by Shelly Frome
She returned to the formal garden and found Constance gone and Trevor strolling about. Getting Trevor to humor Pru while Emily slipped out for a little while was relatively easy. He’d taken a liking to Pru and would gladly take her on a few strolls to keep her occupied. As for Silas, Trevor suggested a walk on his own to the folly after Trevor apprised him of the rise and fall of the actual castle.
Next, Emily pulled Harriet aside. “Harriet, I hope you realize that now you’ve got Trevor and his wife on edge. She found your note all crumpled up in the rose garden. I don’t know if you tossed it there or maybe Pru . . . In any case, you are cutting it really close.”
Predictably, Harriet didn’t answer. She just abruptly turned away. Nonetheless, to occupy Harriet’s time, after talking it over with the staff, Emily suggested a cream tea to make up for bypassing Bovey Tracey, followed by a cook’s tour of the hidden garden beyond the stone wall in the rear of the property.
Settled without a response from Harriet, Emily took Pru aside as well.
“Pru, I’ve more or less got Harriet squared away. I’m going out for a little bit to check out the lay of the land.”
“Good,” said Pru. “I’ve had quite enough of her, and I certainly wouldn’t mind some more attention from Trevor. With his tight-knit blond hair, graying temples, sharp little nose, and upright carriage, he reminds me of a queen’s consort.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll be right back.”
Granted some breathing room away from the worrisome trio, Emily drove off through the long stretch of hedgerows leading out of the estate. Ironically, and for no reason, her automatic e-mail response came to mind.
Hi, I’m off on another hidden UK adventure and will get back to you just as soon as I return. I can’t tell you how much fun and excitement each day brings.
Chapter Nineteen
The smudged-gray pattern of the sky held steady. Emily took the meandering back roads with ease until she reached the triangular stonework around the traditional Green. Due to the number of cars, she had to circle back and park well short of the High Street.
Hurrying along, she soon found herself surrounded by villagers dressed in outlandish garb and greeted revelers who remembered her from previous jaunts. All were headed for the village hall behind All Angels, the ancient granite church with a spire that served as a landmark for miles around. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits, eager to take part in the final dress rehearsal for the annual parody, always a highlight of the fete. In fact, everyone she met remarked how it was going to be more of a lark than ever as men took on female roles in a spoof called Chippy Chippy Bang Bang.
One young lady even invited Emily to join in. “No problem, love. Even if you’re hopeless, everything comes up trumps.”
Giving her and her companions a “Thanks anyway,” Emily promised to catch the show tomorrow night and continued on her way.
She strode past the familiar slate and granite of the shop and post office, tea garden, and bistro to her right, and Moorpark garage and petrol station opposite.
At the point where the High Street became a bit steeper, more costumed players ran by, cutting across the path by the ancient gravestones and exiting behind the great stretch of the twelfth-century church. Beyond the church, she could make out the outline of marquees lining the greensward, all propped-up like huge party tents for tomorrow’s festivities. The site would easily accommodate the mini-Twinning and, at the same time, swallow it up.
She kept walking toward her rendezvous with Maud the innkeeper. But as soon as she reached the ruins of the old castle, she hesitated.
It wasn’t the sight of the stone mound and curtain wall around the remains of the castle keep. Nor was it the image of the open stone staircase that tumbled down to the basement of the dungeon four stories below. Not the steep slope of the earthworks on the other side either. She’d often taken her charges to this very spot and even described some of the bloody battles that took place during Norman times. What caught her attention was the figure leaning against the ancient wall, probably in his early twenties. There, in the deepening shadows, wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, he took slow drags on a cigarette. Just as slowly, he pulled his hood back and revealed the shock of his spiked red hair. Giving Emily a weird salute, he took another deep drag, turned away, and flipped the still-lit butt down the stone staircase. Pivoting back around, he gave another salute and pointed a forefinger directly at her.
Shrugging it off, Emily kept walking until the ground leveled off at the entrance to the Elizabethan Castle Pub. Inside, she spotted Maud behind the lamp-lit oak bar. With her beaming face, white hair tied in a bun, and sleeves rolled up her ample arms, she went about her business pulling pints under the bowed ceiling while cheerfully acknowledging Emily’s presence.
“Ah, now there she is,” said Maud above the noise of customers arguing over Labour’s plight, caught between economics and Tory aspirations.
Emily cut between the debaters, raised her voice, and asked Maud about the message or whatever it was that she had received.
“Sorry, dear,” Maud hollered back. “Can’t hear above the chatter, now can I?”
Springing from behind the bar, Maud steered Emily through the crowd and around to the snug. The alcove under the hand-hewn beams offered some relief from the banter. An assortment of hanging ox yokes, eel traps, and framed stuffed pike covered the walls.
“Fancy a pot of tea?” Maud asked. “And a ploughman’s plate with stilton and grapes, if memory serves? Glad you’re here for the fete. Lovely, lovely.” Maud wiped down the scarred, old table with a damp cloth. “And a bit of a Twinning, you say.”
“Can you tell me about the message?” Emily asked, trying to get past Maud’s nattering. “And I was also wondering about where I could find Constable Hobbs.”
“Our roving constable is anywheres at present, but will be by tomorrow for certain. Usual time, I shouldn’t wonder, once it gets under way.”
“Not till then?”
Maud paused mid-motion. “Why? Is there something dodgy in the offing? Perk things up? That’s the spirit.”
“Speaking of dodgy, Maud, what about the hooded slacker hanging around by the ruins?”
“Caught your eye, eh?” said Maud. “Bit of a tearaway, our Cyril is. Waiting for that party who was asking for you, I’ll wager.”
“Come on, Maud, talk to me. Who called? And how does this Cyril character figure in?”
Distracted by the voices from the bar reaching a higher decibel, Maud said, “There they go again. But you know the way of things during the fete, and me not wanting to shout out anyone’s private business.”
Emily’s tea was unceremoniously plunked down in front of her as another group entered the bar and started clamoring for service. Maud dashed off before Emily could say another word.
When she returned a few minutes later, Emily pressed on. “So you were saying?”
“Right. The caller with Cyril in tow. The former sounding a bit worse for wear. Quite knackered, more like.”
Again, Maud was called away to the bar. But no further description was needed as Doc’s stocky form barged in through the throng and headed straight for the snug.
Chapter Twenty
“Hey, it’s not like we got some moral dilemma here,” said Doc, prodding his mincemeat pie with a fork. “I’m talking strictly business.”
Emily scooted to the edge of the settle opposite him as she confronted Doc’s blunt features and closely cropped gray hair. He was wearing a rumpled navy-blue parka over a thick polo shirt and was bearing in on her with no attempt whatsoever at being amenable. It wasn’t enough that Emily was up against a cornered Harriet Curtis, who was clearly up to no good, but now, she had to factor in Doc and this newly acquired sidekick Cyril as well.
Taking another swig from his tankard of ale, Doc carried on. “I mean, here you are on your own. So you must’ve ditched the Curtises who, I know for a fact, have all hitched up. If you can do that, you can just
as easy take me to Harriet. Then you can drop me at Bovey Tracey so I can take care of this other matter.”
Emily’s train of thought ran from Harriet to Miranda Shaw by way of Martha Forbes and possibly even Brian Forbes and back again as she continued to glare at him.
“And how about Martha?” Emily said. “And Miranda? How far does your ‘taking care of business’ go?”
“Never mind.”
“Right.”
“Hey, are you listening?” said Doc. “Don’t tell me you still got it in for me. You need to skip the personal crap and start to wise up.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I mean it. So quit jerking me around about what I may have said or done or whatever else is rattling around in that brain of yours and stick to what I’m asking here.”
Maud thrusted her broad face between them and asked how the “pair of Yanks” were faring. Emily shook her head, assuming Maud would pick up on the fact that Emily had been looking for Constable Hobbs and was wary of Doc and his dubious companion.
But Maud didn’t pick up on anything. When she headed back to the bar, Doc gave up on the mince pie and dropped his fork on the plate.
“Okay. What’s it gonna take?” Casting up his bleary eyes at the bowed ceiling, he added, “What with everything else, I gotta tell you, I really don’t need this.”
“Ditto,” Emily said, doing her best to hold her own.
Shoving aside the tankard, Doc said, “Right, I get it, I got it. We each got a list, I’m on yours. Hey, give me a break. Things happen. Whichever way it shakes out, you use it.”
“Like your new friend, Cyril.”
“Absolutely like Cyril. I get to Bickington—don’t ask me how—to find a place to crash. The landlady’s flunky is hanging around. He carries my bag, he’s hungry, he’s available. He’s from here, knows every inch, every angle, every corner.”
“So you’re all set.”
“Get off it, will ya? The freakin’ beer is warm, I’m starving, digging into some mystery-meat pie. On top of that, I got only a twenty-four-hour window. Which leaves me zip to play hopscotch here. So let’s cut the tap dance, what do you say? Give me the skinny on where Harriet is hiding out. Don’t drive me, I’ll stick with Cyril’s little crate. Whatever.”
Rising from the table, Emily said, “Nothing has changed. So just cut me out of it.”
“Oh, terrific,” said Doc, blocking her way. “Fine, don’t chip in, don’t tell me where you got her stashed. She’s got to show for the flower judging. I got the timetable on exactly when and where and that includes all three of the Curtis bunch.”
“What do mean, ‘all three’?”
“You’re some piece of work, you know that? I tried making nice, I tried being reasonable. Forget about it. In this life you got your work cut out, you play it as it lays, and you don’t take it personal!”
Doc shambled off, announcing to no one in particular that English food was lousy, which included fisherman’s pie, sausage and mash, and bubble and squeak, “whatever in hell that was.” After slapping some pound notes on the bar, he barged into the night as heedlessly as he’d barged in.
Emily lingered for a moment, taking in the notion of Doc’s twenty-four-hour window. Subtracting a trip back to Bickington, food, sleep, and a hasty return, that would give him enough time to do what, exactly? Whatever it was, he would certainly start no earlier than the next morning at the opening of the fete.
Moving to the far corner of the bar, Emily ordered an Irish coffee and got hold of Maud the second she had a free moment.
“So what’s the upshot?” Emily asked.
Brushing a hank of hair from her ample brow, Maud said, “Is it what our Cyril is capable of that you’re wanting to know? Or is it, will our DC Hobbs leave off mucking about, which resulted in his present position? Which do you fancy?”
“I heard something about Hobbs’s demotion,” said Emily. “From detective sergeant to constable. Got it from Trevor.”
“Too chummy by half, I’d say. Whilst not forgetting the last straw, up to the gills with a few pints, he was. Watching a rugby match on me own flat-panel telly when the sod was supposed to have been on surveillance in Brimley.”
“But still, assuming he’s learned his lesson, do you think he could handle a lady client who’s up to something?”
Maud’s shrug and roll of the eyes was not exactly reassuring.
“All right, how about this,” said Emily. “When, at the earliest, would be a good time to run some police matters by our roving constable?”
“Well, seeing that it’s yourself and not being at all like yourself, I will ring you as soon as I have word Hobbs is on duty and not larking about.”
“That’d be great. But can I ask how you got hold of the number of the extension below stairs at Penmead? Given the fact that Constance wants little to do with the outside world?”
“And may I ask what dodgy business you’ve gotten yourself into?”
When Emily didn’t bite, Maud smiled. “Ah, never you mind. So, my girl, we’ll both keep our little secrets, now won’t we?”
With nothing else for it, Emily nodded and let it go at that.
Outside in the damp evening air, Emily found no sign of Cyril and Doc. Except for the sounds of laughter coming from the village hall, the walk down the High Street past the castle ruins and the granite-walled Green was uneventful. So was the drive back under the darkened sky. Pulling in to Penmead, she found the old manor house to be quite still, a sign that perhaps everyone had turned in early. She shut off the engine, got out, closed the car door carefully so it barely made a clunk, and eased past the foliage by the formal garden. But after a few steps, Trevor appeared abruptly.
Steered by Trevor over to the trellised shadows, Emily could tell by the way he pressed his fingers to his lips that he was not too pleased.
“Did something happen?” asked Emily.
“Actually, yes and no. Amusing by some standards perhaps. Not to suggest that it wasn’t a splendid idea for you to nip down to the village. However, you left me in charge, as it were.”
Eventually, Emily managed to pry out of him that, first of all, he had no idea where this storytelling witch Pru had been carrying on about might actually reside. But he had drawn her a map, assuring her a horse and cart driver could take her past the crest of the High Street close to the edge of the moor where she might follow a well-worn path. He had suggested that perhaps she could investigate this dubious happenstance after her stint at the fete tomorrow morning.
“And need one point out,” Trevor added, “it would be entirely your responsibility. As for brother Silas, he was quite vague, as seems his custom, but no bother. Be all that as it may, dame Harriet had commenced once again, threatening, according to what the housekeeper overheard, to take matters into her own hands by noon. This on the heels of my graciously putting up tomorrow’s schedule below stairs, which was quite awkward enough, as it were. Constance’s idea, actually, though it was posted all round the village. We thought it only fair that you and your charges should know the schedule beforehand. And with you gone, do you see?”
“Of course,” Emily said, waiting for the upshot.
“But then to be privy to another of Harriet’s tiresome threats. This time directly to her siblings.”
“I’m so sorry, Trevor.”
“I’m sure. But not to put too fine a point on it, this is not the Emily Ryder I’ve come to rely upon. Fit, unflappable, keeping everything quite under control. Perhaps, I dare say, a bit of the opposite.”
“I know, I know. I’m working on it. I’ve even, just now, arranged for some backup. Thanks for your tip about Hobbs, by the way.”
“Then you will see to it this nonsense does indeed end once and for all. And certainly by the time I take my customary stroll past the ruins, greeting all and sundry. And it’s on into the snug where Maud will pour me a dram or two of Cragganmore to toast the festivities. The pungent, smoky maltiness, as it were, a topper to
this time-honored ritual. You did intimate whatever our Harriet had in mind hinged on the flower judging, did you not? And that would be an end to it?”
“From all indications. She wouldn’t be able to keep it going, now that she’s put everyone on notice and announced a deadline.”
“I see. Jolly good.”
Obviously Trevor didn’t see but had extended himself and didn’t wish to pursue the matter any further. To Emily, the message was clear. Either she saw to it that the whole Harriet business was resolved by the conclusion of the flower show or Emily and her charges were no longer welcome at Penmead. Without another word, he proceeded back through the glassed-in conservatory at the front of the estate.
Emily continued to walk down and around to the rear. But, as she might have known, the day’s activities weren’t over yet.
A door squeaked by the old servants’ entrance. Harriet appeared, paper bag in hand, heading toward the marble bench that sat above the path to the hidden garden. Just as she was about to plunk herself down and reach for one of her packets of shortbread, Tinker came flying out of the darkness, snatched up the bag and spun around, daring her to come after him. Harriet reached down, grabbed a stone and flung it. Tinker dodged the stone, wheeled around again, slinked in close, and waited for her next move. Lunging wildly, Harriet tripped over her own feet, fell onto one knee, and set Tinker barking.
Just as Emily came upon the scene, Pru and Silas opened the door by the old servants’ entrance, catching sight of Harriet kneeling and wincing.
Tinker raced toward Pru, who ducked back inside. Silas followed suit, looking unsure of himself as always. As Emily offered Harriet a hand, Tinker flew off into the night, clutching the dangling paper bag prize in his teeth.
Pushing Emily away, Harriet righted herself and, in a voice uncharacteristically flat and cool, said, “Rest assured I shall fulfill my obligations at the flower festival. And then, finally, I can take matters into my own hands, no matter what the cost.”