From Devon With Death

by Stephanie Austin

  The two cards in white envelopes were from college friends. I didn’t recognise the postmark on the pink one. The card had kittens on it and inside the message looked as if it had been scrawled by a spider with the shakes. It came from Maisie, still staying up north with her daughter. She wished me many happy returns and said she and Jacko were looking forward to coming home soon, from which I deduced that she was not enjoying her stay with Our Janet and her family up in Heck-as-Like, or whatever the northern town was called.

  When I finally got ready to leave, I found offerings on the table on the landing: a bottle of white wine with a bow tied around its neck, a plastic box containing home-made chocolates and a card from Kate and Adam. I didn’t knock on the door to thank them. In the winter they didn’t open the cafe on Sundays and would be enjoying a good lie-in. I’d thank them later, when I got back home.

  ‘So, Chloe’s back on land, is she?’ Ricky demanded as he let me in to the grand Georgian house that he and Morris shared together. ‘How is the old sausage?’

  I told him the latest. ‘She thinks she’s got ME.’

  ‘ME my arse!’ he scoffed. ‘She wants to try doing a day’s work.’

  ‘Well, she does get very tired,’ I pointed out, ‘and she has a weak heart.’

  I looked around the large, marble-tiled hall. I was expecting to see hampers full of costumes, but there didn’t seem to be any.

  ‘We’ve unpacked them already,’ Morris explained, bustling up to greet me as he wiped his hands on a tea towel. ‘We needed to get them out of the way. We’ve just piled them in the workroom …’

  ‘… waiting for you to hang them up,’ Ricky completed.

  ‘Oh, right.’ I shrugged off my jacket. Usually we had a cup of coffee before we started work but there was obviously none on offer this morning. ‘Well, I’ll get on then, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, please, Juno,’ Morris nodded. He was obviously deep in cooking mode, his bald head shining from the heat in the kitchen.

  ‘Yeh, get a move on, there’s a good girl,’ Ricky said. ‘We’ve got Snow White and Cinderella arriving back tomorrow.’

  I carried on up the grand staircase. It seemed I would be working on my own. The costumes were in several piles on the workroom table. They’d clearly just been dumped and so far there had been no attempt at sorting them. I sighed. This was a bit like unpacking Chloe’s suitcases all over again, except the contents of her suitcases were a lot more fragrant. There is a very particular smell to theatrical costumes, especially those that have just been worn. Performers sweat under the hot stage lights and costumes are often constructed from materials that cannot be washed. Few dry-cleaners will take responsibility for elaborate velvet robes, caged crinolines or animal costumes that cost hundreds of pounds to make. I opened the windows. Upholstery fabric spray is the only cure for the awful niffiness and I had no intention of breathing in a lot of nasty chemicals.

  I dragged an empty clothes rail into the centre of the room and began sorting through the nearest pile, brushing the collar of each Chinese satin jacket from Aladdin to remove stage make-up, individually spraying and then pressing it. I could hardly lift Abanazar’s trailing velvet robe, heavily encrusted with spangles. I pitied the poor actor who’d had to wear it.

  I put it on a hanger and hung it from a window frame in the damp air where its crushed folds could be straightened out and its long sleeves allowed to trail on the floor. It would need steaming to get the creases out, but that was a job that could wait.

  I began to work my way through a pile of crinolines. Each one had to be shaken out to ensure the hoops had not bent out of shape in transit. They took a long time and I began to get hot and bothered. I glanced at my watch. It was almost lunchtime and there had been no sign of the cavalry bearing refreshments.

  Sudden strident chords sounded on the piano downstairs. ‘Happy Birthday to you …’ began to drift up from the music room, Ricky and Morris in full voice, with some sort of backing group. I groaned inwardly and then ventured down, putting on a smile as I swung open the door.

  ‘Didn’t think we’d forgotten your birthday, did you, Princess?’ Ricky demanded loudly.

  I must be thick, I suppose. I did. Sophie, Elizabeth and Olly were standing by the piano, grinning at me.

  Morris hurried up to give me a hug. ‘Sorry about making you hang up all the costumes, Juno, but we had to keep you out of the way while we cooked lunch.’

  ‘And sneak this lot in,’ Ricky added, jerking a thumb towards the others.

  ‘Come on.’ Morris put an arm through mine and guided me towards the dining room. ‘It’s all ready.’

  The table looked beautiful, spread with a white cloth laid with all the best silverware and decorated with a vase of tiny, early narcissi. There was also a very large parcel wrapped in paper and tied with a velvet bow.

  I sat down at the head of the table and unwrapped it. From a cloud of tissue paper, I pulled a garment made of velvet, satin and silk, in shades of russet and peach. I wasn’t sure if it was a blouse or a jacket. It had a stand-up collar, padded shoulders and long full sleeves.

  ‘We designed it around that doublet you liked so much when we were unpacking Twelfth Night a while ago,’ Ricky said as I held it up. ‘Remember?’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I breathed.

  ‘Try it on!’ Morris clapped his hands like an excited child.

  I pulled off my jumper and slipped it on over my T-shirt. I was dragged to view my reflection in the mirror in the hall. It looked fabulous. I could wear it with jeans to a party or a long skirt to the opera, if I ever went. It fitted me exactly and the colours were perfect. It was unique and it was mine.

  ‘Thank you so much!’ I gave them big hugs and then packed it up carefully in its box before we all sat down to lunch. I got other presents: a huge bottle of my favourite hair conditioner from Sophie and a book on restoring antiques from Elizabeth and Olly. Pat couldn’t come but sent me a fluffy brown scarf she’d knitted herself.

  With a flourish Morris placed a napkin on my lap while Ricky popped the cork of a bottle of champagne.

  ‘How old are you, anyway?’ he asked as he filled all our glasses.

  ‘You should never ask a lady her age,’ Morris protested. He bustled out and in again, carrying a tureen of roasted vegetable soup and a plate of sweet-smelling home-baked rolls. ‘Just ask him how old he is next birthday. I bet he won’t tell you.’

  Lunch took most of the afternoon − four courses, not counting the mint sorbet palate cleanser, and we were talking a lot. I gave them all an account of my time with Chloe and the appearance of the mystery couple who seemed to fill her with such dread. ‘She said they were retired actors. You don’t know who they are, I suppose? She thought his name might be Derek, and the woman was Amanda.’

  Ricky asked me to describe them.

  ‘He was greying and quite stocky, she was tall and slim with long, wavy, brown hair.’

  ‘And her name was Amanda?’ Ricky asked.

  ‘That’s what Chloe thought.’

  He shot a look at Morris and grinned. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’

  Morris giggled. ‘It sounds like them.’

  ‘She said they were retired,’ I said. ‘She met them on a cruise.’

  Ricky was nodding. ‘I’d heard they ended up working the cruise ships as entertainers.’ He laughed. ‘Digby Jerkin and Amanda Waft.’

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard right.

  ‘Husband and wife team,’ he went on. ‘We knew them way back when we were in variety. They performed duologues. This was back in the days when the variety bill would include scenes from plays, odd bits of Shakespeare and that sort of thing. They used to sing as well,’ he added, sniffing. ‘He had a good voice but hers wasn’t up to much.’

  ‘Digby Jerkin?’ I repeated. ‘That’s not really his name? He sounds like a horse.’

  Morris was nodding. ‘And Amanda Waft.’

  Olly giggled. ‘She sounds like a fart.’<
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  Ricky grinned. ‘Wavy Mandy we used to call her.’

  ‘They used to do a lot of Noël Coward,’ Morris went on. ‘They toured in Private Lives. Then, didn’t they get some sort of television series together?’ He peered at Ricky over his spectacles. ‘A sitcom, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Why did they call her Wavy Mandy?’ Olly asked.

  Ricky frowned theatrically. ‘You’re too young to know.’

  ‘She wavered in her affections,’ Morris explained. ‘And she had a funny walk …’

  ‘She waved about,’ Ricky added, ‘pissed half the time.’

  ‘It is her!’ I remembered her odd walk. Her steps were exaggerated, one foot almost crossing over in front of the other at each step. I’d noticed it at the time, but I thought it was because she was having trouble balancing on her high heels. ‘Now you mention it, she looked unnatural, as if she wasn’t walking so much as … performing walking.’

  Ricky slammed a hand down on the table and gave a crack of laughter. ‘That’s her!’

  ‘And if these two are intending to settle in Ashburton … ?’ Elizabeth asked.

  He shrugged. ‘They’re harmless, nothing for Chloe to get her knickers in a twist about.’

  Morris started to clear plates. He bustled off to the kitchen and came back staggering under the weight of a hefty cut-glass trifle dish. ‘This is a rhubarb and elderflower trifle,’ he explained, carefully setting it down in the middle of the table, ‘but there’s home-made lemon ice cream if you’d prefer.’

  How we weren’t all sick, I don’t know, especially as dessert was followed, after a short interval to recover, by birthday cake.

  During the slightly rueful silence that follows when everyone knows they have eaten too much, Ricky lit up one of his long, menthol cigarettes and I remembered the business card Pat had given me, dug it from my pocket and placed it on the table. ‘Ken’s nephew, Luke, is starting up a gardening business. He could clear all that jungle growing around your lake, if you felt like giving him a try: now is the time of year to get it done.’

  ‘We will.’ Morris picked up and read the card. ‘Thank you, Juno.’

  After the meal it took a lot of arguing to convince everyone that I was capable of driving home. I’d had too much to drink, they said. In truth, I hadn’t had any more than they had – well, perhaps a bit − and it was only a short drive.

  ‘You’d better let us drive you in the Rolls,’ Ricky said.

  Olly frowned. ‘You haven’t got a Rolls.’

  ‘We have,’ he insisted.

  ‘I thought it was a Saab.’

  ‘No. It’s a Rolls Canardly.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It rolls down the hills and can hardly get up ’em again.’

  Everyone groaned. I promised to drive the narrow lane back into town very slowly and carefully, especially as it was still raining. Sophie decided to risk a lift with me rather than make Elizabeth drive around her way, so I couldn’t have seemed too tiddly.

  We almost made it home without accident. I nearly ran over Jessie Mole, but that had little to do with my reactions being slightly sluggish and more to do with her suddenly launching herself into the road and hobbling off as if all the devils in hell were after her.

  ‘What’s she doing up here?’ I asked, after I’d screeched to a halt.

  We were halfway down the hill from Druid Cross. The gateway from which she’d suddenly sprung belonged to a house that had been an empty derelict for years. We sat for a moment, peering down the muddy driveway through my swishing windscreen wipers. The old, wrought-iron gate hung open, the house hidden by a screen of overgrown bushes and tall weeds. There didn’t seem to be anyone about. No one came chasing out after Jessie.

  ‘She’s always wandering around,’ Sophie said. ‘She must have been snooping about in there and got frightened by something.’

  ‘We ought to offer her a lift.’ I had no idea where she lived but it was raining and she was lame, after all. It would take her a long time to limp down into town. I drove on down the hill but we didn’t catch her up. She’d disappeared. She must have got off the road somehow. Perhaps it was as well. She’d only have told the whole of Ashburton that I was driving under the influence.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I was unfortunate enough to encounter Jessie again next morning, and Mr Daniel Thorncroft. To be honest, I only saw him running in the distance as I was walking the Tribe down by the river. I recognised his long, lean figure on the skyline as he pounded along the ridge above us, little Lottie skipping daintily at his side. I thought he hadn’t seen me in the dip below him, but he raised a hand in greeting as he passed, not stopping to speak or break his stride.

  Jessie Mole spotted me as I was in town picking up prescriptions for Tom Carter, who I’ve recently taken on as a client. She grabbed my arm and clung like a leech, still pestering me with questions about the wretched effigy. I only got rid of her because I decided to turn the tables. ‘What were you doing yesterday up at the old Owl House? I nearly ran you over. What were you doing there, Jessie?’

  She scowled, the thick flesh of her forehead puckering as her brows drew together. ‘What?’ she muttered.

  ‘The Owl House,’ I repeated. ‘I saw you come running out. Did something frighten you? Was someone there?’

  She lowered her head, her eyes sliding furtively to one side. ‘Wasn’t me.’

  ‘Yes, Jessie, I saw you.’

  For a moment she looked uncertain what to do, the pink tip of her tongue peeping between her lips. Then she spotted another victim on the opposite pavement and hobbled off at high speed, almost getting mown down by a delivery van in her eagerness to cross the road.

  ‘That’s Juno Browne over there, with the red hair,’ she announced loudly, pointing in my direction, ‘her that keeps finding them dead bodies.’ I beat a retreat around the corner.

  There is a definite vibe between me and Tom Carter. There is too great a gulf of years between us for it to be any more than a vibe, but it’s there, an unspoken subtext whenever we meet. If I had known him when he was younger, I’d have eaten him with a spoon.

  He lives in Station Cottages, near the bottom of St Lawrence Lane, close to the old railway station, which still stands although the tracks are long gone. It isn’t possible to drive all the way to his house. Station Cottages can only be reached by walking down a narrow alleyway, then the little terrace opens up to the left. A path separates the front doors from their allotment gardens, which rise up in a slope towards a screen of trees separating them from the A38 Expressway. It would be a peaceful spot if it weren’t for the traffic whizzing by. I don’t think it bothers Tom. He says he doesn’t hear it any more.

  As I passed his window I could see him working at a table, totally engrossed in what he was doing. I tapped the glass gently and he raised a hand in greeting without looking up. His front door was unlocked and I let myself in. Tom must have been vigorous in his youth, a farm worker, a member of Dartmoor Search and Rescue, a passionate fly-fisherman, chorister and a bell-ringer at St Andrew’s Church. He was in his seventies now, grey, bearded, twinkly eyed, slightly bald on top, his powerful forearms fuzzed with white hair. He was crippled by arthritis, in constant pain and on a long list awaiting a hip replacement. It was his lack of mobility that had forced him to accept my help.

  ‘Hello, my beauty,’ he called as I came in. ‘Have a seat.’

  I slid into a chair at the side of him, careful not to obstruct his light, and watched him, fascinated. He was fly-tying. The trout fishing season would start in March and he always tied his own flies. On the table lay a selection of strange, tiny tools, with spools of thread and bunches of feathers, which together would produce imitations of bristly insects, which might be attractive to trout, but which I’d rather not have buzzing around my bedroom. There was an open leather case full of them, including one that looked like a particularly revolting caterpillar.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, pointing.
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  He flicked a glance at it. ‘Rhyacophila larva,’ he told me, ‘caddis fly.’

  On the table in front of him was a vice holding the fly he was tying. I watched him carefully winding thread around a tiny filament of golden feather, viewing it through a lighted magnifier, his specs shoved halfway up his bald forehead. ‘Pass me that whip finisher,’ he said, pointing towards a wire instrument that looked like a badly bent crochet hook. Tom’s interested in anything to do with rivers, so I started to tell him about the effigy I had found in the Ashburn, and the postcard attached to it. ‘D’you know where the legend comes from?’

  He snipped at the fly with a pair of tiny scissors. ‘Old Cutty Dyer?’ He gave a deep chuckle. ‘He’s been around a long time. My old auntie was frightened of him, would never cross a bridge at night for fear of him, and nor would any of her sisters.’ He put down his scissors and sat back, readjusting his specs from his forehead. ‘You know the story of St Christopher, don’t you, maid?’

  ‘Patron saint of travel,’ I said.

  ‘Of water crossings,’ he corrected, holding up a finger. ‘He carried the Christ child across the river on his shoulders.’

  I nodded. ‘He was a giant.’

  ‘There was always a statue or shrine dedicated to him near any bridge or ford back in the old days,’ Tom went on. ‘Some folk think that Cuddyford Bridge on the way to Waterleat means the bridge of St Christopher. There’d have been one here in Ashburton for sure, near King’s Bridge. Course, all that lot got swept away during the Reformation. They didn’t want people to worship the saints any more. Some folk think that Cutty is another name for Christopher, that the Protestant church turned him into an ogre to discourage people from having faith in him.’