Digby was a short and burly figure with slightly protruding eyes, his black crinkly hair silver at the temples. He looked like a frog in a wig. ‘Oh, very chic, darling! Digby Jerkin, hello!’ he introduced himself suddenly, thrusting out a hand for me to shake.
‘Juno,’ I responded. ‘You’re new to Ashburton, aren’t you? Are you settling in?’
‘Oh, we’re just looking around you know,’ he assured me heartily, ‘for our dream home. We’ve found a very pretty house to rent in town while we look about.’
Amanda, meanwhile, had discovered the Millais print. ‘Oh, poor Ophelia!’ She heaved a deep sigh and began to intone: ‘There is a willow grows aslant a brook, that shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; there with fantastic garlands did she come …’
I have to admit her rendition of the Shakespeare was a lot better than mine. For one thing, she knew it all, and despite her obvious theatricality, her voice was deep and mellifluous, like flowing caramel, and she was able to inject it with genuine sadness.
‘Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies and long purples …’
I wondered if she was going to do the whole thing. She was. Silence fell over the shop. As she continued the speech, Sophie, Pat and Elizabeth gathered in the doorway of the back room to listen. I glanced at Digby. His face was absolutely rapt and I realised that here was her most adoring fan.
‘… from her melodious lay to muddy death,’ she finished. There was a moment’s pause and she looked around, smiling expectantly, her eyebrows raised in enquiry.
Digby began to applaud. ‘Bravo!’ he cried. Feeling that something was required of us, we began to clap too, while Amanda executed a gracious little curtsey. Digby grabbed her hand and kissed it. ‘It gladdens my heart to hear you give that speech again.’
‘Oh, darling,’ she murmured.
‘Oh for Gawd’s sake, Mandy,’ Ricky told her, stepping from behind the screen, ‘do stop showing off!’
‘Rickeee!’ Her voice soared from contralto to soprano in one long glissando as she flung her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, Ricky, what absolute bliss! What on earth are you doing here?’
There followed a conversation filled with darlings and old chaps as the three luvvies − four once Morris returned with the tea − caught up on the intervening years. The thespians were offered tea and cake, and while Digby looked as if he might have enjoyed a slice, Amanda declared that she never ate cake with much the same shudder that she might have sworn she never chewed worms.
‘I did notice a rather attractive wine bar in the main street,’ Digby said, and to my huge relief, the four of them swept off to continue their reminiscences there, Amanda still sporting the feather boa, Ricky favouring me with a frankly lewd wink as they left. I was so relieved they’d gone. After ten minutes in their company I felt exhausted. I could just imagine the effect they’d have on Chloe Berkeley-Smythe.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ Pat demanded, venturing back into the room. I explained about Ashburton’s famous new residents.
‘Thank God they’ve gone!’ Sophie crept in from the front of the shop.
‘Yes,’ I surveyed the loaded tray that Morris had brought down with him, ‘there’s all the more cake for us. Tuck in!’ I looked about me. ‘Where’s Elizabeth?’
‘Serving a customer,’ Pat told me.
‘Well, I’m glad someone is.’
As a matter of fact, we had a steady stream of customers during the afternoon. Notoriety obviously pays off. Even Meredith Swann came in, on the arm of Mr Daniel Thorncroft, to take a look around. She bought one of Sophie’s paintings, a tangle of purple foxgloves in a summer hedgerow. ‘It’ll look beautiful above my bed, don’t you think, Dan?’ she asked.
He’d obviously been in her bedroom because Dan agreed. He must be her sex slave. Today there was something different about him. It took me a minute to work out that he’d simply had a decent haircut. Ms Swann was exerting an influence. I wondered if she’d wielded the shears herself.
I was pleased for Sophie making a big sale, even though it was an obvious part of Meredith’s campaign to seduce her, to poach her work for her own gallery. After she and her acolyte had departed, I put it to Soph that I really didn’t mind if she wanted to display some of her paintings there, as long as she didn’t abandon Old Nick’s altogether. But she was adamant. ‘No, thanks! She’d rob me blind. She’d want exclusive rights, and she’d put a massive commission on top of my price. I’ve met her sort before. Remember your friend, Verbena Clarke?’
Like Meredith, Verbena had offered to sell paintings for Sophie and had taken it for granted that as the middleman, or -woman, in those transactions, she should take the lion’s share of the profit. Sophie had other ideas.
Elizabeth left early to pick Olly up from Honeysuckle Farm where he was helping Ken for the day, but we continued to be busy with people wandering around till closing time. Sophie and Pat left together, after counting out their profits, leaving me to lock the shop. Before I left, I popped into the back room to make sure everything was tidy on my unit. As I cast a last glance around the walls, I noticed that the picture of Ophelia had undergone a subtle alteration. I frowned, drawing close, touching the glass that I had cleaned only that morning. There was a mark on it now: blood-red, drawn with something like a marker pen, scribbled back and forth across Ophelia’s pale neck. Someone had cut her throat.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Someone is playing games, Juno,’ Detective Inspector Ford told me as he studied the Millais picture with a heavy frown. ‘And you’re sure you saw no one touch it?’
‘The shop’s been really busy all day today,’ I told him. ‘As far as I know, the only person who showed any interest in it was Amanda Waft, and she didn’t go near it. She just stood in the middle of the room and quoted Shakespeare at it … The painting illustrates a scene from Hamlet,’ I added as he gave me a puzzled glance.
‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ he responded. ‘I just wondered who Amanda Waft might be.’
I explained, as the inspector seated himself carefully on the edge of a small table, his arms folded, and listened patiently. There was a weariness about him these days, as if responsibility weighed heavily on his broad shoulders. I wondered why he’d come himself when I’d phoned to report the incident, not just sent Dean Collins or Cruella to talk to me. ‘You say you have no idea where this painting came from?’
‘No,’ I answered with a shrug. ‘It was delivered by someone about a week ago. Pat was the only one here at the time. The parcel had my name written on it, but that was all. There was no note. I’ve no idea who sent it.’
‘And this was after your discovery of the effigy in the water was reported in the Gazette?’
‘Yes, it was.’
The inspector stood up and returned to the painting, his lower lip sucked in thoughtfully.
‘This red mark on the glass, it’s not paint. It must have been made by some kind of marker. Do you have anything in the shop that could make a mark on glass?’
‘We’ve got some markers we use for pricing in a pot on the counter. There’s a big red one.’ I stood up. ‘I’ll fetch it.’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘I don’t want you to touch it, just show me where it is.’
I took him through to the counter, but while the pen pot was in its usual place, there was no sign of the red marker. I hunted underneath around in case it had been dropped and rolled underneath the counter, but I couldn’t see it. ‘One of the girls might have used it and put it down somewhere else,’ I said.
‘Or, someone, anyone, could have picked it up and used it to make the mark on the painting, on impulse,’ he suggested. ‘You say the painting came wrapped up. You didn’t, by any chance, keep that wrapping paper?’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry. It only had my name written on it, in black ink.’
The inspector grimaced. ‘It might have been useful to compare the handwriting.’
‘… with the note on the effigy?’
‘And the note on Jessie’s body?’
‘As I say,’ he answered evasively, ‘it might have been useful. But I don’t think we should leap to conclusions here. I think someone is playing games, someone who’s read about you in the paper, came in here, saw that picture and thought it was a good joke to scribble on it. There are some very sick people about.’
‘One of them being Jessie’s killer,’ I retorted with some heat. ‘And perhaps the same person who wrote the postcard attached to her body and who happens to carry a red marker in his pocket has been here today, in my shop.’
The inspector said nothing, just favoured me with his stare. ‘I am not dismissing this as a trivial incident,’ he told me with a note of reproach. ‘I will send someone from forensics to dust this picture for fingerprints …’
Now I felt embarrassed by my outburst. ‘Um … I’m afraid I gave it a jolly good clean before I hung it on the wall,’ I confessed awkwardly.
He gave a wry smile. He got up to leave and I walked with him to the shop door. ‘One more thing, Juno,’ he added, fixing me with his steady gaze, ‘no sleuthing.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked innocently.
‘You know what I mean. I don’t want you going around Ashburton asking questions, trying to find out who killed Jessie.’
‘Well, as if I would!’ I protested.
‘I mean it. You listen to me now,’ he insisted, pointing a stern finger in front of my face. ‘Whoever killed Jessie is a dangerous customer. You leave finding him to us.’
Now I knew why he’d come himself: to warn me to behave. ‘I will … I promise,’ I added as he continued to give me the hard stare.
‘You’ve been lucky in the past, Juno, but luck can run out.’ The bell on the shop door jangled as he opened it. ‘I don’t want to have to fish your body out of the river.’
My promise to the inspector ruined my plan, which had been to go to the Williamses’ house and ask them openly about the note Jessie pushed through their letter box. Now I’d have to be more subtle about it – subtle, and ever-so-slightly unethical.
I rolled up unannounced at Olly and Elizabeth’s house just as they were putting supper on the table. They immediately offered to lay another place and the slight guilt I felt was put to flight when I considered that all I had to eat at home was the congealed remains of a prawn vindaloo. Whereas, the home-made lasagne Olly had just brought out of the oven looked and smelt delicious. He had cooked it, Elizabeth assured me, all she’d done was prepare the salad and warm the garlic bread. I’d only meant to pop in, I told them, and apologised for not bringing dessert.
‘Of course, what this really begs for is a glass of red wine,’ Elizabeth sighed, ‘but I’m afraid we’re out.’
‘Nothing wrong with water,’ Olly told us, a little primly. He’d been brought up by his great-grandmother and disapproved of alcohol.
Elizabeth hid a smile. ‘Now, to what do we owe the honour?’
While we ate, I told them what had happened to the picture of Ophelia, and how Inspector Ford had warned me against sleuthing.
‘He’s giving you excellent advice,’ Elizabeth said drily, ‘I suggest you take it.’
Olly’s eyes had grown round with wonder. ‘Do you think Cutty Dyer’s been in your shop today?’ he breathed. ‘Just think, you might’ve served him, sold him something!’
It wasn’t a comfortable thought. ‘Do you know any kids at your school called Williams?’ I asked. ‘There would be two of them.’
He rubbed his freckled nose thoughtfully. ‘There’s a Williams in my year. His name’s really Philip but everyone just calls him Will. He’s got a sister in the sixth form. I can’t think of any others.’
‘Do you know where they live?’ I told him where I had seen Jessie posting her envelope through the letter box.
He was nodding. ‘Yeh, that’s them.’
Elizabeth shot me an enquiring glance. ‘Why are you asking Olly?’
‘Because they deny receiving the envelope,’ I answered. ‘I just wondered if Olly knew anything about the family, that’s all.’
‘Juno, you are not to drag Olly into this,’ she warned me firmly.
‘Blackmail!’ He announced dramatically, rising to his feet, his little pixie face alight with excitement. He held up a thin forefinger. ‘That’s what this is! Blackmail! That Jessie Mole was blackmailing Will!’
‘Why would she have been blackmailing Will?’ I asked.
‘Because of his maths homework,’ he breathed in a whisper.
Elizabeth and I exchanged glances.
‘Calm down, Olly,’ she told him. ‘Sit down and tell us what you mean.’
‘Will is best friends with Pierce,’ he began, ‘he lives three doors down. They walk home together, and cos Will’s mum doesn’t get home from work till later, Will has always gone and done his homework in Pierce’s house until his mum gets back. But Pierce’s mum, she works at home, got her own office like, up in the attic and she never comes down till it’s time to make the supper. But as soon as he gets in, she makes him do his piano practice …’
‘This is Pierce?’
‘Yeh,’ he nodded. ‘She’s making Pierce learn the piano. She leaves her door open upstairs so she can hear him practising his scales …’
‘While Will sits there doing his homework?’
‘That’s it. Only Pierce don’t want to learn the piano, he hates learning the piano and he hates practising scales. Anyway, one day,’ he went on, glancing at each of us to make sure he still had our attention, ‘Will – who’s been listening to these scales for years − says to him, “I reckon I can play them scales just as well as you.” So, they have a bet on. Will bets Pierce that he can play the scales and that his mum won’t even notice the difference. So he did, and she didn’t.’
‘She didn’t realise it wasn’t Pierce playing?’
‘No. So ever since, every day, when they come home, Will practises the scales instead of Pierce.’
‘And what does Will get out of this arrangement?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Pierce does his maths homework.’
‘How long has this been going on?’ I asked.
He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘Oh, a couple of years.’
I laughed. ‘And nobody knows?’
‘Well, everybody at school knows except for the maths teacher and the music teacher, and Pierce’s mother.’
‘But what happens when Pierce has to take a piano exam?’
‘Ah, well, that’s easy, isn’t it?’ Olly grinned. ‘Examination nerves! Poor Pierce, he gets ’em terrible!’ His face grew serious again. ‘But if this Jessie Mole found out … and was blackmailing Will …’
‘I doubt if someone else doing your homework—’ I began.
‘They could of done it together …’ His blue eyes grew wide.
‘Could have,’ Elizabeth corrected.
‘They could have, him and Pierce, cut her throat,’ he carried on dramatically, ‘all that blood … there would have been gallons of it …’
‘That will do, Olly!’ Elizabeth said firmly. ‘This isn’t a fantasy. A real person has been murdered.’
‘Sorry,’ he murmured awkwardly.
‘It’s my fault.’ I smiled apologetically at Elizabeth. ‘I shouldn’t have brought the subject up. That lasagne was excellent,’ I added to Olly, and said no more about the Williamses or Jessie Mole.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Detective Constable Dean Collins was not pleased to receive my phone call. It was nine-thirty on a Saturday evening, he’d not long come off duty and he and Gemma had only just got baby Alice off to sleep. Well, he shouldn’t have given me his private number, should he? And after he’d warned me off, I could hardly ring Inspector Ford. But I apologised for the intrusion and told him about what happened at the shop.
‘When we were talking on the phone this morning,’ I said, realising this now felt like a century ago, ‘you were about to tel
l me something about Jessie’s murder before Cruella cut you off.’
There was a suspicious silence at the end of the line. ‘Was I?’
‘So, was the postcard found on Jessie’s body written by the same person who wrote the one attached to the dummy?’
‘We’re not sure,’ he admitted after a pause. ‘It could be that the murderer had read about the dummy in the Gazette and thought it was a good joke, the sick bastard.’
‘Just like the person who put that mark on my painting today. Perhaps he just enjoys the idea of getting the town stirred up, getting everyone talking about Cutty Dyer.’
Dean hesitated. ‘Look, Juno, you’ve got to keep all this to yourself, right?’
I dutifully gave my word.
‘The boss would have my hide if he knew I’d been talking to you. There’s something else about that postcard. After we found her body yesterday morning, we searched Jessie’s cottage. In her kitchen we found a drawer stuffed with those From Devon With Love postcards, with her handwriting on …’
‘Cutty Dyer Dun This?’ I asked.
‘In her handwriting,’ he confirmed, ‘almost as if she’d been practising.’
It was my turn to be silent, to try to understand the significance of this. I remembered Jessie hobbling along on the pavement beside me, pressing me with questions about that dummy. Suddenly, it made sense: her eagerness for details, the almost triumphant leer on her face. She already knew what that dummy looked like. She wanted to hear the details from me so she could feed off my feelings of horror, my sense of revulsion. But could she have made the thing herself? It would have been simple enough for her to stuff a pair of overalls with packaging, but somehow, I couldn’t imagine her fashioning that mask. It seemed too sophisticated.
‘We’ve been trying to find out if masks like that are sold anywhere,’ Dean went on, ‘but it looks as if this was a home-made job, a one-off.’
‘Perhaps Jessie’s murderer made the mask.’
From Devon With Death Page 9