Vera set the apple peeler down. ‘Are you wanting me to say what you want to hear, or are you wanting me to be honest?’
‘Honest, please.’
‘If your wife is engaged in illegal activity, you need to find out what it is and try to stop her. If you are unable to do that, you must go to the police.’
‘But my family—’
‘Hugh, you know I’m right. What if someone else gets hurt? And as for seeking vengeance, that’s ridiculous. You are not responsible for the actions of your wife. Your friend’s death is a tragedy, but you can’t fix that. Your wife needs to be taken in hand, Hugh. You’re her husband. It’s your responsibility.’
She stood and poured them each a glass of elderberry wine. ‘It’s a bit early in the day, but this situation calls for something a bit stronger than tea. I’ve a tendency to be blunt at times. I’m going to be honest now and tell you what I would do in your position. First of all, find out what your wife is up to. If she’s committed a crime, report her to the police. Let her deal with the ramifications. As for seeking vengeance for your friend, you know as well as I do, vengeance is an elusive thing. You’ll never get over Martin’s suicide. Nothing you do will take the pain away. You need to take this pain in, pray for Martin’s soul and allow your heart to experience the grief. That’s how you heal. Vengeance is not for us, Hugh. You know that.’
‘I need to get Martin’s money back and return it to his wife.’
‘Then try to get the money back, or tell the police what Margaret has done and let them try to get the money back. Just be careful when you speak of vengeance.’
Hugh finished his wine. ‘Why are you so kind to me, Vera? What have I done to deserve your charity?’
A wave of desire passed between them, weaving an unspoken bond, bewitching them. They both stood at the same time. Hugh opened his arms. Vera stepped into them without a moment’s hesitation. She leaned against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Intoxicated by the womanly feel of her, the wide hips, the large breasts, the comfortable fullness, he nestled his face in her hair. She smelled of roses and warmth and redemption.
‘What a mistake I’ve made,’ Hugh said. ‘I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting it.’ He tilted her chin up to him and kissed her.
When their lips met, she softened and seemed to take him in. But when he groaned, Vera tensed and pushed, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. My marriage vows—’
‘Vera—’
She shook her head. ‘Please. I might become weak and give in. And then I’d never forgive myself.’
Defeated, they sat down at the table, careful to keep a healthy distance between them. Surprised at the surge of physical longing, Hugh ached for the touch of her. He wondered what Vera would do if he swept her up and took her to bed. Pushing his untenable fantasy away, he spoke. ‘What should I do?’
Vera picked up the piece of paper that held Margaret’s etched note. ‘Rivenby is a small village, but now with all the evacuees from London, it would be easy for you to go there and mill around a bit. You could go under the guise of taking a walking tour. A footpath leads from the village through the moors. It’s a pretty walk. Blend in. See what you can find out. I know Saint Monica’s is one of the nicer houses. I’ve never been to it, but it should be easy to find. I’ve a map you can study on the bus.’
‘What if I can’t find anything?’
‘Then we’ll see about tracking down your wife’s family. You said she is there for an inheritance, correct?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know anything about her family. She changed her name when she ran away from home.’
‘Don’t worry about that yet. Let’s take things one at a time. Actually, George works at the Rivenby Constabulary. If he wasn’t such a fool, I’d ask him to help you, but never fear. We’ll figure out the next step when the time comes.’ She started peeling the apples again, the skin swirling off the fruit in perfect red spirals.
‘You’ve given me a place to start,’ Hugh said.
***
By the time Hugh got off the bus in Rivenby, he was questioning his plan. He was so angry at Margaret, he wondered if he could resist throttling her. As the bus pulled away, Hugh was tempted to chase after it and go home to Vera and the cottage. Home to the fantasy of an idyllic country life. Hugh, with his life of privilege and servants, had never done anything of great importance on his own. The sun warmed his shoulders as he surveyed the quaint high street and the village green, where three young mothers huddled together while their children played a loud game of chase, seemingly impervious to the cold. A stationer’s shop was closest, so Hugh set off in that direction, determined to find out what sort of trouble Margaret had stirred up now.
A middle-aged woman with bleached hair and too much make-up was busy dusting a myriad of inkwells on a shelf behind the counter. She dropped her feather duster and brushed off her apron before she turned around, running her eyes over Hugh like a hungry predator searching for its next meal. He found her raw sexuality disturbing. When she spoke, his expression must have reflected surprise at her accent. She smiled at him.
‘I’m from London. East End.’ She gave him a tired smile. ‘I’m having a difficult time adjusting to country life, if you get my meaning. There’s no cinema here, and I’ve got to take a bus to Hendleigh to go dancing. Too quiet for my taste.’ She touched Hugh’s arm as though they were old friends. ‘Have you got a car, love?’
‘I do,’ Hugh lied, ‘but my wife uses it most of the time.’
At the mention of a wife, the woman stepped away. Curt and professional now, she asked, ‘How can I help you?’
‘I’m new in the area too,’ he said. ‘I heard there was a walking path here, near a place called Saint Monica’s. Can you direct me?’
‘There’s a house called Saint Monica’s. I think there’s a turnstile on the path to the moors just past it.’ The woman reached under the counter and pulled out a fold-up map, which she opened and spread out on the counter. ‘I imagine you’re on a bit of a walking tour then? You look like you’d be a good walker. It’s your long legs. Anyway, the footpath is about eight miles round trip. Here’s the route. Just don’t go out there after dark. People get lost.’ Using her thumb as a pointer, she gave detailed directions.
‘So tell me about the house.’ When the woman gave Hugh a curious look, he said, ‘I have a fondness for old houses. It’s historic, correct?’
‘I’m not sure about all that. I like newer houses, myself. Easier to keep warm and no spiders. But the woman who lives in Saint Monica’s, Cat Carlisle her name is, came from London to escape the bombs. She’s quite famous around here. Her husband was murdered a few years ago. She solved the murder for the police.’
‘Is she some sort of detective now?’ Hugh asked.
‘No,’ the girl said. ‘She’s just a nice lady with a lot of money. Never met her myself, but I heard she likes to help out people in need. Did you want to buy the map? I can take your money over here.’
Hugh paid for the map, thanked the shop assistant and set out to explore Rivenby. He meandered past an old church and graveyard and wove through masses of evacuee children playing in the street. When he reached the lane, he walked slowly past Saint Monica’s, towards the turnstile, studying the picturesque village for clues as to why his city-loving wife would want to spend time here. Saint Monica’s was indeed a beautiful old house, its brick façade covered in vines whose leaves were turning to autumn’s shades of reds and golds. As he passed the house, he caught a glimpse of an elderly lady hanging washing from a line out the back. Hugh paused and thought about approaching the woman. He could pretend to be a lost walker … The woman saw him. Tossing a piece of wet clothing back into the basket at her feet, she crossed her arms over her chest and watched Hugh with a scowl on her face. Damn.
Making a show of being busy, Hugh pulled the map out of his pocket, pretending to plot his route, even though he knew exactly where he was going. He
could go through the turnstile and take a side path back to the high street. The two-and-a-half-mile jaunt would stimulate his appetite. He’d take his walk, have lunch in the café on the high street and then return to Much Killham. If he didn’t learn anything about Margaret, he would at least have had a pleasant day out.
***
Two hours later, Hugh was sitting in the café, having finished a generous plate of fresh cooked vegetables, accompanied by three biscuits and hot strong tea. He had purchased a newspaper and had taken his time with it over lunch. Having paid for his food, he wandered out into the high street where he saw Margaret. At least, he thought the woman was Margaret, for she had Margaret’s build, Margaret’s distinguishable hair, Margaret’s way of walking. But this woman wore a grey tweed skirt, a frumpy hand-knit jumper, and the uninspired brown lace-up shoes available for purchase with ration cards.
Resisting the urge to call out to her, Hugh stayed back a discreet distance and followed along. Adrenalin coursed through him as he tracked his wife through the village, careful to stay out of sight. When she reached the end of the high street, she continued on a narrow lane, winding up a gentle hill for about two miles towards the woods. Coming to rest at an old dilapidated folly, overgrown with wild vines, Margaret ducked along a narrow trail. Out of breath now, Hugh continued along, mindful of his step. The trail curved, coming to an abrupt stop at a large green lawn, which surrounded an architecturally interesting house situated well off the main road. Woods abutted one side, while the moors loomed in the distance. The house was well maintained, no small feat in this time of supply shortages and lack of manpower. Hiding behind a thatch of overgrown bushes at the edge of the grass, Hugh ducked out of sight, watching as Margaret ran across the lawn to the side of the house. From this vantage point, he saw a woman in one of the upstairs windows flitting around with a dust rag, but Margaret had cleverly positioned herself so she wasn’t visible to anyone who might look out the front of the house.
What the devil is she up to? Margaret crept up to one of the windows and stood on her tiptoes, peering in the large window, her hands shading her eyes. She moved onto the next window and was just about to peek in, when the front door opened and an elderly man stepped outside. He had a shotgun over his shoulder. Thinking he should grab his wife and pull her to safety, Hugh watched, unable to move as Margaret darted with the agility of a teenager into the woods. The man took the three stairs down to the path before he yelled in a loud baritone, ‘Stay away. Next time I’ll shoot.’ As if to make his point, the man pointed the shotgun into the air. Hugh had the sense to cover his ears before the old man fired it.
Hugh remained standing as he surveyed the house and its distance to the village. By his calculations, he wasn’t too far from the main road. Not wanting Margaret to discover she had been followed, he decided to take the footpath near the road, so he could easily duck out of sight if need be.
Backtracking to the village, he saw Margaret just as she stepped onto the high street. Careful to keep a safe distance behind her, he followed his wife to a row of small brick cottages on the far side of the village green. He watched as she took a key out of her purse and let herself into the cottage on the end, unable to look away when she stepped into the arms of another man. After Margaret’s lover shut the door, Hugh stood for a moment, checking his emotions, surprised to find he had none. He wasn’t the least bit angry or hurt at Margaret’s betrayal. And if he wanted to be brutally honest, he felt a bit sorry for Margaret’s latest conquest.
***
‘So the old man actually fired his shot gun?’ Vera took Hugh’s bowl and refilled it with vegetable stew.
‘And he yelled at Margaret. The question is, what was she doing there? What is she after?’
‘Do you know who lives in the house or what the name of the house is? It seems we should be able to figure out who lives there. Once we know who lives in the house, we are one step closer to finding out what your wife is after.’ Vera set another bowl of stew in front of Hugh and sat down across from him. ‘Do you think Margaret is going to break in and steal something?’
Hugh played this scenario out in his head before he answered. ‘I hope she does. I hope she winds up in prison.’ He felt the warmth of Vera as she moved her chair close to his. She didn’t wrap her arms around him and press her body next to his, rather she put one arm around his waist in a very platonic way and laid her head down on his shoulder. ‘I’ll help you, Hugh. We’ll get you through this.’
‘I know,’ he whispered. They ate in silence, sopping up the stew with thick slices of crusty bread, fresh out of the oven. Hugh hadn’t eaten this well since boyhood, when Cook had spoiled him with extra portions. When the meal was finished, Hugh watched Vera stack the dishes in the sink. Without thinking, he got up and went to her. Slipping behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist. ‘I’m sorry I kissed you. I won’t do it again.’
Without turning to face him, she stilled and leaned against him. He wanted her. More than that, the feel of her body filled him with comfort and a sense of security he’d never experienced before. Is this what love should feel like? Dear god, I’ve been missing out.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to be close to you. This feels so good, but I can’t break my vows.’ She turned to face him. Eyes shining, she handed him a towel. ‘Help me dry?’ They worked together, making quick work of the washing and drying.
‘I’m going back to Rivenby tomorrow,’ Hugh said. ‘Go with me?’
‘Can’t,’ Vera said. ‘It wouldn’t do for George to see us together. Not that he would care, but people talk. But you should go back. I wonder what would happen if you approached the people that live in the house directly.’
‘What?’
Vera shook her head. ‘I know it sounds a little absurd, but there’s no shame in the truth. Go knock on the door and tell that old man your wife is the one who was looking in the window. Tell him you think she’s up to no good. Who knows, he may appreciate the warning.’
Hugh let the idea sink in. In some convoluted way, Vera’s idea made sense. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Hugh stood, tired all of a sudden from the events of the day.
‘It does my heart good to see you take back your life, Hugh. I wish our situation could be different. I’m so sorry for what we lost, for the chance we didn’t take.’
Hugh found he couldn’t speak, couldn’t respond to those words that tugged at his heart in the most painful way. He couldn’t bear thinking of all that he and Vera had missed – a loving home, children, and the prospect of a comfortable old age. He pushed the emotions away. After giving Vera a chaste kiss on the cheek, he said his goodnights and made his way home.
As he lay in bed later, the events of the day replayed in his mind’s eye. One thing was certain. Hugh Bettencourt would return to Rivenby. There was something in that house Margaret wanted. Hugh intended to find out what it was.
Chapter 10
Shivering against the afternoon chill, Cat stepped off the bus, glad she had opted for her warm coat when she and Alice left in such a hurry yesterday. For a moment she thought about going to the constabulary and getting Thomas to drive her home, but changed her mind and hurried off to Saint Monica’s on foot. She was pleased with herself. David Masterson-Smith had started the process of transferring Alice’s money without difficulty. Skilled at explaining things to inexperienced clients, Masterson-Smith had fielded Alice’s questions with patience. Arrangements had been made for the Masterson-Smith firm to hold the money in trust for Alice, transferring funds to her each month as required. Cat had overseen what she liked to think of as the metamorphosis, helping Alice choose a hair style and a wardrobe, appropriate for the new life she would create for herself. As Cat had watched Alice model her new clothes, she’d wondered what hell her life must have been under the thumb of her mean-spirited and miserly husband.
Of course, Thomas was right. He often was. Running Saint Monica’s wasn’t an easy venture, but Cat had overcome the odds –
at least as far as Alice Grenville was involved – and had seen the woman to safety. Now Cat would have to turn her attention to Lucy Bardwell with an eye towards determining Lucy’s true circumstances. If it turned out Lucy had lied about her abuse, Cat would have no choice but to ask her to leave. If Lucy hadn’t yet returned to Saint Monica’s, Cat would ask Thomas what she should do. Those decisions could wait until tomorrow. Now all she wanted was a strong cup of tea and a hot bath.
Cat was so engrossed in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the two police cars and what seemed to be the entire Rivenby Constabulary traipsing around the exterior of Saint Monica’s until she turned up the drive. As she drew near, she saw a constable standing guard, along with another seven men lingering on the edge of the woods. Unexplained shivers ran up the back of her neck. Something compelled her to run, and she approached the edge of the woods just as Thomas and DCI Kent stepped out of the line of trees and spoke to one of the young men who hurried over to meet them. Even from this distance, Cat could see Thomas was pale, his expressions stricken. DCI Kent’s face was a blank mask, devoid of emotion as he barked out orders, causing the young men to run off one by one as they received their instructions. Cat heard the end of his words as she approached. ‘With a tooth comb, gents. Search the grounds and the woods. We’re looking for a handbag, or anything that might belong to the girl. And when you’re finished—’
‘Thomas.’ Cat approached the men. ‘What’s happened?’
There was no denying the look of relief on Thomas’s face when he turned and saw Cat. He wrapped his arms around her, not caring who witnessed this public display of affection. ‘Thank god. I’ve been so worried,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘I’ve seen Alice Grenville sorted. She’s gone, Tom. We don’t need to worry anymore.’ Cat tightened her grip on Thomas, feeling a sudden need to lean on him. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’
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