by Granger, Ann
‘Did Monty and Penny produce any children?’
She shook her head. ‘No, perhaps Penny found looking after Monty enough. He’s something of a child himself. I don’t mean he’s simple. He was always a bright chap and could have been a success. But he never stuck to anything. He was a dreamer and would go wandering off on the track of anything that took his interest. Penny would have no idea where he was or when he was coming home. Perhaps being a Bickerstaffe didn’t help. I’ll explain.’
Monica gathered herself up to recount the tale, faintly taking on the manner in which, Carter imagined, she must once have addressed her primary class.
‘It all started in the eighteen thirties when an enterprising baker by the name of Josiah Bickerstaffe found his biscuits sold rather well and went into business producing them en masse. By the middle of the century Bickerstaffe’s had branched out, making other baked goods. They did rather well out of a contract to supply the army with hard tack during the Crimean War. Following that stroke of good luck Josiah’s son built Balaclava House, on the proceeds.
‘The firm then had a second bit of good fortune. They began to produce ‘Bickerstaffe’s boiled fruit cake’. They set about despatching this goody, sealed in a tin with a fake coat of arms on the lid, around the Empire. Their boast was no spot was too far-flung or too awkward to reach. Everyone from district commissioner to humble clerk could sit beneath the tropical sun, eating Bickerstaffe’s boiled fruit cake with his afternoon tea. It makes a nice image.’
She chuckled. ‘“A Taste of Britain”, the cake was called. It continued to be a best-seller right up to the Second World War when they had to suspend making it because they couldn’t get enough of the ingredients. They relaunched it after the war, but tastes had changed, and the Empire was disappearing fast. Just when it seemed things were looking bleak, the family had another stroke of luck. A big American-based multinational company offered for Bickerstaffe’s. They were keen to acquire such an old and reputable name in the cakes and biscuits world. The family were still the sole shareholders and did rather well out of the deal. Even Monty did, although he was still only a schoolboy, because he had inherited a large number of shares from his grandfather. So from scraping along they went to quite wealthy. But it didn’t last, of course. Monty’s father died soon afterwards. Inflation took care of the windfall money, plus their being saddled with that crumbling old house.’
‘So Monty is the last Bickerstaffe to carry the name?’ Carter asked.
She nodded. ‘To my knowledge, he’s the only one. There are other family members but they’re all female, like Bridget, and have acquired other surnames on marriage. Monty must be, oh, I’d say seventy-six. He did National Service in the army; and after that he did have a brief career as a draughtsman. He didn’t stick at that, either. There might still be a small amount of money coming in from investment of the windfall money, enough to keep him going, with his pension.’
‘Thank you, Monica,’ Carter told her. ‘All that is very helpful.’
‘I can’t see how,’ she returned. ‘Well, I never had much time for Monty, but I’m sorry he’s had such a nasty shock. What a strange business. So you’re in charge of sorting it all out?’
‘In overall charge, yes, but the case is actually being handled by Jess Campbell, Inspector Campbell.’
‘Do you think she’ll get to the bottom of it?’ Monica’s bright gaze rested on him.
‘Yes, let’s hope so, anyway. In the little time I’ve worked with Inspector Campbell I’ve learned that she’s nothing if not thorough! She’ll leave no stone unturned.’
He’d meant his last words as a casual reassurance. But Monica Farrell seemed to take them seriously.
‘Then tell your Inspector Campbell to watch out,’ she said quietly. ‘When you turn over stones around the Bickerstaffes, you never know what might crawl out.’
Dusk had fallen while he’d sat talking with her and now it was almost dark enough to qualify as night. Lights were on in all the buildings around them when Carter left. He drove slowly away, raising his hand in a salute to acknowledge her farewell wave. In his mirror, he saw her turn and go back into the cottage. Both cats, ginger and black, twined round her ankles. He hoped they didn’t trip her up. He would come and see her again before too long, a proper friendly visit; not one seeking information.
Eventually, after they had drunk their tea and eaten some brittle pieces of pastry with currants in them, called Shrewsbury biscuits according to his hostess, they had talked more about Sophie and what she was doing at the moment. He had known they would. It was inevitable. Not to mention her at all would be more awkward than talking of her, but it hadn’t been easy.
Monica Farrell’s approach to the subject had been typically simple and direct.
‘How are you getting on, Ian? I don’t mean work-wise or in moving house. I mean being on your own.’
‘Well,’ he replied slowly, picking his words. ‘I’m doing all right. It did seem strange at first, being a bachelor again. I was only ever average at household chores. But I am learning to cook at the moment, in a rather hit or miss way.’
‘No one else on the horizon?’
‘Not so far. That’s another thing about being thrown back into the bachelor pond. I have to learn to date again. I haven’t even tried yet. I won’t have another biscuit, thanks.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ Monica replied. ‘They are teeth-crackers, aren’t they? I didn’t make them. Our church had a fund-raising coffee morning and one of our congregation brought them.’
He smiled wryly at her. ‘I wish I’d come at once to see you, when I moved down here. I was being a wimp.’
‘Oh, I knew you’d come, sooner or later, when you felt up to it,’ Monica said comfortably. ‘Old Monty finding a body in his drawing room gave you the excuse you’d been searching for . . . even if you didn’t know you were searching. The divorce hit you hard; we all knew that. But you’re making progress, Ian. That’s what matters. You have got your life together again; not completely, perhaps, but the framework is there in place. You are making a new life, without Sophie, starting to move on. I’m cheering you on from the sidelines, if that’s any help.’
She gave him a surprisingly wicked grin, making him laugh aloud.
Now, alone in the car, he told himself: Monica’s quite right. It’s time you got your life together. You came down here to begin again, so get on and do it.
But you couldn’t help looking back at a lost age as you drove around Weston St Ambrose. Mindful of Monica’s words about the changes wrought by the years, he was curious to see the signs of them. He noticed, as he made a slow tour of the few twisted streets, where the post office had once stood. It was now a small restaurant, called, logically enough, The Old Post Office. There was the pub, still plying its trade but alarmingly gentrified in appearance. Here was the former schoolhouse where Monica Farrell had spent so much of her working life. Carter braked and sat, looking at it, remembering that Monica had fallen out with the owners.
It stood opposite the old church of St Ambrose, which now had a sadly neglected look. The ex-schoolhouse was a compact building of late Victorian design, probably one of the National Schools built after the education reforms brought in by Gladstone’s government with the Education Act of 1870. Then there would have been plenty of children in the village to fill its classrooms. The number of young families living here had dwindled over the years, driven out by lack of good jobs and shortage of affordable housing as affluent town-dwellers sought holiday homes. The result had been closure of the school and its sale and conversion to private dwelling.
And an impressive private residence, at that! Carter thought. There was nothing neglected about the schoolhouse. On the contrary, a good deal of money had been spent converting it. Evidence of a garden could be seen to the side and rear, trees and bushes showing darker against the gloaming, but the front area – where infants had once raced noisily about the playground – had been brick-paved to p
rovide plenty of parking spaces. They were needed this evening. The owners must be entertaining. Light beamed from the uncurtained downstairs windows, allowing him glimpses of people within, moving about, drinks in hand. A party was just getting under way. There was a home caterer’s van tucked away in the corner of the parking area. The glimmer of a street light let him see the painted legend Dine in Style. So they’d be sitting down to dinner soon. It reminded him that he was hungry.
At that moment, the front door was unexpectedly thrown open and a woman was outlined against the hall lights. She came hurrying towards his car.
‘Jay!’ she called eagerly. ‘We’d about given you up! What happened? Why are you—’
Her voice faltered and she stopped, almost right beside the car now, realising that this wasn’t the expected, delayed, guest.
Carter was embarrassed and cursed his clumsiness in just sitting here, staring at the place. He could see the people inside. They, therefore, could see him – or see his car apparently parked out front. He let down the side window and switched on the interior light so that she could see him.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You’re not Jay. He’s got that make of car . . . I thought . . .’ A touch of panic was entering her voice and her manner changed from uncertain to hostile. Any moment now and she’d ask him what the hell he meant, sitting there, watching them.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been visiting an old friend, Mrs Farrell. She lives in the cottage at the end of this street, near the church. She used to be schoolmistress here when this place was a school. She told me it was a private house now and I was curious enough to stop and take a look at it.’
‘Oh, Monica . . .’ she said slowly, relaxing. ‘Yes, she used to be a schoolteacher here. She’s always talking about it.’ She still wasn’t quite sure, watching him carefully as if memorising his features.
Probably so that she could describe him to the police if necessary, thought Carter wryly. These were wealthy people; a stranger casing the place would be noted and reported. He could see her better now. She was a buxom blonde in her forties, heavily made up but attractive. Her taste in jewellery was flamboyant and her chandelier earrings trembled, glittering like Christmas tree decorations in the light from his car.
‘It’s all right—’ he began. But he was interrupted.
A man came out of the house, a squat, beefy figure, and strode towards them. ‘Terri? What are you doing out here? They’re all waiting for their grub and the caterers want to serve up. Who’s this bloke?’ He peered angrily at Carter.
‘I was just explaining to your wife,’ Carter said, wishing he’d driven straight past this place. It was all getting complicated. ‘Look,’ he said, reaching into his jacket for his police ID, ‘I’m not a suspicious stranger, I’m a police officer . . .’
This was worse.
‘Police?’ squeaked Terri, jumping back as if he had said he was the Grim Reaper. ‘I thought he was Jay, Billy. He’s driving a Lexus, just like Jay’s . . .’
Hurriedly Carter began his explanation about having paid a visit to Mrs Farrell – but he was not allowed finish.
The man, Billy Hemmings presumably, exploded. ‘What? That old biddy’s reported us to the police? I suppose this is about the ruddy cats!’
‘No,’ Carter said patiently. ‘I’ve been paying a purely social visit to Monica Farrell. She’s by way of being a relative.’
‘Oh?’ This was plainly disbelieved. ‘She didn’t complain about our dogs, then?’ The tone was sarcastic.
‘Well, yes, she did,’ Carter admitted. ‘But only in passing . . .’
‘She wants to keep her ruddy cats indoors!’
‘It’s not our fault!’ whined Terri. ‘Ours are lovely dogs, but they’re, well, dogs . . . Dogs chase cats, don’t they? It’s in their nature. You can’t go against nature, can you?’
Carter had had enough of the pair of them. ‘Where are the dogs now?’ he asked. Not that he cared twopence, but with so many visitors on the premises, he would have expected the animals to be making a hell of a noise, barking.
‘Penned in the shed, round the back,’ snapped Hemmings, ‘just till everyone’s left tonight. My dogs only chase her moggies because they stray on to our property.’
‘The law recognises that cats roam,’ Carter said. ‘But I am surprised they come on to your property when you have dogs loose.’
‘She’s told you about the time I was walking Benji and Rex in the churchyard, I suppose,’ Terri began, ‘and they spotted her rotten cats, who were doing their business right there among the graves . . .’
‘Shut up, Terri,’ said her dearly beloved brusquely. She shut up.
‘I’m keeping you from your guests,’ Carter said, ‘Goodnight.’ He switched off the interior light and pressed the button to raise the window.
The Hemmingses watched him drive away.
‘Well, well, well,’ murmured Carter as he drove back to town through the twisting lanes. ‘I wonder if friend Hemmings is on the police computer? I think I recognise a shady operator when I meet one! Monica’s a shrewd old bird. “Shifty”, she’d called Hemmings. How did you make the money to buy the old schoolhouse and entertain lavishly, Billy, I wonder?’
Unprompted, a thought suddenly leaped into his head. Where was the missing guest, Jay, who owned a Lexus?
‘Is it possible?’ he mused, then shook his head. No, couldn’t be.
Chapter 5
‘He’s not bonkers,’ said Jess firmly. ‘He’s just different.’
‘And unwashed, I understand,’ said Ian Carter.
‘That’s not altogether his fault. He’s been living on the ground floor of Balaclava House. There is no proper bathroom downstairs, only a cloakroom with a loo attached. It’s a very old loo, incidentally. The pan is probably Victorian, of an age with the house. It’s covered in willow pattern, blue and white. The bathrooms upstairs have cobwebs all over them and rusty taps. But Monty never goes upstairs. He’s got bad knees. He “washes down”, as he puts it, in the kitchen and hasn’t had a bath or shower for years. The grime has sort of – built up.’ Jess gave a rueful smile.
‘Charming,’ said Carter. ‘Couldn’t he have had the downstairs cloakroom converted to a shower room?’
‘It would have meant having workmen in,’ she explained. ‘Anyway, he likes the house the way it is. He doesn’t want it modernised.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got a soft spot for him.’ There was a warning note in his voice.
‘It won’t colour my judgement, sir.’
‘Good!’
She tried not to let him see how much that irritated her. She turned her head away so that he shouldn’t see it, and glanced at the window. It was the following morning, promising a mild late summer day. Rain had been forecast within the next twenty-four hours, but there was little sign of it. It was a pity about the spell of dry weather from a detection point of view. It meant they’d found no tyre or footprints on the road past Balaclava House; just some in old, dried mud, recognisably made by a tractor, presumably from Sneddon’s Farm.
She turned back to her boss. Now that they’d worked together for a while, he usually called her ‘Jess’, particularly when no one else was around. When he called her by her surname, he really was put out about something but not, usually, anything she’d done. He wasn’t the critical sort. He didn’t breathe down an officer’s neck. On the other hand, he had a way of making you realise you had to get it right. So far, Jess had got things right. But he would expect progress and she hoped she’d make some that afternoon.
The superintendent was still new here and the truth was, they hadn’t quite got used to him. Not, thought Jess, that he was a person you got ‘used to’ very easily. She always had the feeling there was something going on in his mind he wasn’t saying aloud. On the other hand, he had a way of getting other people to say out loud what was on their minds – even if originally they had not intended to. Jess, having sussed this out, was ready for it and had begu
n to phrase her answers accordingly. He probably realised that, of course. And this morning he’d sprung another surprise, wrong-footing her again. He was ahead of her in finding out more about Monty Bickerstaffe. He’d just recounted the information learned on his visit the previous evening to Mrs Farrell.
She knew that Carter was right to warn her about developing ‘a soft spot’ for Monty. She had already begun to feel protective towards the old man and it was a step from that to becoming possessive. It rankled that Carter had been telling her all about the Bickerstaffes and not the other way round. The family fortune had been built and lost, as far as she could gather, on a type of fruit cake. Well, people had made fortunes from equally odd things. She really wished she could have found out all this for herself and been the one to tell Carter. But she couldn’t have done it half so well, because she hadn’t had the necessary contact. He did have, in some old lady who was a mine of information. Would you believe it? He was supposed to be a newcomer to the area and it turned out he’d got a relative here – or rather his ex-wife’s relative. She knew he was unmarried, but had supposed that at some point he’d been in a long-term relationship or a marriage. She’d also assumed, as they all had, that it had ended in breakup or divorce. Now she’d had confirmation of the fact, she had no idea how recently all this had happened. How warily did she need to tread? Was that why he had moved down here from the other end of the country? Making a break, beginning again . . . didn’t people often try and deal with the situation like that? Presumably he’d no children. She couldn’t even be sure about that.