The Secluded Village Murders

by Shelly Frome

  Emily nodded, not paying much attention. She was weighing ways to bring up the subject of short-term memory loss and the possible need for a caretaker. This was especially hard as she was dealing with a man who quoted Thoreau and Emerson about self-reliance. Someone who didn’t ever want anyone fussing. How would he feel to have someone looking in on him, overly concerned that at his age he was finally starting to lose it?

  Chris came out of the greenhouse with the extra pails and baskets she would need, saying, “And, oh, did that fellow show up yet, that Will Farrow? Comes highly recommended. Not bad looking either and just the right age. Best of all, takes everything easy and lets all the folderol pass right through him. Call it a through-me kind of guy.”

  Putting everything down, he said, “Besides, the break will be good for your mother too. Help calm her down.”

  “Chris—”

  “Now don’t go giving me that look. I’m only halfway serious.” He pulled out a skeleton key, secured the greenhouse door, and tugged on it as hard as he’d tested the front door, and pocketed the key.

  “That’s not what I mean,” Emily said as Chris walked past her and got behind the wheel of his old station wagon.

  Tromping on the accelerator as he turned the ignition switch, he looked up at her and said, “I know, I know. Didn’t mean to jump the gun about you and a possible beau.”

  The motor caught and then stalled.

  Pressing a bit harder, Emily said, “What I’m trying to say is, you tend to your crops, the roofs, and all that village business. But maybe it’s time you . . .” Emily stopped herself short, still unsure how to broach the subject.

  Holding the pedal to the floor, Chris managed to bring the old engine sputtering to life.

  Trying again, Emily said, “The fire in the greenhouse, Chris. What’s that all about?”

  Reaching out and patting her arm, Chris said, “Soon as I get a chance, I’m going to look into it. And soon as we both get a chance, you owe me a full report about those West Country English rambles.” With that, he drove off, the undercarriage and exhaust pipes rattling as usual.

  Focused on getting her mother squared away, final arrangements for the mini-Twinning, and catching up on her sleep, she assumed he had meant he was going to ask his doctor for some pills to help him remember details, like shutting off a hot plate before he went to bed and locking the doors.

  Now, on this extended flight, it dawned on her that wasn’t what he meant at all. When he was locking and tugging on the doors, he wasn’t making sure he remembered. He was making sure no one broke in again till he could come up with a better safeguard.

  And figure out exactly who might be after him.

  As she kept mulling this over, all that was fueling her was tinged again with anger. So much for keeping her feelings in check.

  With her fluted divider fully drawn, and armed with a notepad, she took stock but much more pointedly this time.

  Up till now, what did she know for certain? How far did it go? What could she do to catch up and still stay on schedule? Keep playing both ends against the middle? No. She had to intercept Harriet Curtis in London before she flew the coop again. That was the first thing.

  In the back of her mind, she recalled things Harriet had said about her need for time and space and being under the gun, but hoped, in due course, to come to terms with all that.

  It occurred to her that what passed for normal during her private tours was everything being more or less in place. Never before were couples, close friends, or what-have-you at odds with each other. Instead, everyone was generally relaxed and more than happy to be together on some big adventure. Never before did she have to round them up or wonder what they were up to. Perhaps she should never have assumed that three eccentric siblings she’d known in passing would ever form a doable trio, let alone stay put. Though her business prospects were hanging by a thread, she should have been duly forewarned and forearmed.

  She decided that after about six good hours of sleep at the discount hotel near Victoria Station, she’d get an early wake-up call, walk the few blocks to Warwick Way and make a concerted effort to find out what else Harriet had been up to. Harriet had waved the e-mail confirmations of her hotel in Emily’s face and cut her losses in exchange for a pricey last-minute flight and private accommodations—all under the assumption she could do anything and take it all back. The least Emily could do for starters was put that notion to rest.

  Bright and early the next morning, Emily walked six blocks to Warwick Way and down another three to the Warwick Hotel, the only stopover she’d mentioned the other day that definitely got a rise out of Harriet. People were bustling around as she passed the tiny shops and the Sainsbury’s market; the Mini Coopers were parked like toys down alleyways, and the sky was pearl and a faded blue. There were no insects or aromas suggesting anything growing wild. There was not even a hint of heat in the air. No screens in the open windows or fans or air conditioners as a matter of course.

  At the corner, she passed by the Marquis of Westminster Café with its red-and-white striped awnings and lacquered billboards heralding “Homemade Beef Wellington and all Manner of Traditional English Food.” As usual, Emily soon found herself adjusting to the distinctively English ambiance and urbane rhythm.

  She made a beeline for the muted “Pimlico Room” sign, over to the chalky façade of the once-private Victorian dwelling, and hurried into the Warwick’s cramped foyer. An immediate left took her into a cramped room that served as both office and lounge consisting solely of a mahogany desk and chair, a chintzy sofa, and a magazine rack filled with sightseeing leaflets.

  In pursuing Harriet here, Emily had a few advantages. The boutique hotel had such limited space, ungainly Harriet had little or no place to maneuver, let alone hide. Emily had recommended the Warwick to all her touring clients and was owed a favor or two and a little cooperation. Lastly, the advantage of surprise. The only disadvantage at present was the baldheaded bloke giving Mavis, the concierge, a hard time over his bill. Which meant Emily had to stand by and keep her eye on the only access in or out.

  “You know, darlin’,” the man went on, leaning over the desk and thrusting his bloated face as close to Mavis’s as possible, “for these prices you should have thrown in a fancy woman from Belgravia. Along with a few up-market tarts from Notting Hill.”

  Mavis responded with her customary “Yeh?” and let him carry on for another minute or so. Finally, she raised her bleary eyes and said, “Since I don’t set the rates, this item you have in hand is your final bill, yeh?”

  After some more sputtering, the man plunked down a handful of fifty-pound notes, snatched up his receipt, and shoved it in his vest pocket. Dragging his bulging leather suitcase past Emily, he got in the last word. “In Belgravia you get value added and great bloody service for the quid you’re overcharged.”

  “I’m looking for Harriet Curtis,” said Emily, the second the irate bloke was out of earshot. “I’m Emily Ryder, remember? I do private tours.”

  Barely lifting her long, tired face, Mavis said, “Harriet Curtis scarpered at half-six without so much as a by-your-leave.”

  “That early? Why?”

  “Not a mind reader, love.”

  “Could you take a guess?”

  “A call from the States might have done it. I rang it through to her room.”

  Emily assumed it was a call from Silas announcing that he’d pawned his prized flintlocks and the three would rendezvous with Emily in Bath as planned.

  “How did she act when she left?” Emily pressed. “Comparatively, I mean.”

  Instead of answering, Mavis said, “She done a runner, yeh?”

  “In a way.”

  Mavis slipped an unlit cigarette in her mouth letting her jaw go slack. “Not that we’re beholden to you, mind.”

  “I realize that.”

  “But for future considerations, you might say. And for what you’ve sent our way before this lot.”

  “Yo
u mean Harriet. As it happens, I didn’t send her. She only heard me mention this place as a nice, handy alternative. Look, if you could just give me a general impression of how she was acting or some hint as to what she might be up to.”

  Mavis stopped pecking at her keyboard. “It’s a general impression you want? Right. A big lump of a woman, stroppy, all thumbs and knobby knees. As for what she’s about, she’ll do herself in or someone else, I shouldn’t wonder. Popping in and out and down Warwick Way and thereabouts.”

  “At sixes and sevens?”

  “If that’s your word for it. Much the worse when she left, I’d say. Chatting away.”

  “To whom?”

  “Herself.”

  “Oh? What did she say?”

  “Told you. Not a mind reader, love.”

  “But you must have caught some of the words.”

  Mavis’s eyes seemed to lock for a second as she looked up at the plaster ceiling. “She might’ve muttered something about ‘accessorize?’ . . . no, ‘accessory’ more like, whilst shaking her head a lot. ‘Must scurry,’ says she. A bit daft, if you take my meaning.”

  Emily held still, taking this all in.

  Then she said, “How about other calls? Ones she received or ones she may have made.”

  “Right,” Mavis said, “now there’s where you do for me.” The upshot was that Harriet had paid for her accommodations, but she’d snuck into an empty adjacent room and used the phone a dozen times.

  After studying the sheet Mavis handed her, Emily asked for a copy. She was familiar with two of the local exchanges and Miranda Shaw’s old number in Bovey Tracey. Knowing Miranda, there was no way she was going to ruin her beauty sleep and put up with Harriet Curtis at the ungodly hour listed. The only overseas number Emily was familiar with was the one to the Sharon hospital in the Connecticut hills, obviously checking up on Chris’s condition.

  Pocketing the printout and promising Mavis she’d look into it and get back to her, Emily asked if she could take a peek at Harriet’s room.

  “It’s being cleaned,” said Mavis, pecking away again. “That’s the custom as soon as it’s vacant. The custom everywhere decent.”

  “How about the empty one she’d been sneaking into?”

  Mavis stopped her pecking, gave Emily a peevish glance and said. “Some other line of business you fancy going into?”

  “Just humor me. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Low marks for a tour guide who loses track of her people, yeh?”

  “Please? Just give me a break, okay?”

  Giving in with a shrug, Mavis pointed out the room at the top of the landing to Emily’s right. “And you’ll make good on the charges, mind.”

  “Absolutely.”

  One flight up the narrow stairway, a quick turn to the right, and Emily was through the doorway. The walls were covered with a faded teal-blue rendering of a jolly fox hunt, the two open windows looking out on the hurrying passersby and the intermittent street traffic below.

  At first glance there was nothing of note, only the standard chintzy couch, a wing chair on spindly legs, and a bed with knurled posts. Nothing in the room seemed out of place—except for a wastebasket, tipped on its side and shoved beneath the mahogany writing table that held the phone. Torn bits of hotel stationary were scattered inside the basket. It was understandable that someone like Harriet might scribble a few notes or doodle, especially while calling the hospital and being put on hold. It was also conceivable that in her haste, afraid of being caught sneaking into an empty room, Harriet had tossed the scraps of paper away. But why would she go to all the trouble of ripping them up, tip over the wastebasket, and push it that far under? Retrieving the scraps, Emily sat at the desk rearranging and smoothing the pieces until they fit together.

  Doodles of neat floral arrangements took up all the space on the first sheet—obviously Harriet in her flower-judging mode. The doodle on the second sheet was much different. Flowers were strewn every which way at the foot of a looming, warped gravestone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ordinarily, Emily would have enjoyed the train ride from Paddington station. Rolling west, she was seated comfortably next to a wide picture window, a smiling young mother holding her sleeping baby across the way, a gaggle of passengers behind her chatting amiably, the deep-green landscape dipping and rising. Moreover, each expanse was marked by neat, coloring-book hedgerows—all of it ideal for a tour guide headed west for the center of Bath on a pleasant, early Wednesday afternoon. Just a short cab ride to pick up her rented Vauxhall station wagon and she would be lazily wending her way to Darlington House to meet up with her clients.

  Ordinarily, Emily would have also been looking forward to going to the market to pick out her trip snacks of fruit, nuts, and assorted biscuits followed by a leisurely exploration of the ancient city. They could have had a pleasant early supper at a favorite spot near the Roman Baths, going over plans for the upcoming mini-Twinning and fete; talking to Harriet about the flower judging, Silas about his lecture on the Lydfield and Lydfield-in-the-Moor heritage, and humoring Pru about her storytelling stint and foraging for authentic tales of the mist-sodden moorland. Ordinarily, Emily could have settled back into her role as a seasoned rambler and guide.

  But as things stood, there was nothing remotely ordinary in the offing. And Emily could not shake off Harriet’s gravestone doodle. Once again, Emily reviewed the calls Harriet had made.

  Though the other overseas numbers didn’t register, there was a strong possibility the call to the Sharon hospital was made to see if Chris still had a pulse, or to make certain Chris was no longer in the way. The calls to Heathrow and Paddington Station must have given Harriet an inkling of Silas and Pru’s arrival and when they could be expected to converge in Bath. This coincided with Harriet’s demand that Emily arrive exactly on time so they could move on. Which meant that Harriet had anticipated the possibility that Silas would barter his way over, and she’d have to be at the ready to skip out again, keeping one step ahead of the game. Which was exactly why she’d muttered “must scurry” to herself.

  But why, exactly, was she avoiding her siblings? Did it have something to do with finagling something with the GDC and then cutting them out of the transaction? Or did being “under the gun” mean getting as far away from Doc as possible? And what did she hope to accomplish during her retreat?

  Accommodations had been booked for the three of them that night in Bath. Emily had originally been contracted to explore Bath with the trio before carting them to the four-day stopover at the fete followed by visits to points in Cornwall as planned. All this was in writing whether Harriet liked it or not. All of this had been confirmed.

  But under the circumstances, reiterating the contracted arrangements wasn’t going to change a thing. She could only keep them in mind.

  Emily kept to her basic plan. As soon as anything cropped up concerning Chris’s undoing, Emily would notify the proper constabulary and let them take it from there, exposing Harriet as a person of interest in a possible criminal investigation. An “accessory,” in Harriet’s own words. In the meantime, Emily would handle her duties and avoid getting into trouble with the British Tourist Authority for noncompliance. For the moment, all she could do was get the rental car, zip over to Darlington House before Silas and Pru spilled onto the drive and, once again, try to confront Harriet.

  She spent the rest of the train ride gazing out the window at the hedgerows and the endless rolling green, trying once more to give her rampant thoughts a deserved rest.

  Approaching the Bath station fifteen minutes behind schedule, Emily carted her luggage out of the station and made her way to the taxi stand. She missed out on the first taxi in line but managed to flag down a curly-headed driver with a fixed grin who slammed on his brakes, hopped out, said his name was Alistair, and announced with the brassy voice of a music-hall entertainer that he was at her service. As they sped off, he informed her he’d driven a black cab all over London f
or the past fifteen years. He failed to mention that although he knew every inch of London’s West End, East End, and Southwark, he was only learning his way around Bath. As a result, he took off the wrong way and headed smack toward the center, Old King Street, the bottleneck at Grand Parade and the Putney Bridge, all the while grinning away. It was only by promising to listen to his silly tales about American tourists that he slowed down and permitted Emily to redirect him up Brock and past the Royal Crescent to the Kemwell Holiday Auto Rental Office.

  “As I was saying,” Alistair went on as if nothing was amiss, “first off, most of you lot—present company excluded—want to know what the weather’s going to be. Then it’s questions about this ruddy statue, that lovely monument, this park, and on you go. Now I don’t know all them answers, now do I? So for a starter, I say, it’s going to be right fair with cloudy intervals, periods of occasional brightening, and a chance for a spot of rain.”

  Emily reminded him he wasn’t in London and the roundabout was coming up in a few blocks.

  “Fair dues,” said Alistair, continuing to glance at the rearview mirror to see how Emily was taking his comedy act. “As for the statues, I say, there you have Lord Nelson peeking out to make sure his ships are neat and tidy-like. And those there are in honor of young Elizabeth whilst frolicking about as a maiden. Regents Park, you ask? Well, it’s because it’s where all them regents went larking about.”

  “You passed it.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “The auto rental office. It’s next to the cobblestone mall. You’ll have to turn around again and hang a left.”

  When Alistair hit the brakes, followed her directions, and became withdrawn, Emily told him his silly Yanks routine was pretty clever. She just wasn’t in the mood. In truth, not only was she not in the mood, she was going over her tactics in preparation for Harriet. Being behind schedule, the imminent arrival of the other two, and Alistair’s messing about wasn’t helping in the least.