The Secluded Village Murders

by Shelly Frome

  Emily’s thoughts dovetailed to those British mysteries on the telly, confined to a small locale and a limited window of time. The opening shot always consisted of something untoward happening in the shadows to the first victim. Soon enough, the inspector had the handful of suspects nailed down. Given the present circumstances transposed to the BBC show, there would be some graphic link between Martha Forbes paying off Doc, a connect to Miranda, whose McMansion Martha was trying to unload, and then over to the local developers. Everything highly efficient as the inspector’s team ran down all the leads and the inspector was enabled to have a sudden brainstorm just before the closing credits.

  Emily caught herself and shook off this daydream before it started to get the best of her.

  Wiggling around, Harriet dipped into another tin of biscuits and chocolate shortbread she had at the ready, sipped some more of her bitter-lemon drink, rustled her map, and pulled it up close to her eyes. Pru, seated directly behind Harriet, shrugged off Harriet’s restlessness, sighed and gazed out the window in predictable wonder.

  In turn, Silas remained scrunched up in the seat behind Emily on the driver’s side, his lips moving as he scanned his clipboard. Off and on, he had tried to gain Emily’s help in coming up with the most compelling itemization of shipments of arms, contraband, and trading goods, apropos of the War of Independence to display in his information booth at the fete. What should be the first order of business? How much supporting detail? That sort of thing. Off and on, he’d muttered and protested that he’d had no experience holding the attention of a gathering of people, let alone Brits in the West Country at a fete. Emily thought it doubtful that Silas could hold anyone’s attention. But rather than hurt his feelings, she suggested that whatever order he came up with would be absolutely fine. Everyone residing in Lydfield-in-the Moor and visitors from miles around were always very accommodating.

  As Silas’s mutterings began to compete with the steady drone of the Vauxhall’s motor, Harriet broke her silence. She crinkled her map, shoved the biscuit tin and drink aside and said, “I suppose, Silas, you won’t tell me what you were doing in that musty antique shop?”

  Silas’s reply was a muffled “Ah, yes.”

  “Down that dark alley,” said Harriet, turning around and facing him. “Late yesterday afternoon.”

  “What alley?” Pru asked, cocking her head. “In Bath, you mean? Down the Parade Passage with those old-timey shops like in Shakespeare’s day? Is that what you’re going on about?”

  “No, you ninny. It was on Molson Street. Right after Emily picked me up at the botanical gardens and we had to go back to fetch him. And there he was, scooting out and clutching his leather satchel.”

  “Molson Street?” Silas said. “Or was it Milson Street?”

  “Answer me. What were you doing there?”

  “You stop it, Harriet,” said Pru. “I thought we’d come to a truce.”

  “We had come to no such thing. It was strictly an impasse.”

  Emily tried to ignore the renewed bickering. She was much too busy contending with the merging traffic and making sure she didn’t bypass the A38 and have to double back.

  Yet, at the same time, she had the oddest feeling she might have missed something. It was like that puzzling sense of unease she had felt when she was down in Silas’s vault.

  After more bickering, more unanswered questions, and more protests from Pru, Silas put his clipboard aside and said, “Can’t concentrate. Too much confusion. Time is drawing near, you know. Have to be prepared.” Silas retrieved his clipboard, lowered his curly head, peered over his bifocals and carried on, muttering once again.

  “That’s right,” Pru chimed in. “Stick to why we came, what we have to do.”

  With an exasperated moan, Harriet turned back around, unfolded her map and attempted to chart their progress, but not before reminding Emily they had a scheduled stopover for cream tea at Bovey Tracey.

  After voicing her displeasure over any stopovers, Pru returned to her favorite subject. “Where is it we’re staying exactly, Emily? How close to the moors? Close enough to check out the witch hut? And her stories about tricky Devon pixies? And the dreaded wisht hound in league with the Devil? Faithless wives and fickle maidens forced down the banks of the river? You said we could hike there, remember?”

  Humoring Pru for a second, Emily noted that the manor house was close to the village in Dartmoor, which was famous for its 365 square miles of high moorland, valleys, and a scattering of quaint little villages. In the area, there were also Stone Age granite tors and circles, bogs, farms, boulder-strewn rivers, and streams. As for the witch’s hut, if it existed, Emily would have to ask around.

  Emily recited this cursory information while keeping her eyes on the road and watching for Harriet’s next move.

  Sure enough, as they drew close to Bovey Tracey, Harriet became agitated once again. Staring directly at Emily, Harriet said, “How much longer till we’re there? I need to know.”

  “Any minute, Harriet.”

  It was now obvious. Harriet had no need for a Devon cream tea and gooseberry folly. She was anxious to make another call. To Miranda Shaw, perhaps, the owner of the ill-fated Tudor McMansion, who lived close by, perhaps in some attempt to get their stories straight, or who knew what? How she got hold of Miranda’s number was anyone’s guess. At any rate, this was Harriet’s opportunity to bolt again.

  Sitting stiffly upright, Harriet said, “Exactly how many more minutes, how many miles?”

  That did it. Before Harriet knew what was happening, Emily swerved onto the 382, cut past the turn to Bovey Tracey, passed Lustleigh, and continued driving deeper and deeper into the outlying moorland. She finally slowed down, found an ideal spot by the side of the road and parked.

  Gaping like a tourist, Pru jumped out of the car, not seeming to mind the careening drive a bit. Silas was glad for the chance to stretch his lanky legs and actually thanked Emily for getting on with it. Harriet was livid.

  Unable to hold back any longer, Emily peered into the front passenger seat. “Look, Harriet,” she said. “I passed the stopover to make sure there was no way you could skip out again. Sooner or later you’re going to have to face whatever is eating at you and own up. But in any case, the villagers and neighbors are looking forward to this bankers’ holiday. If you start taking it out on them like you’ve been taking it out on Pru and Silas or keep scampering here and there, the Twinning portion of the fete could very well get cancelled. Because there is no way the organizers will put up with any unpleasantness. For your information, the Twinning portion is just an afterthought for old times’ sake. You go off on a tangent and just guess what’ll happen to your flower judging, not to mention Pru’s little storytelling stint, let alone Silas’s meanderings about Lydfield’s historic beginnings. In short, you’re going to have to come to terms about being under the gun or whatever.”

  Harriet had no retort, as surprised as ever at Emily’s newfound feistiness. She became withdrawn again and stayed in the car while everyone else took in the view.

  “Oh, Emily,” said Pru, “I’m getting story ideas already. It’s just like you said, so wondrous and mysterious all at once.”

  From Pru’s vantage point, there were nursery rhyme brown cows sprawled in the spongy grass in the foreground. Past the cows, the land fell away in greenish swatches until it came to rest by the granite turret of the ancient church, the remains of the old castle, and a corner of the village green. There the land began to roll up again until, at the very top, running east and west as far as the eye could see, the moor took over—purplish, stretching itself out under a slate-gray sky.

  Spotting the verge of the moor, Pru said, “That must be it. The beginnings of all those pixie and ghost stories, and getting lost and coming across a mad hound. It’s perfect.”

  Emily had no comment. She didn’t recall telling Pru how wondrous it was all going to be. Gazing out at the verge and moorland shadows, only that same sense of uneas
iness seemed apt.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A short time later, Emily pulled into the hidden track bracketed by hedgerows, and up to the circular drive fronting Penmead. They all got out; Emily went around and flipped open the trunk of the Vauxhall.

  As if hearing a signal, Tinker, the loopy Irish setter, came tearing around the corner. Pru screamed as Tinker cornered her by the garden gate. It had slipped Emily’s mind that Tinker was probably on the loose, seeking out any kind of mischief that, more often than not, included knocking over urns and gardening tools, ripping down hanging washing on the line, chasing scurrying critters and, if given the opportunity, snaring a small, childlike person. His feathered red forelegs rested on Pru’s chest while he slavered and wagged his tail in sheer joy.

  Silas muttered something unintelligible. Harriet turned away.

  Emily was about to go to Pru’s rescue when a series of claps and an amused “Do get down, Tinker” ended the sequence. The familiar, affected tone belonged to Trevor Eaves, the self-styled squire of the village and owner of the manor.

  Tinker released his prey and was off on another spree. Pru still hadn’t moved an inch, despite Trevor reassuring her that Tinker was incorrigible but harmless. Even after Trevor explained where their accommodations were located “below stairs,” Pru remained frozen against the gate. When she spoke, all she could say was, “It was scary devilish. Like a wisht hound.”

  Offering Pru his arm, Trevor said, “No, no, not Tinker. It’s all a lark, I promise you.”

  Perhaps it was Trevor’s nonchalant manner, tweed suit, and trim mustache that did the trick. Perhaps he reminded Pru of some English storybook character. Whatever the reason, Pru nodded and dusted herself off.

  All Emily could offer was “She’s afraid of dogs. Guess I should have warned her.”

  “Nonsense,” said Trevor. “Good to see you, Emily. You’re looking fit as ever.”

  Emily countered with the usual pleasantries, reintroduced Harriet—whom Trevor had previously met during a trip to the Connecticut hills—and introduced Pru and Silas. Pru curtsied and thanked Trevor for coming to her rescue. Silas nodded and made some vague historical reference to the sister village across the pond. Harriet barely nodded. Trevor seemed to take note of Harriet’s reserve but disregarded it.

  The little incident over, Trevor escorted Pru past the formal gardens around the side of the country home. Emily helped with the luggage, took Pru off Trevor’s hands, and got her settled. After making sure Silas and Harriet were accommodated at opposite ends of the long narrow hallway in the old servants’ quarters, she went to speak with Trevor outside.

  While waiting for him, Emily reacquainted herself with the layout and the contrast of textures that made up the eighteenth-century structure; hard and soft weathered stones of different hues—honey, golden, creamy-white, greenish-blue and slate—very unlike Miranda’s makeshift facsimile back home.

  Thoughts of Miranda’s McMansion set Emily’s mind off and running again as she strolled around to the rear of the property. She sat on a stone bench, taking in the soft air, heavy with the scent of hawthorn, larch, and beauty-berry shrubs, grateful once again for a diversion to break the tension.

  After a time, Tinker returned, racing at full clip. Emily watched him bound through the concealed garden, down the slope, and across the stony outcrop. Then, changing direction, he ran up the rise, away from the manor house toward the folly, circled it twice and left the property altogether. Tinker’s pointless chase seemed like a signal, especially the spin around the folly, that miniature replica of the village castle during Norman times.

  “There it is,” her old soccer coach used to say. “Confusing motion with action.”

  She allowed her thoughts to drift aimlessly into the hues of gray that smudged the late-afternoon sky. She did so even though she still had no inkling what in the world Harriet actually had in mind.

  But hard as she tried, she couldn’t shake the off-again, on-again sense of unease. Then, unbidden, the last words Chris spoke to her over the phone crossed her mind. His by-me. If this is ever going to get fixed, it’s by my hand.

  Emily nodded. “By my hand.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  After sitting by herself for a short time, Emily caught sight of Trevor ambling toward her.

  “Odd lot you’ve brought us this time,” said Trevor, gesturing toward the old servants’ entrance. “That bit of a phone warning you gave me was spot on.”

  “About Harriet, you mean. I just meant it as what we call a heads-up.”

  “Precisely. Not at all the same person we’d met in passing at your Connecticut White Flower Farm. She appears to have gotten rather sullen. And, I daresay, a bit overbearing. She spoke harshly to her siblings and made a few uncalled-for remarks, if you like.”

  Trevor gave one of his subtle looks of disapproval. “Must spare my invisible Constance, you know.”

  Emily guessed his wife Constance still hadn’t come to terms with the financial necessity of taking in lodgers. Though Trevor would often comment “Needs must,” she left it to Trevor and the housekeeper and cook to ensure her path never crossed with the paying guests. If ever they did, she moved past silently as Trevor’s “invisible Constance,” leaving it to Trevor and the housekeeper and cook to come up with some pretext.

  Getting to the point, Trevor said, “You see, only last week, a few below stairs confronted Constance with some trivial complaint or other. And now—given the festivities at hand and what with visitors from Newton Abbot, Dunsford, Okehampton, and all round—if what I’ve just encountered, and what Constance may also have been privy to, is any indication . . .”

  “I know, Trevor. But you see, the Curtises have had a misunderstanding. I realize what it would do to your balancing act if Harriet continues to carry on and upsets Constance. I certainly don’t want any of this to spill over into the fete. That’s why I called you from Bath and why I spelled it out to Harriet only a short while ago. But evidently it still hasn’t gotten through.”

  As if on cue, Constance emerged from the formal rose garden. Standing almost directly above them in her lacy summer frock, she beckoned to Emily. Emily complied, recalling that Constance was so shy that, when distraught, she was given to writing notes.

  The moment Emily reached her side, Constance said in a half whisper, “I don’t know what to make of this.” Handing Emily a crumpled piece of Harriet’s stationary, she said, “Perhaps, Emily, you could . . . decipher this. I found it among the roses.”

  The cryptic note read, Can’t go on like this. It’s all about to come undone. By tomorrow. Believe me.

  Emily couldn’t decide whether Harriet had had second thoughts about writing the note and threw it away or Pru had come across it and tossed it at the roses as some pixilated counter to Harriet’s threat. In any event, Emily had to come up with some way to defuse the situation.

  Joining the two of them and glancing at the note, Trevor said, “Ah, yes. As I was telling Emily, this sort of thing won’t do. However, my darling, Emily has given me reassurances.”

  “Yes,” said Emily, repeating the excuse she’d given at Darlington House. “Put it down to nerves. Harriet has never judged a flower show this big before, let alone crossed the ocean and dealt with jet lag. I’ll do my best to keep her contained.”

  At the same time, Emily didn’t really want Harriet contained. She wanted to give her enough slack to expose herself. Apparently, Harriet truly was at sixes and sevens at this point. Leaving her siblings in the lurch and opting for a great deal of “time and space” hadn’t panned out. And now it seemed that Doc was in hot pursuit. Harriet was getting cornered and would have to retaliate. At the moment though, the only option was to keep a lid on things and count on the possibility it really would all spill over tomorrow. Maybe, given Harriet’s ego and more pressure on Emily’s part, nothing really dicey would happen until after the flower show. In this way, keeping up the juggling act, Emily could fulfill the key eleme
nt of her tour contract, remain in Trevor and Constance’s good graces and, soon after, implicate Harriet with some “tangibles.”

  There was still no way, however, Emily could do this on her own. Deciding then and there to set something up, Emily said, “Mind if I use your phone? I assume Maud is still pulling pints at the pub?”

  “Indeed,” said Trevor, flashing his supercilious smile to defuse any further unpleasantness. “Maud is still the publican. Still our loquacious innkeeper.”

  “Excuse me,” said Constance, “but should things continue in this odd manner . . .”

  Winging it, Emily said, “Remember when I escorted your contingent to the Connecticut gardening tour, and you found Harriet quite orderly and proper? Which was why, in your capacity as honorary chairwoman, you invited Harriet here and broached the idea of a sort of mini-Twinning, reminiscent of the days when the sister villages made a full-fledged exchange?”

  “Indeed,” said Trevor. “We offered to provide the accommodations, as it were.”

  “Exactly,” said Emily, discounting the troubled look on Constance’s face. “Now about the phone?”

  “Feel free,” said Trevor, flashing that affected smile again.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Making her way past the rose gardens and entering the glassed-in conservatory where they kept the coveted upstairs landline, Emily thought about handing the ball over by hooking up with Constable Hobbs. He should already be installed at the Village Green, keeping an eye out for undesirables like pickpockets at the fete. If the timing was right, Harriet would get caught red-handed pursuing whatever subterfuge she had in mind.

  The call to Maud at the pub was nearly impossible due to the din in the background. All Emily could gather was that Maud was glad to hear from her but much too busy to chat on the phone. She did say someone was inquiring after her but would fill her in if Emily could “pop round.” This meant Emily would have to make arrangement to appease Pru, Silas, and Harriet in the interim.