’d met Simon, in her early forties, that she’d found the wonder of loving and being loved in return. And she, a woman who worked in the febrile, emotionally incontinent, ego-driven world of television, had found all that in a vicar! Now Simon shouted again from downstairs, ‘They are not there!’
‘What aren’t where?’
‘The bin liners.’
Penny huffily put the book down and went to go downstairs and find the bloody bin bags herself when she spotted them. They were where she had put them, at the top of the stairs.
‘Oh, here they are,’ she called cheerfully, covering her guilt.
Simon was grumping up the stairs.
‘Sorry, darling,’ she said with a hint of accusation as she met him midway. ‘Someone must have left them upstairs.’
Simon looked tired. His normally clear, tanned face and chocolate eyes were dulled with worry. ‘We have less than a week.’
She stroked his balding head and kissed his brow. ‘I know. We’ll be ready. I promise.’
‘I’ve still got the garage to tackle. What am I going to do with all those tins of old paint?’
Penny placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘The new people might want them to touch up any scuffs.’ She wiped a string of cobweb from his eyebrow. ‘I think you need some elevenses. Everything will look better after a coffee and a digestive or two. Come on.’ Taking his hand, she pulled him towards the kitchen.
Outside early spring was dawning on the little patio that Simon had built last summer, with the help of the village gardener, known to all as Simple Tony. The flagstones were warming and a robin was busily building a nest in the early clematis that clambered around the kitchen window.
Penny carried the coffee tray outside and balanced it on top of the lichened birdbath. Pulling up two tatty wicker chairs, she took the edge of her cardigan and swept away the dried winter leaves and crumbly bird poo from the seats.
Setting the chairs side by side, she plonked herself down with a sigh as Simon followed her out with a packet of ginger nuts.
Penny pulled her shoulders back and tipped her face to the sun. ‘The sea smells good today.’ She inhaled noisily, filling her lungs.
Simon sat down and opened the biscuits. ‘Ginger nut?’
She exhaled, shaking her head. ‘I’d prefer a digestive.’
‘There aren’t any.’
She looked at Simon, weighing up whether it was worth the risk of contradicting him by getting up and getting the digestives from t
he larder where she had put them, or just saying nothing. She chose the latter.
‘Not to worry,’ she said, and took another lungful of air with closed eyes.
Simon fiddled with the ginger nut wrapper, running his thumb around to find the elusive tape to pull and, while he did so, looked around at his beloved garden, recalling all the hours that he and Penny had poured into it.
The cherry blossom tree marking Jenna’s baptism.
The Wendy house under it.
The drift of daffodils, just budding now, planted several autumns before.
Eventually he found the Cellophane string and pulled.
Six ginger nuts sprang out and hit the ground.
Penny opened one eye. ‘Bugger,’ she said.
He sighed. ‘Are we doing the right thing?’ He picked up a biscuit and shook the grit off before dipping it in his coffee.
Penny exhaled impatiently. ‘Yes!’
‘It’s Jenna I worry about most,’ Simon said, looking at the vegetable patch that he really ought to have dug over by now. ‘Taking her away from this. Her home. Her garden. Her friends. The life she has known.’
Penny abandoned her deep breathing and gave him a sharp look. ‘How many times are we going to go over this?’ She snatched up a ginger nut before the beady-eyed, nest-building robin got it, and bit into it noisily. ‘We are going to Brazil,’ she said. ‘It’s your dream and we’re going to go for it!’
He ran his hand over his head. ‘Am I being selfish? What about you and your work?’
Before he could take another bleat, Penny was on him. ‘Stop being so sodding negative. I do believe Brazil has running water and electricity and phone lines and the internet! I can run my office from there easily. In fact, it may be better than being here. And Jenna is seven going on twenty-one and bursting for an adventure.’
‘She takes after you.’ Simon gloomily drank his coffee.
Penny sat up and looked him square in the eye. ‘Do you know what she told me last night?’
‘No.’
‘She told me that her friends at school were collecting things for the children you will be working with.’
‘What things?’
‘Hairbands, football shirts, pens, notepads, balls, make-up. Stuff that street kids have never had. She’s even set up a website with her form teacher, Miss Lumley, so that she can keep them up to date with her blogging and vlogging.’