Dead in Devon

by Stephanie Austin

‘Not then. I hadn’t heard of Shugetsu, I thought it might be worth about fifty quid.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  He rolled the netsuke gently in his palm. It was a few moments before he spoke. ‘I’d told Nick about my netsuke collection. He said he’d like to see it − just out of interest. So, one evening I took them around to him, all wrapped in tissue paper, in my shoebox. We spent an hour or so, looking at them, studying the marks, trying to put a value on each one. I don’t remember what he said about this one, he certainly didn’t say it was valuable. But when I got home, I found it was missing.’

  He smiled bitterly. ‘I thought I’d left it behind accidentally. Next time I saw Nick I asked him for it, but he swore we’d put all the netsuke back in the box. I described it to him and …’ He stopped, drew a long, deep breath, and when he went on his voice had hardened. ‘He gave me that look, you know … that sly, sideways glance he used to give when he was trying to get one over on you, when he thought he was being clever …’ He glanced up at me, as if to check that I understood what he meant. I nodded. I knew exactly. ‘He denied ever having seen it,’ he went on, ‘said that I had never shown it to him.’ He was gripping the netsuke fiercely in his fist, his voice growing more strident. ‘Or perhaps, he said, I did show it to him, but he couldn’t remember it. Perhaps I had lost it on the way home …’ He opened his fingers and gazed at the netsuke again. ‘And I knew then, from the way he looked at me, that he had taken it, that he was going to keep it. I knew it must be valuable.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Searched the Internet, found some oriental specialists and contacted them. They got very excited when I described it. They all wanted to see it.’ He sighed deep within his chest, his shoulders slumping, and leant heavily on the edge of the workbench. ‘Even then, I gave Nick the benefit of the doubt, I searched for it, turned the caravan upside down—’

  ‘I remember,’ I interrupted him. ‘I came, that day, with the dogs.’

  ‘So you did.’ He smiled sadly, remembering. ‘But all the time I knew he had it.’ His voice trailed off, staring, not seeing me, but gazing into some private hell of his own.

  ‘What happened?’ I prompted, bringing him back to the present.

  He gazed at me blankly for a moment before he spoke again. ‘I went back to see him, told him I knew that he’d kept it, demanded it back. I told him we’d say no more about it if he just returned it to me. He kept on protesting his innocence. He almost convinced me. I left. I was going to Nottingham that night to see Carrie. I drove all the way to Bristol, but I couldn’t forget it. That money would make such a difference to our lives. I couldn’t just leave it. But … if I hadn’t needed to stop at the services, to get petrol, perhaps I … I don’t think I’d have turned around … driven back …’ He trailed off into silence.

  I sat next to him on the edge of the workbench. ‘You drove back?’ I kept my voice very quiet, very calm, trying to coax the story out of him. ‘And you saw him again?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was late by then. I’m surprised he let me in, but he did. Only this time, I lost my temper. I told him I wouldn’t be cheated, I threatened him with the police. He laughed. He said I couldn’t prove it. I couldn’t prove that the netsuke was mine …’ He shook his head. ‘If there had been any doubt in my mind up until that moment, now I knew he had stolen it deliberately. And he dismissed me … in that way he had … as if I was nothing, and turned his back on me. We were standing by the fireplace and—Dear God, Juno,’ he stared at me wretchedly. ‘I don’t even remember picking up the damn candlestick.’

  I took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I must have hit him. Just once, that’s all it took. I stood there, clutching the thing, looking down at him, at his skull. I knew that I’d killed him. It was as if I’d turned to stone, standing there watching blood spreading out from under his head. Then I took a step back, before it could touch my shoes.

  ‘I backed out of the room, tried to remember what I’d touched. There was a handkerchief in my pocket. I began rubbing at the bannister, and at the door and then I realised, I’d been in the flat so often that my fingerprints couldn’t incriminate me, unless …’

  ‘Unless they were covered in blood.’ I had to look away.

  ‘I had to be careful.’ He smiled, almost innocently. ‘I used the handkerchief on the lock when I opened the front door and let myself out. It wasn’t till later I realised I’d no memory of the door clicking closed behind me. But it was too late then. I couldn’t risk going back.’

  ‘What happened to the candlestick?’

  ‘There was a plastic bag in the car and I wrapped it up. I had some wipes in the glove compartment. I wiped my hands before I touched the keys, the steering wheel. I didn’t want any traces of blood in the car. I stopped at one of the motorway service stations … I don’t remember which one … took the bag into the toilet. It was late by then, there was no one around. I washed it in the sink and rubbed it dry, polished off all the prints and wrapped it up again. Later on in the journey, I stopped on a bridge over a stream and threw the thing in the water, watched it sink. There’d been a pile-up on the motorway, long queues, people had been stuck in traffic for hours. It had all cleared by the time I drove back, but it meant that no one questioned why it took me so long to reach Nottingham … not Carrie, not the police. Carrie had been in bed for hours. As soon as I got in, I stripped off and put everything I’d been wearing in the washing machine. Next day I ditched my shoes.’ He let out his breath in a deep sigh. ‘I didn’t mean to kill him.’

  A tear glistened on his cheek and I wiped it gently with my thumb. ‘Of course you didn’t.’ I was near to tears myself.

  ‘I’m sorry that you had to find him like that,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘It must have been terrible for you.’

  I didn’t say anything. Just at that moment I couldn’t speak.

  ‘I never wanted to hurt you, Juno,’ he went on. ‘That morning in Nick’s kitchen … I was coming to see you in the shop. You were just leaving − you went to get your paint, remember? I called out but you didn’t hear me. I saw you didn’t lock the door. So I let myself in and had a good look around. I thought it was my last chance to find the netsuke. Then, you came back …’

  ‘You decided to creep up on me with ether.’

  ‘I panicked.’ He hung his head like a guilty schoolboy. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I enfolded him in a hug and we clung together for a while. He made no noise but I could feel sobs racking his body, deep in his chest. I let him sob. After a few minutes, he found his voice again.

  ‘It feels good,’ he whispered into my hair, ‘to have told someone at last.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you, to the police?’ I asked.

  He drew back his head to look at me. In his dark eyes there was a blank stare of utter incomprehension. ‘What?’ he asked softly.

  ‘We can talk to Inspector Ford.’

  He gazed at me, mystified. ‘I can’t go to prison. Juno … surely you understand? Carrie … the children …’

  ‘Carrie will stand by you, Paul, if you go to the police now … tell them what you told me …’ He was shaking his head and I took his face between my hands. ‘Look at me,’ I urged him softly. ‘You didn’t mean to kill him.’

  He shook his head. ‘I can’t take the risk.’

  ‘Paul, you must!’

  He gazed at me sorrowfully for a moment, then raised a hand to caress my cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Juno, I can’t.’ For a moment his lips touched mine. ‘I’m sorry, Juno,’ he whispered devoutly, ‘so, so sorry.’

  And it was only then, as he slid his strong, clever fingers down to my neck, that I realised what he was going to do. ‘Paul!’ I breathed. But it was too late. He choked the word off short. His hands were around my throat.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated miserably. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He was crushing my windpipe. I clutched at his wrists, trying
to break his hold but his hands fitted round my neck like an iron collar. I couldn’t breathe. He was forcing me back, my body bent over the workbench. I swept my arms out in a wide arc around me, groping for any tools that might be lying there. Nothing. I drew my arms in between his and chopped at the inside of his elbows. His hold faltered for a moment, but didn’t weaken. I scrabbled at his fingers, trying to tear them away, but he only closed them around my throat more tightly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, over and over.

  I didn’t care how fucking sorry he was. My brain was bursting, a dazzling fog of bright, pinprick lights crowding in from the edges of my vision. I let go of his fingers, stopped struggling, let my whole body go limp. His own momentum brought him forward, his face closer to mine. I thrust my hand between his arms, my fingers hooked like claws and jabbed him hard in the eye. He released me with a curse and I collapsed against the workbench, gasping for breath.

  I staggered round behind it, my chest heaving, and grabbed a long, pointed chisel from the rack on the wall. As he lunged for me again, I thrust it towards him and he sprang back. He hesitated.

  ‘Paul …’ I croaked. It was an effort to speak, my strangled voice raw and husky. ‘Listen to me. This … won’t … do any good …’

  But he wasn’t listening, his attention fixed on the chisel in my hand. He tried to grab my wrist, but I dodged away, backing round in a circle, desperate to reach the door. He lunged again and I jumped back, crashing into a stack of furniture piled up behind me. It rocked and tottered and a stool came clattering down, hitting me on the wrist. I dropped the chisel with a yelp of pain and it went skittering across the floor, stopping by Paul’s feet. As he stooped to pick it up, I grabbed the stool by one of its legs and hurled it at him. He sidestepped just in time, and began to advance on me, the chisel gripped in one fist. His dark eyes seemed almost unfocussed, as if he was sleepwalking. I backed away, and trod on something small and hard: the netsuke.

  Keeping my eyes on Paul’s, I bent to scoop it up. I held it out to him, my hand shaking. ‘You want this?’ I demanded roughly.

  He faltered, as if he’d woken from his dream.

  I closed my fist over it. ‘No wonder you were so keen to help me clear out Nick’s clothes,’ I accused him bitterly, ‘it gave you a chance to search his pockets.’

  I flung the netsuke from me, hard. It bounced into a corner, and as he spun around to see where it had landed, I gave the stack of furniture behind me an almighty shove, ramming it hard with my shoulder. A heavy wooden chair tumbled from the top. It fell across Paul’s shoulders, breaking across his back, and knocked him to the floor.

  I didn’t look behind me to see if he was getting up. I fled, through the open door, heading for the field: quickest way home. I raced across the grass, over the uneven ground, tripping on sudden small bumps and clumps of weeds and thistles. I skidded on mud, fell heavily, landing on all fours. As I hauled myself up, my heart hammering, I dared a glance behind me. I could see Paul, on his feet, framed in the doorway of the workshop, watching me. I ran on, the air scorching my lungs as I laboured for breath.

  A thick hedge formed a solid barrier before me. I waded through a mass of stinging nettles that grew waist-high, and scrambled through the bushes of the ancient hedgerow, squeezing between branches, breaking off twigs that caught at my hair and tearing my hands on brambles.

  As I squeezed through it, I could see the rough ground at the end of my lane. If I could reach the house, find someone, anyone, before Paul caught up with me, I would be safe. I glimpsed a sudden flash of acid yellow. Someone was moving around at the end of the lane. I stumbled onward. I could see clearly then. Two council workmen in high-visibility jackets and hard hats were finally clearing away the fly-tipping from the space where I parked the van, lobbing an abandoned mattress into the back of a flatbed truck. I waved to attract their attention. I managed a hoarse yell. ‘Hey!’ I waved both arms.

  One of them saw me and nudged his mate. As I limped towards them, too breathless for another shout, arms waving, they grinned at one another, then waved back.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ‘So, Monday, then?’ Morris asked, as the waiter poured tea into dainty china cups from an ornate silver pot. A plate of finger sandwiches lay on the immaculate white tablecloth. Taylor’s serves a serious afternoon tea.

  ‘Old Nick’s finally opens its doors,’ I confirmed. ‘It’s official.’

  ‘Official, is it?’ Ricky frowned at Morris. ‘I don’t remember receiving an invitation to cut the ribbon, do you?’

  ‘We’ll be there, Juno,’ Morris promised, beaming. ‘We’ll bring champagne.’

  ‘That’ll be lovely! Adam and Kate are supplying trays of canapés,’ I told him. ‘First fifty customers get free nosh.’

  ‘Fifty!’ Ricky scoffed. ‘Blimey! You’re optimistic.’

  ‘I don’t know if anyone’s going to buy anything, but I expect there will be a few people coming to have a look at the shop. I caught one of the antiques dealers from the bazaar peering in the window yesterday, trying to see inside.’ I knew Tom and Vicky Smithson were coming along for the grand opening. I’d even invited Inspector Ford. He’d given me a severe reprimand after Paul’s arrest, for putting myself in danger instead of taking the netsuke straight to him, but I reckoned by now he’d forgiven me. After all, I had caught Nick’s murderer.

  As for Paul, he had not pursued me. When the police cars arrived at the barn, he was waiting there for them. He confessed to everything, which should count in his favour.

  ‘All of Ashburton’s gagging to see what you’ve done with the place,’ Ricky admitted, ‘after the murder and all.’

  Morris tutted. ‘There’s no need to bring that up,’ he told him primly. He held out a plate of finger sandwiches. ‘I must say, the new shopfront looks splendid.’

  It should do. In the end, I’d borrowed money from my cousin Brian in South Korea for a newly painted frontage and a complete internal overhaul, as well as the hanging sign, Old Nick’s, above the front door. Inside, the shop has been divided into units for rent, so I can get several sellers under one roof. Sophie Child and Pat of Honeysuckle Farm have a unit with a shop window each, where they can create and display their wares. Sophie has already set up her easels with beautiful watercolours. But EB’s portrait sits in pride of place, a sign proclaiming Pet Portraits displayed underneath.

  She and Pat have both been evicted from the market, Pat because the coven at the Art and Antiques Bazaar managed to persuade the management that she didn’t belong there; Sophie because she could no longer afford the rent. She won’t pay me any rent either, neither will Pat, an exchange for taking it in turns to open and close the shop each day and making sure one of them is always there to deal with customers. It also means that I can still carry on with my regular clients, fitting my time in the shop around being a Domestic Goddess. It should work.

  Pat has taken the idea of the Victorian panorama I showed her and made it her own. The interiors she has painted are not of Victorian sitting rooms, but of blue skies, green fields and little farmhouses. Her peg dolls are dressed as shepherds with woolly beards. She’s knitted hedges, she’s knitted gorgeous little sheep, she’s even knitted trees. More than one of the craft shops in Ashburton have offered to sell them for her, but these country panoramas remain exclusive to Old Nick’s.

  I’ve taken over the old storeroom for my stuff: small items of furniture, collectables and bric-a-brac. The other units are currently empty, but I’ve had enquiries, so I’m hopeful. I’m never going to make any money out of Old Nick’s, but I’ll be happy if, eventually, it doesn’t cost me any.

  I haven’t decided what to do about the flat yet, but I certainly won’t be living in it, not in the foreseeable, anyway. I’d been quietly thinking about this and realised that Morris was still proffering the plate of sandwiches. ‘Are you all right, Juno?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes thanks.’ I selected a salmon and cucumber.

  �
��No,’ he said, peering at me anxiously over his specs. ‘I mean, are you really all right, after everything that’s happened?’

  I smiled at him. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  Over the weeks, I have stopped feeling conflicted about Paul. In the beginning I felt as if I had betrayed him horribly. But now I feel I can’t forgive him. Not because he lost control of his temper and killed poor Nick, not even because he tried to save himself by attempting to murder me, but because of all those solicitous phone calls after Nick’s death, those anxious visits to check up on how I was. They reveal a cold, calculating side of his nature, somehow more shocking to me than the exploding heat of his violence.

  I sent the rings I found back to Richard. He passed them on to Helena Burgoyne, from whom I have heard not a single word of thanks. Possibly, the humble pie has choked her.

  Mrs Verbena Clarke had her interview with the police, which cleared the air. She then had the grace to apologise to me and to offer me back my job. I savoured the moment, but decided to decline.

  ‘So, now you’re in antiques do you think you can stay out of trouble?’ Ricky demanded. ‘Keep away from murder and other sorts of mayhem?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ I replied, eyeing up the delicacies on the three-tier cake stand that the waiter had just placed on our table. I selected a raspberry meringue, wincing as I bit through the fragile shell. ‘After all,’ I continued, when I could speak, ‘it was getting into antiques that got me into trouble in the first place.’

  Ricky sighed and rolled an eye at me. ‘Well, promise us you’ll try.’

  They both looked at me, expectantly. Morris giggled.

  I nodded at them, licking the corner of my mouth for escaping cream. ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I want to thank Martin, whose support for me never falters, Mum and Rose for their encouragement, and Di Davies, my dear book-swopping buddy, and her sister, Jill − their praise for my early efforts encouraged me to keep trying. I’d like to thank the team at Allison & Busby and my wonderful agent, Teresa Chris, for her skill, guidance and her extraordinary patience.