by Shelly Frome
Not in the least interested in anything Emily had to say in response, Harriet went back inside.
Emily stood motionless until all was quiet again. She set off up the slope, well away from the manor house, headed toward the folly. In the past, a call at that elevation and at this time of night was good for at least a minute or two before the signal from her cellphone broke up.
She trudged along. As she approached the scraggly top of the rise, she hoped Will had absolutely nothing to report and would provide her with some much-needed small talk.
She paused close to the optimum spot, hit the primary number on the speed-dial, and waited. There was a strong enough signal but no answer. When she reached the crest, she tried again. This time she connected.
She was soon comforted not only by the easy Southern drawl, but the sound of folk music coming from an FM station in the background.
“Hi,” said Emily. “I just wanted to check in to let you know I’m keeping my part of the bargain. Keeping a lid on everything, I mean.”
“What time is it over there?”
“Oh, late. Don’t worry about the time difference.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s been a long day for me here, what with the trip from Bath to Devon. Tomorrow is the big day, so we need to start bright and early. This was my only chance to get back to you and find a high enough spot so the call could get through.”
There was a slight delay before Will asked, “You behaving yourself?” as he stifled a yawn. “Has that Doc guy shown up there?”
“He has no idea where we’re staying. Besides, a constable I know will be on duty the whole time.”
“Well, all right then. I mean, you never know.”
Some part of her wanted to tell him everything. She was tired of being independent and intrepid, a thoroughly modern gal since heaven knows when. At the same time, she was fully aware of what that might lead to.
Feeling a bit chilly standing there in the overcast darkness, Emily deflected again and asked what he was listening to.
“Some folk station that always puts me under. Right now, it’s an old Eagles song. You know, the one about not letting the wheels spinning in your brain drive you crazy.”
“Good tip,” Emily said, relieved this was going no further, stifling a yawn as well. “Only so much you can control.”
“So they say. Oh, and your mom called again. I told her a little white lie and said everything was going just fine. Leaving out the development stuff and all.”
Emily nodded to herself. Little white lie was a good way to put it.
Oliver let out a barely audible bark and Will excused himself to let Oliver out.
A damp breeze kicked in, mingling with a few rustling sounds. The signal began to break up when Will came back on the line. He bid her good luck with “the Twinning thing” before they said their muffled goodbyes.
Emily drifted back down the slope, still basking in the sweet, uneventful exchange. She stifled any notions about what Doc and Harriet had in store as her thoughts dwindled to a single wish—if only tomorrow morning would come and go.
Perhaps she was being as childish as Pru. But she wished it all the same.
Chapter Twenty-One
That volatile Friday began with a phone call from Maud. It wasn’t clear whether Harriet had gone to the extension phone below stairs to make her own call, or whether she happened to be standing nearby and had picked up the second the phone rang. Whatever the case, Harriet could be clearly heard saying, “I don’t understand. What constable? Where?”
Emily hurried out of the old parlor maid’s quarters and snatched the receiver out of Harriet’s hand, hoping that Harriet’s grating voice hadn’t disturbed Trevor and Constance in the master bedroom above.
Emily waited till Harriet had retreated a bit before saying, “It’s Emily. Yes, Maud, go on.”
“The message, love,” said Maud, “is simply that our Hobbs, bright as a sixpence at this hour, would be jolly pleased to talk with you any time before things get underway.”
“That’s perfect. Thanks.”
Emily hung up at once but had a hard time warding off Harriet’s interference as Harriet continued asking about this constable’s whereabouts and intentions. Soon enough, Pru came scurrying out of her room to see what all the fuss was about, and Silas emerged a moment later. Emily was then forced to hold a brief whispered conference well out of earshot in the oak-paneled hallway.
“As it happens,” Emily said, “our stay here is hanging by a thread. Which means the Twinning portion and our whole itinerary is at stake if Trevor asks us to leave.”
Cutting in, Harriet said, “Don’t worry. It’s all coming to a head.”
Almost in tandem, Silas and Pru muttered, “Absolutely, has to stop . . . would ruin everything.”
“Well,” said Emily, directing the Curtises back to their respective rooms, “now that we all, finally, understand each other.”
By the time breakfast was served in the old servants’ morning room, things seemed to have taken a turn for the better. This was due in no small part to Silas and Pru’s enthusiasm about exploring the village as soon as possible, making up for lost time, and getting on with their first stint on the posted schedule. The upbeat mood also seemed to rub off on Harriet just a bit, causing her to drop her veiled threats for the time being.
The order of the day called for Harriet to oversee the arrival of the flower show entries in the church vestry and organize their placement according to the defined categories. At the same time, Pru was scheduled to do a preview of her storytelling hour behind the church in the village hall, and Silas was to hold forth under one of the marquees in the far corner of the greensward. The marquee was also designated for the sale of tea and cakes, and Emily assumed Silas had been stationed there because the organizers thought he would be less lonely. No one had the heart to tell him that there may not be a great deal of interest on an early morn for a display of “memorabilia of the historical exchange of goods and services between the twin villages during the Colonial revolt.” For the moment at least, Emily assumed her role as coordinator and guide.
Then, for some unknown reason, things got testy again. Silas eased out of his chair before he finished his egg-and-tomato omelet and returned immediately with his double-sided satchel. Harriet gave Silas an anxious look. The cook, a woman with gaunt no-nonsense features, offered to move the satchel to “keep things running ever so smooth between servings.”
Silas replied, “No, no. Have to keep at the ready. Have everything in hand. Yes, yes, making sure, at all times.”
Giving Silas a hateful glance, Harriet said, “Oh, really? Just you wait.”
Silas closed his eyes and started counting to ten. “One for the money, two for the show . . . three to get ready and . . .”
Before Silas reached the count of four, Harriet pushed herself away from the table and stalked off.
Pru had nothing to offer except, “Uh-oh. There she goes again.”
Emily had no idea what to make of this.
After the hasty breakfast, there was another hitch. Pru pulled Emily aside in the car park, glanced over her shoulder, and started in again. “You have to stick by me. Not like last night when you were gone, and that horrible beast was on the loose, and Harriet was back at it. You saw her just now. What if she actually does do something terrible?”
“I will keep my eye out.”
“You mean it?”
“Good God, Pru, what does it take?”
Mulling it over, Pru looked up at the scudding dark clouds and nodded. “Yes, of course. You’ll make sure. Act as lookout. And speaking of making sure, do you have your compass on you?”
To humor her, Emily snapped to attention, said, “Never fear,” and patted one of her windbreaker pockets.
“Good,” said Pru. Pointing down at her feet, she said, “I’ve got new walking shoes on plus an L.L. Bean sportsman watch with a luminous dial, and my topper is all set in the back seat.
I followed your instructions.”
“Look, Pru, let’s forget about the hike in the moor and see if we can get through the next few hours. Agreed?”
Pru thought this over and said, “Okay, understood. I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I? Harriet’s threat isn’t till noon. But what threat exactly? Can you tell me? Can you give me a clue?”
“Who knows? That’s the whole point, isn’t it? She’s holding all the cards.”
Emily slipped behind the wheel of the Vauxhall. Within seconds, Pru was right behind her, saying, “It’s all hope and fear. That’s what it is. And that’s what makes for a good story.”
Not bothering to answer this time, Emily switched on the ignition. Almost immediately, the other two took their customary positions and they were off.
Needless to say, the tension between Harriet and her siblings remained palpable. Emily met little traffic on the lane on the way to the approach to the village and, in short order, managed to find a parking space.
The silence between the Curtises continued during the saunter past the triangular-walled Green, the shops and petrol station closed for the holiday, and the clamber farther up the High Street to the gravestones and the ancient church. All the while, the three of them seemed to be girding themselves, flush with excitement and wary of what the morning might bring.
In the meantime, the scudding clouds had given way to a wash of slate gray, which was of some concern to Emily in light of Pru’s fixation on taking a hike.
Back to her immediate concern, however, Emily surveyed the scene in all directions, looking for the local constable. The potential machinations of Doc and Cyril made Hobbs’s presence all the more critical.
As more villagers began straggling in, Emily thought she caught a glimpse of Cyril’s spiky red hair. Peering down the High Street in the direction of the Green, she could swear it was him darting between the tea garden and the all-purpose shop and post office. Then again, she’d turned so quickly it might have been the cascades of hanging baskets, their trailing clusters of flaming petals contrasting against the lavender, periwinkle, and whites.
Sloughing it off for the moment, catching up with the Curtises, she was immediately greeted by the Parish Council members. Gracious as ever, the jolly greeters gave everyone a cordial welcome.
A moment later, Harriet cast her gaze farther up the street and froze. The object of her attention was the uniformed figure of Hobbs ambling past the castle ruins and headed in their direction.
The next thing Emily knew, Harriet, Pru, and Silas were whisked away to their respective posts. Harriet kept glancing back and was soon out of sight.
Emily waited until Hobbs’s ruddy face and beefy form was upon her.
“Well, well,” said Hobbs, breaking out in a toothy grin, “if it isn’t our Emily. I’ve had my eye out for you, lass, and here you are.”
“I’ll bet. With the other eye on your bangers and kippers.”
Emily was teasing him, both out of force of habit and as a way of stalling, having no idea how to broach the subject, let alone what Cyril might be up to and Doc’s whereabouts. She thought about beginning with Harriet’s warnings, which, of late, had drawn the attention of Trevor and Constance. However, knowing Hobbs from past tours, he would put it down as an annoyance and nothing more. Anything to keep things on an even keel. She certainly couldn’t go into the circumstances surrounding Chris Cooper’s death and Doc’s relentless pursuit. There was no way to put any of this succinctly and, even if she could, what would Hobbs make of it while greeting everyone in sight?
Not one to stand a lull, even for a moment, Hobbs said, “‘Bangers and kippers?’ It’s my eyes only on my breakfast, is it? Or have you summoned me to admire my fine black uniform? Only temporary, mind, in honor of the occasion.” Waving to a gaggle of middle-aged women carrying bins of bric-a-brac, Hobbs said, “So out with it, lovey. What is it you’re wanting now you’ve got me all to yourself?”
Stepping forward in a bogus offer to help the ladies, Hobbs gave Emily a conspiratorial wink, knowing full well the women would claim they were hale and hearty enough to have a go without any assistance. Which they summarily did.
“Well, go on, go on,” Hobbs said, back at Emily’s side while eyeing a group of villagers armed for the white elephant sale.
“How about crime prevention?” Emily said. “And incriminating behavior?”
“With a possible spot of bother to do with Cyril, the wild rover, and a thick-set bloke of your own acquaintance. Maud gave me fair notice, you see.”
Hobbs doffed his cap a few more times at a new set of passersby.
Worried that Hobbs’s attention span was getting shorter and shorter in ratio to the number of villagers spilling in, Emily said, “Okay. First off, I’m sure I spotted Cyril in the past few minutes.”
“Whilst I caught a glimpse of him scurrying round the earthworks. Quite typical, I’d say.”
“Of what? What is he capable of?”
Pausing to retrieve the lid of a silver teapot that rattled on the pavement, Hobbs doffed his service cap once more, shook his head, and eyed the checkered black-and-white band that, doubtless, reminded him of his demotion. In return, the elderly lady tilted her straw hat as well, thanked him for his gallantry, and bade him a very good morning.
The service cap apparently did the trick as Hobbs went into Cyril’s infractions. “Capable of what, you ask? Slapping his mum around. Making off with all manner of goods including horses and sheep for barter. Plus the odd scrapes with other lads, including breaking a few bones here and there. Will that do you?”
“And,” Emily chimed in, “for a price, driving a wily Yank around, probably in a stolen car. I mean, who knows?”
“Or any number of silly buggers.”
“So,” Emily said, cutting it short, “what we’ve got here is a prankster and a smalltime hood at the service of a New York, streetwise guy called Doc.”
“Ah. Is that the long and short of it?”
Pushing it despite herself, Emily said, “Tied in with the fallout from a possible recent felony back in my sister village in Connecticut, coming to a head on your watch in a few hours, involving one of my clients.”
“Coming to a head you say?”
“By noon, if I’m not mistaken.”
“And what is to happen, if I might inquire?”
Making her case as best she could, Emily noted the convergence of Doc, Cyril, and Harriet. She pointed out that Harriet was the one who had just gawked at Hobbs and froze as he made his way down, had recently made a number of threats, and was involved and in flight from a suspicious death.
“Something to do with being under the gun and an accessory,” Emily said, pushing it, “and taking matters into her own hands. All of which is about to have serious consequences.”
Taking in Hobbs’s broad smile, Emily admitted, “Okay, I haven’t a clue what those consequences might be. If I’m all wet, if I’ve been overloading the circuit the past few days, if by noon nothing happens, I’ll go back to the drawing board. But if something does develop, I’ll pass it on and am counting on you to intervene.”
“And, by God’s good graces, I shall tally all the incriminating details and soon be shed of this ever so temporary uniform and be back in harness.” Still smiling, Hobbs turned his attention to the thickening tumble of slate-gray cloud cover.
“Tell me, lass, you haven’t begun playing at Miss Marple and the like?”
“I am not playing. I’ve taken this deadly seriously and carefully monitored all the goings-on.”
Offering a mock salute to another group of women and a few elderly men in cardigans and corduroys, Hobbs looked at Emily directly and said, “So, this is either a load of rubbish or, if we stretch it far and wide, a rather dodgy game. What Cyril and some sod from America might do, crossed with some lump of a woman making idle threats, makes my vote for a load of rubbish.”
With more people streaming in from the Green and carrying on, all Emily co
uld say was, “Fine. Just humor me, that’s all I ask.”
For his final answer, Hobbs widened his grin and held his hands up to the ever-darkening sky as if asking for divine intervention. “With heaven as my witness, I shall keep a watchful eye for anything untoward.”
Emily had done all she could. If nothing else, the situation was contained for now. The action was set to take place, or not, in a little more than three hours.
With a little luck, the preliminary activities of the mini-Twinning would consist of a trial run, then segue to a full-fledged, rural Devon fete. Soon, Tom, the slow-and-deliberate farmer’s son, would have his horse and cart ready at the Green. Anyone who wanted a ride and a closer look at the wild Dartmoor ponies could hop on board.
The main events would start at noon. There would be games like “Whacking” a furry beanbag as it dropped down a long tube and reached the red spot, and “Timbola,” where players reached into a wooden box in the hope of plucking a winning prize number. Under a nearby marquee, dressed like some B-movie gypsy, giggling Nell would do her Tarot readings and funny fortune telling. There would be a dog show, raffles to raise money for the Parish, three-legged races, sack races, and what-have-you.
Later on, the first performance of Chippy Chippy Bang Bang would take place with the usual local jokes, silly costume changes, and a goofy orchestra blowing on homemade instruments. As was the custom, a queen would be portrayed by some hairy farmer, attended by five local lads in wings and stingers dressed as bumblebee dancers. If all went according to plan, no mayhem would take place and all of Emily’s anxieties and calculations would amount to zip.
Emily took a quick peek into the church hall and spotted a perky-looking Pru on stage, affecting a passable English accent, pretending she was a Devon pixie. A small group of village kids sat cross-legged on the floor directly below her in rapt attention.
Emily exited the hall, passed by the preparations under way under the marquees and circled around the far side of the church. There she spied Cyril again, threading his way in her direction past the ancient grave markers. Emily started to head toward him but was cut off by a few mothers carrying little children, joined by others toting various objects.