Too Clever by Half

by Will North

  “Sweet Jesus, what’s the bastard done now?”

  “I’m afraid I am here to tell you that he is dead, Mrs. Roberts.”

  She waited for a reaction and got nothing more than widened eyes.

  “Might we sit in the breakfast room and talk? Would you like your husband to join us?”

  Margie Roberts fluttered a hand. “Up in the hills with the sheep, he is, this morning.”

  “Herdwicks?”

  Margie smiled. “Know your sheep, I see! Tough, those Lake District Herdwicks are, but we also have Swaledales. They’re hardy, too, but wool’s softer. Combine their fleeces and you get a strong wool blend with a nice sheen, much in demand in the rug industry. We’ve just been through lambing season and they’re all well, thank goodness. Though, without the bed and breakfast business, we’d be hard pressed.”

  She rattled on, like she was trying to gather her wits, as she led the way into the breakfast room.

  “Would you care for tea, detective?”

  Bates smiled. “Mrs. Roberts, you can stop working. I am not a guest. I just want a chat. And my name is Terry.”

  Margie sat in a chair by a cluttered table. Her head dropped and she stared at the hands folded in her lap.

  “Dead, you say. How?”

  “He was found floating five miles off the Lizard a few days ago.”

  “Fall out of that boat of his, did he? Never did know anything about seamanship. Told him to take some instruction, I did, but would he listen…?”

  “No, Mrs. Roberts, he didn’t fall out of his boat. He was murdered.”

  Margie Roberts stared at the detective, then dropped her gaze. “Thought I was shot of him years ago. But here he is again.”

  “From what I can see here,” Bates said gesturing to the room in general, “you are well shot of him and this new life’s been good for you.”

  Margie brightened. “Meeting Victor was everything. Widower he was, wife died. Cancer. He’s a bit older, but not by much. A good and gentle man. We met at a St. Andrews Church fete here in Stonethwaite. My kids were going to the primary school. They just took to him.”

  “The children?”

  “Erik and Brynne. My children from Hansen. Erik's fourteen and Brynne's twelve now. Adore Vic, they do, and they work hard on the farm when they’re not at school. This life seems to suit them.”

  “Well, Hansen was a farmer, too…”

  “But that Archie, he was always in some dodgy business or other besides his own farm, though I’ll grant he’s been regular with his support payments. Grateful for that, I’ve been, I’m sure. But murdered? Why? Somebody catch up with him finally?”

  What struck Terry was how matter-of-fact the woman was, as if she’d expected this news to have come one day.

  “Reckon that’s the end of the support checks, then…”

  “Yes, ma’am, I should think so, but I don’t know the law. And then there’s his estate. Do you, or perhaps your children, inherit? His farm must be worth quite a lot.”

  “I’ve no idea. He certainly never said.”

  “Nothing in the divorce settlement? You’ve never seen a will?”

  The woman laughed. It was more a snort. “Archie leave something to us? Not likely. Hate to speak ill of the dead, but he was one tight bastard. And bitter.”

  Terry thought the woman had no compunctions about speaking ill of the dead.

  “According to county records, you divorced Mr. Hansen. May I ask why?”

  The woman looked off, as if to a far continent. “Porn. He had a mail order business selling naughty videos. And nasty business partners. Worked for some creep called Connor. I reckon Archie made a lot of money with that sideline, and old Connor too. But if he did, I never saw it.”

  “Ever meet this Connor?”

  “Never. Archie was closed as a bank vault.”

  “Who handled the divorce?”

  “Borland and Company. Helston. Archie’s solicitors for farm matters, but they were fair and good to me.”

  The woman shook her head: “I’ve always thought his support payments came from the money from that porn business. Me and the kids, supported by porn riches. How’s that for irony?”

  “If it is any comfort, Mrs. Roberts, I believe that business collapsed some years ago. Internet made it redundant. So maybe that’s not where the money has been coming from.”

  Roberts ignored this. “Gave him ideas, those videos did,” she said just above a whisper and looking away again.

  “I’m sorry. Did he ever hurt you?”

  “No. He liked to tie me up, you know. But loose, like. He never hurt me, I’ll give him that. It was a game or, I don’t know, maybe like theater to him. Then one night young Erik came into our bedroom, saw us, and ran out screaming. That was the end of it for me. I filed for divorce. I had plenty of videos to show the judge.”

  “Videos?”

  “He filmed us.” It was almost a whisper.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Long ago, that was, and far away,” Margie said, looking up and regaining her strength.

  Terry paused. “I’m sorry to ask you, Mrs. Roberts, but can you account for your whereabouts on sixteen and seventeen May?”

  The woman laughed. “You think I killed Archie?! Sweet Jesus, girl, he wasn’t worth it. Plus he was helping support me and the children!”

  “Perhaps you could check your booking calendar?”

  Margie rose abruptly and stalked back to reception. Bates followed. Roberts thumbed through her record book and then spun it around for Terry to see. The hill climbing season had begun and the inn had been fully-booked both nights.

  “You don’t have anyone who steps in for you when you’re away, perhaps?”

  Roberts snorted. “Look around, detective. Does it look like I can afford staff?”

  “Mrs. Roberts, forgive me, but these are just questions we have to ask, principally to put you in the clear. No one is suggesting you were involved in Archie’s death.”

  “Though there were times, back then, when I wished I could have been…”

  Thirty

  IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON Saturday, twelfth May, when Charlotte Johns turned into the sloping gravel drive up to Archie’s house, and there was Bobby Tregareth walking down the lane. He had his infant son in a sort of sack close to his chest.

  She pulled abreast of them and rolled down the window of her VW Polo.

  “Out for a stroll with the babe, Bobby? Fine day for it.”

  “Out lookin’ for you, actually, Charlotte, ma’am.”

  “I’m flattered, Bobby!”

  Tregareth blinked. “Question I had for you is all, ma’am. About Druidry. Reckon you’d know.”

  Charlotte took a breath, wondering what Bobby knew, but said, “Well, come back on up and I’ll put the tea on.”

  Bobby and his son came through the kitchen door of Hansen’s house just as the electric kettle flipped off. She filled a teapot and set out mugs for them both.

  “Well, sit you down, then, Bobby, and let’s see this little fellow.”

  Tregareth sat at the kitchen table and pulled aside the cover over his son’s head. The boy was fast asleep.

  “He’s a sweetie, he is, Bobby,” she said as she stroked the smooth forehead. The infant had almost no hair, just a few wispy reddish-blond threads. Charlotte, childless, admired the boy but kept a distance. She had no idea how to relate to a baby.

  “He is that, most of the time, Charlotte, but sometimes also a trial.”

  Charlotte could see the man was weary. She poured tea and sat beside them.

  “How are you faring then, with all of this?”

  “A bit difficult he can be, to be honest. Fusses and cries at lot, he does. So I just walk him round the lanes. Like a dog, I suppose. Gentles him somehow. Eventually.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I suspect being close to that big heart of yours, Bobby, also settles him. But where’s Joey when you should be out working your fields?

  Treg
areth ducked his head. “Gone off to her parents down to Helford again. Their place by the river. Does it often, she does. Can’t cope with the boy, is what she says. But truth is it seems like she’s been slippin’ away from me for a while. Only time she’s seems excited lately is when she’s off to meetings with your Druid people. Off she goes and then it’s up to me to take care of the boy.”

  There had been no recent gatherings of their grove, but Charlotte said nothing.

  “Druidry’s why I come by,” he continued, “to ask your advice. That okay?”

  “Of course, Bobby.”

  The big, young farmer reached behind and pulled a small, leather-bound book from between his belt and back.

  “This here says it’s a Grimoire and it belongs to Joey. Found it by accident sorting her things a while back. Been writing in it since long before ever she met me, she has, and it’s mostly to do with various special days you folks celebrate.”

  Charlotte took a breath. “Yes, Bobby, a Grimoire is a sort of memoir, a record of events and rites and practices celebrated during the course of the pagan year.”

  “Yeah, I get that, but there’s also rites mentioned in here about, I don’t know, looking attractive to men, even getting pregnant. What’s she need that for, I ask you? So okay, she wanted a baby something desperate but it wasn’t happening until it finally did, you know? Is that a Druid thing, too? A rite to get pregnant? Like a miracle or spell or something? That’s what I come to ask you about…”

  “A Grimoire is meant to be a private, personal document, Bobby.”

  Bobby placed a big, calloused hand on his boy’s sleeping head and looked away. “I get that, I do. But ever since the boy was born she’s been a stranger to me, Joey has. It’s like I don’t exist for her anymore, except as a caretaker for the babe. It’s like she’s left but is still here….”

  Charlotte softened: “Let’s look at the book together, Bobby. Maybe I can help.”

  It was a common enough diary, and not terribly literate, either, as if written by a schoolgirl. Like Bobby, she did not understand the entries that were outside the realm of the common Druid calendar celebrations. The odd entries were spells their grove did not perform, spells to seduce and control. The more she considered it, the more it looked like Archie’s influence.

  Charlotte placed a hand on her neighbor’s knee. “My dear Bobby, there is something I just discovered that I think you need to see.”

  She led Tregareth to the cramped office off the kitchen, switched on Archie’s computer, punched in his password, and showed her young neighbor the video of his wife and Archie. The baby lay in Bobby’s arms, sleeping.

  After he’d taken it all in, Tregareth seemed paralyzed. Charlotte placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “This is something which affects us both, Bobby, a betrayal in which we are both victims, a knife in both of our hearts. Whatever we do next, Bobby, we must trust each other, stay loyal to each other, and reveal nothing. Understood?”

  Bobby nodded, said nothing, and then walked out of the kitchen with the baby.

  HANSEN’S KITCHEN WAS aromatic when he came down from his evening bath Saturday night, twelfth May, the potatoes boiling and a thick steak hissing in an old cast iron skillet coated with olive oil and scattered with shallots and freshly chopped rosemary from Charlotte’s garden. In a few minutes, she would deglaze the pan with a splash of red wine and a knob of butter to make a silky sauce. She had a pint of Doom Bar waiting for Archie beside his favorite chair.

  It was a warm night, at last, and Archie wore only a linen robe she’d given him the summer before. His face was still flushed from the bath. He dropped into the chair and downed half the pint in one go.

  Tonight, given the weather, Charlotte wore a short, soft, rayon halter dress in a pink floral print, and had wedge-heeled espadrilles on her feet, the better to display her trim legs. She watched Archie's eyes follow her and did a coy little curtsy.

  “Warm enough almost for a summer night, Archie…”

  “Plenty warm; come over here.”

  She laughed: “Not a chance, my Thor, lest I ruin this fine fillet of beef for my hungry man!”

  Archie finished off his pint and demanded another.

  You sly devil, she thought, making me come over to you with another pint...

  She left the cooker and poured another bottle into Archie’s glass. The foam rose to the top of the tall jar.

  She leaned toward him; the halter top giving full view of her unbound breasts. “Do you like the foamy cream I make atop your pint?” she teased.

  “Like my cream better in your mouth.”

  “Soon enough for that,” she said, slapping his hand away from her bum.

  The steak done, she finished the mash and peas and served. She ate only the vegetables. She kept pouring fresh pints, and soon Archie was drowsy. The warm night helped. This was going well.

  “You are tired, my Thor. You have had a long day. Let’s us go up to our bedroom…”

  She guided him up the stairs, helped him undress, and got him into his big antique oak bed.

  “Thor wants you,” Archie said, his voice furry with alcohol.

  “And he shall have me,” she said. She lay beside him, still dressed, and stroked him. But Archie did not respond. He had already fallen asleep.

  She rose and fished in his dirty blue farm coverall for his keys and then ascended to the attic. She’d never been permitted there before, and now she thought she knew why. At the top of the stairs she tried several keys before finding the one that admitted her to the dim, cramped space beneath the rafters. She patted the dusty wall and found the light switch. There were trunks and boxes stacked everywhere. She wondered how much ancient Hansen history was stored here, and how many secrets. To her right, there was a low passageway leading to another door, this one barely five feet high. Another lock, another key, and she was in. Had she not already seen the room in the video, its bizarreness would have astonished her—the plastic bags of herbs, the books on spell-casting, the candles, and the settee. But of course she had seen it all.

  Heading down the stairs, she reached the ground floor and switched on Archie’s computer. She logged in with his password and looked for more videos but found none. But there was an email message from Savills, the estate agents. The message had nothing to do with the farm:

  Dear Mr. Hansen,

  We have received your deposit for the villa in Mijas Costa, for which I thank you. You will be pleased to know that the owners are willing to sell you most of the existing furnishings for an additional three thousand Euros, a very fair price, I believe. You will be able to take ownership in a month’s time. Please let me know if this furnishings price is agreeable to you and give my best to your young partner. I trust you both will be happy in your new home.

  Yours truly,

  Barbara Hunnicutt

  Savills

  She marked the message as unread, shut the computer down, and sat for a while.

  WHEN HIS MOBILE chirped, Dicky Townsend was having drinks with chums on the outdoor terrace of the Avon Gorge Hotel in Clifton, high above the Avon River. The lights of Bristol city glittered far below.

  He looked at the screen and excused himself. “Business,” he said.

  “Char,” he answered when he’d stepped out of hearing.

  “You need to get down here.”

  “Are you all right?” He heard the tension in her voice.

  “More right than I have been in years, Dicky, thanks to you. He’s not only selling the farm, he’s bought a villa on the Costa del Sol for himself and that woman. I need you here with me. We have work to do.”

  “Tomorrow then?”

  “No, Tuesday. I got him drunk tonight and I will fetch the treasure on Monday. I know where it is now. Meanwhile, I have plans for him.”

  “Right, then, Tuesday. Afternoon?”

  “Yes. Good.”

  “I’ll be there, love…”

  Thirty-One

  “GO
OD MORNING, MY Lord, and a fine Sunday it is!” Charlotte said the next morning. Sun streamed in through the window above the kitchen sink. Far away beyond the daffodil field nearest the house the English Channel shimmered. Morning clouds had slipped east and the Lizard Peninsula basked in the sun’s glow like a lounger in a deck chair on an ocean liner.

  Archie leaned heavily against the door jamb at the foot of the stairs to the kitchen dressed in his usual navy blue farmer’s coveralls.

  “You all right, then Arch?” Charlotte asked, looking up from the cooker.

  “Too much to drink last night, I reckon,” he said as he crossed the floor and sank into a chair at the kitchen table. “Little rocky.”

  “Tea, then, I should think, yes?”

  Hansen nodded. He looked around the room. He loved this big old kitchen, the gaping hearth, the stripped pine cabinets and cupboards bleached now with decades of lime wash, the deep white porcelain sink stained with age, the oak kitchen table washed and scrubbed so many times the grain was raised. So much history.

  “What’s on for today, my Lord?”

  “Tilling, mostly,” Archie answered. “Potato rows. So the weeds don’t take over. Half my fields are in Maris potatoes and the price is high right now. Lucky gamble. Harvest in a fortnight, I reckon. But a long day today.”

  “Well then, this morning I’ve prepared you well for your day; I’ve made a proper farmer’s fry-up for my hard working Thor: eggs and sausage, bacon, sautéed mushrooms, fried potatoes and tomato, and fried bread. Set you up nice, this will. Right as rain you’ll be while tilling today.” She set the loaded plate before him and sipped tea as Archie wolfed down his breakfast. “Follow those Maris potatoes with clover or grain, will you, like last year?” she asked.

  Archie looked away toward the window over the sink. “Not sure yet. Depends.” Archie finished, rose, and grabbed the lunch box Charlotte had packed for him. From the kitchen window, she watched as he crossed the farmyard, started the tractor, attached the raised tiller, and guided the throbbing machine down the farm drive. Their weekend together was over.