by Shelly Frome
“Get it in your head,” Emily said. “The fog can thicken again at any minute, you could come down with hypothermia, Silas is probably out of his mind with worry, people are waiting for you to perform and, last but not least, we’ve got the noontime ultimatum!”
Pru peeked at her watch and walked faster. “All right. But I did get rescued by a trusty companion. Now how about that?”
Emily and a now tractable Pru worked their way back. Pru managed to keep silent this time. Didn’t even ask about the dangling bright orange bags that Emily snatched up as they passed by the gnarled oak.
It was only when they were back on the well-worn track that Emily brought up the fact that, barring any other mishaps like tripping over a cattle grid, there was only a slim chance of Pru drying off and being in any shape to perform.
“Oh, Emily,” Pru said, “I’ll be fine. The kids and parents will just have to wait and let me go on. Besides, while I was lost, I figured a way to work the headless horseman into my twin village story.”
Emily wanted to say, “Is that all this meant to you?” but let it go.
Before long, with Pru laboring to appear none the worse for wear, they reached the stile. Emily helped Pru through the breach in the stone wall and led her traipsing down the path till they reached Tom’s horse and cart.
Applauding wildly, Tom pulled off his makeshift umbrella, grabbed the two orange bags from Emily and tossed them in the back of the cart. He helped both of them up, flicked the reins, and they were off. Pru was seated on the plank bench next to Tom, trying to convince them that she was perfectly fine. Emily sat on the edge, hoping against hope that there would be no surprise waiting for them at the fete.
Down the lane they went, the bray picking his way until the mist slacked off at the crest of the High Street and the clip-clop on the damp cobblestones signaled they were back. As they passed the Castle Pub, Emily couldn’t help thinking to herself, So far so good.
She was still leaning forward when she spotted Trevor, rushing up the street toward the pub. Not far behind, a large group had congregated at the foot of the slope that led to the castle ruins.
Realizing something was wrong, Emily told Tom to stop. She climbed down, asked Tom to take Pru to the marquees, and rushed over to Trevor whose face was flushed.
“What’s going on?” asked Emily, blocking his way.
“As you see, I am sauntering up to the pub. Now if you’ll kindly step aside.”
The buzz of agitated voices down the street practically drowned out Emily’s words. “Trevor, will you tell me what happened?”
“Can’t a fellow take his customary walk without seeing . . .?”
“Seeing what?”
“Damned unpleasant business,” Trevor mumbled under his breath. “Tearaways, hooligans, unpleasant business all round.” Brushing past her, Trevor continued up toward the pub.
Spotting Hobbs down below, mobile in hand, Emily headed toward him. But Hobbs was soon swallowed up by the gathering throng. Within seconds, a paramedic was swallowed up as well.
Following Hobbs’s lead, Emily reached the milling bystanders, some wary and holding back, some suggesting the incident, whatever it was, must have taken place beyond the ruins and over into the earthworks. Others simply jostled each other for a better view.
Threading her way through the bulk of the bystanders, Emily worked her way up the damp, grassy knoll, but the second she reached the top of the rise, she realized whatever had happened had nothing to do with the earthworks at all. She hurried back down the slope and managed to squeeze by the most ardent of the bunch who had guessed correctly. She ventured to the stone mound of the castle ruins and disregarded Hobbs’s shouts to stand back.
The next thing Emily knew, uniformed men and women began to trickle in, bound and determined to break up the growing melee and cordon off the area with streams of blue-and-white-striped tape. The more boisterous members of the squad began ordering the onlookers to leave the premises; four or five others sought out witnesses.
Emily inched forward until she came up against the curtain wall that ringed the remains of the castle keep. Slipping in just before the stretch of scene-of-the-crime tape reached her, she edged her way along the dripping rampart until she finally could see what had happened.
Casting her gaze down the open, wet staircase, tracing the tumbling spiral past the conferring doctor and paramedic to the bottom of the dungeon, she caught a glimpse of the unmistakable twisted form. In that same instant, just before Hobbs yanked her away, she saw that the body was as stark and still as the granite floor itself. There was no doubt whatsoever that Harriet Curtis was dead.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Listen to me now,” said Hobbs, his beefy face getting more crimson by the second, “there’s no blame here.”
“Except that Pru scurried away on this very street and Harriet before her. Except that Harriet had also been looking over her shoulder the whole while.”
“Right,” said Hobbs, walking briskly past Emily farther up the High Street. “Next you’ll be telling a one-man unit is required to be everywhere, guessing at sod all and not allowed so much as a hot cuppa in this bleedin’ weather.”
Emily let the drivel about a cup of tea pass, something he could have easily gotten at the refreshment marquee while he was supposed to be keeping watch.
Following on his heels, Emily asked, “How about at least getting a scene of crime officer to scour every inch of the grounds?”
“Well, if that’s your idea of proper procedure, what can I say except more’s the pity? Why can’t you give over? You’re soaked to the gills after keeping the little barmy one from slogging through the bogs. So high marks and the Victoria Cross and there’s an end to it.”
“Wonderful,” Emily said, finally catching up to him. “High marks and slough off the remotest chance someone did Harriet in.”
“Oh, so now it’s someone did for her, is it?” said Hobbs, walking even faster.
“Then explain to me why a clumsy woman would scramble across a soggy field to the top of soaking wet stone steps spiraling down with no guard rail? Why would she even go over there?”
Emily knew she was beside herself, grappling with circumstances beyond repair. But she kept it up until they both halted by the pub entrance under the still-gray canopy of the sky.
Harriet’s body had been whisked away, all activities had been put on hiatus, and Hobbs had long since given up trying to get a statement from Trevor. For his part, Trevor was probably still inside, working on yet another round of Scotch. But Emily just wouldn’t let it go.
Hovering over her, Hobbs said, “In Britain, you don’t jump to conclusions and you work within the rule of law. You make inquiries, keep your ruddy eyes on the facts, and wait for the inquest. You let the bloomin’ coroner form his opinion whether it’s accidental, suicide, or no. Have you finally received my meaning?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“And you have given no bloody reason the woman didn’t top herself or lose her footing. In Britain we need evidence to convince a ruddy Crown Prosecutor to bring a case. Here we’ve got sod all to fancy a case-number file, reports, photographs, and a flaming official inquiry.”
“What about Doc talking about ‘killing two birds with one stone’ with Cyril as his driver and the one probably chasing Pru?”
“Lovely! But why stop there? There’s Cyril’s uncle Basil who might have done after spending many a fortnight in the nick. And all who was at the fete who might have done and been known for a spot of bother or two. All unofficial, mind, but what the ruddy hell?”
In the silence that followed, Hobbs got control of himself and patted Emily on the shoulder. “It’s the moor what’s done it to you,” he said. “All that fog and mist and scurrying about. Add what happened to the clumsy woman in your charge and it’s no bloody wonder.”
“For God’s sake, that doesn’t change a thing, Hobbs.”
Maybe it was the quake in
her voice and her disheveled appearance. Maybe it was the fact that, deep down, Hobbs hated to see Emily like this. In fact, had never seen Emily like this. At any rate, Hobbs softened his tone.
“Quite right. But in the meantime, you go right in and have Maud fix you a cuppa with a splash of brandy. Pay no mind to squire Trevor who wants nothing ever to do with what happened and the likes of Cyril.”
“But that’s the problem. He was completely rattled, rushing up here, calling it ‘damn unpleasant business all around.’”
“Ah, well. Showing his true colors, Trevor was. Showing himself to be a bit of a prat.”
“Oh, great. Terrific.”
Neither Hobbs’s softer tone nor his words helped. Nothing did. The sight of this second dreadful fall had shaken her to the core.
“So you have a bracing, hot cuppa,” Hobbs went on. “Then, when you’re a bit less knackered, you go and fetch the barmy one and her stepbrother. Still waiting under the marquee, I’ll wager, still looking a fright. The lot of you will pop back to the manor, get yourselves into dry clothes, and gather your wits or, leastwise, calm yourselves down.”
Emily just shook her head.
“All right, lass. Ring me on my mobile midday tomorrow, if you like. Can’t say fairer than that.”
This time Emily nodded. Pushing Hobbs any further was futile. She pocketed the card with his number and reached for the pub door.
“That’s it, love. In you go.”
Lingering a moment longer, Emily said, “But if I come across something?”
“Then Hobbs is your man. Dashing about with a warrant card, fancying my reinstatement. But for now, will you kindly push off?”
Another hesitant nod from Emily as she slipped inside. She looked past the bar till she spied Trevor slumped on the settle in the far corner of the snug. Maud commented on how poorly Emily looked and gave her a consoling pat on the shoulder. Emily moved in on the Squire of Penmead.
At first, Trevor didn’t seem to realize Emily was even there. He drained his double Scotch and called for a refill.
Emily repeatedly called his name until he finally noticed her. Peering up, he tried to shoo her off with a wave of his hand.
“A leisurely stroll up the High Street ’twas what it was. Customary peals of laughter and thunderous drum beats but then, zounds! Ring the palace, call in the Grenadier Guards, Beefeaters, and Yeoman Warders, all and sundry.”
“Trevor, listen to me.”
“Can’t you see I am trying to put the world to rights?”
“You saw something, I know you did. You said ‘damn unpleasant business all around.’ You can at least come forth and—”
“But wait. Not a spot of bother at all. Simply a case of nerves, our Emily assured me. All to do with judging the sumptuous flower show.”
“It was something else. You know it was something else.”
Propping himself up, Trevor waved his arms and raised his voice, as if addressing a jury in some amateur theatrical. “Quite. Dame Harriet, distressing others, including my own, sweet Constance. And causing sheer madness as our tour guide—running here, running there, running, running everywhere. I put it to you, how could our hitherto sensible Emily keep track, shepherding all three of her charges? And gaze solely upon troubled, troublesome Harriet? Not to forget our tearaway scurrying hither and yon?”
“Will you just make a statement?”
“So tiresome, really,” said Trevor, waving her off again.
“Trevor,” said Emily, raising her voice as a blowsy waitress replaced his empty shot glass with a one spilling over the top. “Don’t you think you have a duty to—?”
“See to it, and I shall. I have rather liked you, Emily. Until this farrago, this utter sham.”
Emily was unable to stop herself from asking the same question she’d asked Tom before she took off after Pru. “Humor me. Before it happened? Did you see someone stocky lurking about? Or Cyril up to no good? Or both?”
Trevor closed his eyes and sipped his Scotch slowly, like a man trying to soothe a sore throat. Barely holding his own now, he murmured, “Must admit we’ll miss the odd pound sterling. Have to thank Miranda Shaw on that score. That is, if Miranda is still about. It was she, after all, who initially put you on to us. Yes, indeed.”
“What do you mean, ‘if she’s still about’?”
Slumping over, Trevor was unable to continue anything remotely resembling a conversation. There was no reply and none forthcoming.
The blowsy waitress returned and shook her head. Emily took the cue.
On the way out, Maud assured Emily that she was always at Emily’s beck and call. Emily thanked her, said she might have to take her up on it, declined a hot toddy to see her on her way, and left.
Working against anguish, fatigue, and sore legs, she walked back down the High Street, averting the sight of the castle ruins. She found Pru and Silas sitting on a bench on the verge of the church grounds. By this juncture, the news had doubtless descended on one and all. Silas had his satchel at his side and was peering over his bifocals. He looked almost as far gone as Pru, who stared into the charcoal distance, possibly about to link Harriet’s demise with some Devon folktale but seemingly too distraught to speak.
The threesome padded wordlessly past the Green toward the car, Pru’s occasional shivering and moaning the only discernable sound. In the aftermath, there was no sign of Hobbs, Tom’s horse and cart, or anyone else for that matter. Except for the pub, the village was now deserted.
Their silence held all the way back to Penmead through the passage of looming hedgerows onto the gravel drive. Emily let the two of them off without a word.
Moments later, she caught sight of Constance wearing an ankle-length raincoat and straw bonnet from days gone by and carrying a basket of freshly cut roses. Emily didn’t wave. Constance drifted off, impervious to the presence of the forlorn pair walking past her. Emily stayed seated behind the wheel and stayed immobile for a long time.
Eventually, she thought of getting in touch with Will, but she’d assured him there was no danger and promised she would avoid any sign of trouble. Besides, he’d pick up immediately on the state she was in and there was no point in worrying him, as there was nothing he could do.
Other thoughts crossed her mind, most of them too hazy to amount to anything. There was the first time her father walked out, and she kept asking herself how she might have seen it coming and what she could have changed about herself. She remembered Chris insisting that it had nothing to do with her. From there, her thoughts drifted to something her mother said after the last red-hat lady had gone. “Got to hand it to you, Emily. No matter what, you carry on.”
But none of this pertained. As Hobbs pointed out, the moor and the chase had taken its toll. No matter how she looked at it, the client who she’d suspected and unwittingly abandoned was dead. Although she couldn’t truly mourn for Harriet, she was still shaken and greatly saddened all the same. However she tried to frame it, she’d let Harriet down.
Emily got out of the car with the vague notion of taking Hobbs’s advice, resigning herself to her plight, and retiring to her room.
But the idea of letting Harriet down caused her to recall the moment she’d been dawdling, listening to those two carrying on about strategies and the ups and downs at a soccer match. Maybe it was a stretch, but Doc knew she’d been a soccer player and claimed to know all about the game. During that very same interval, caught up in the seesaw of the tale of the match, she’d lost track of both Pru and Harriet when she should have been keeping tabs.
Given the framework of soccer, she began to picture a calculated game plan. At the outset, utilizing Miranda’s pseudo-leaking roof in the rain, whoever her opponents were exploited a weakness of overzealousness on Emily’s part. Assumed the only obstacle was a young woman clearly out of her league who would have great difficulty keeping her eye on the ball. Especially if they used a combination ploy, applying constant pressure and distractions until striking w
hen the moment was ripe.
At any rate, the day was far from over, and despite everything, despite her unsettling feelings, she was still on her feet.
She slid back behind the wheel of the Vauxhall and drove off. When she reached the turning, she proceeded north toward Bovey Tracey to make sure Miranda Shaw was, as Trevor put it, “still about.”
All she knew was, she couldn’t be relegated to the sidelines. She had to get back on the field and make up somehow for all her lapses. Try to get a bead on the way this crazy game was played.
At the moment she could think of no better place to start than at the beginning.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Emily’s driving was fueled by an abiding sense she’d been sold short. Sloughed off as a rank amateur clearly over her head.
She had decided to track down Miranda Shaw and get an inkling as to why she had initiated this whole process by phoning Chris. In this way, she could somehow get onto the opening gambit. Then make the jump to the current maneuver. Out to “kill two birds with one stone” could mean that Miranda was next to cover up her part in the plot to eliminate Chris. Which may have prompted Martha Forbes, in cahoots with the GDC, to hire Doc to take the next flight overseas.
At this point, Emily quit pondering. She was speculating like crazy and getting way ahead of herself. Still and all, she didn’t rule out any possibility. Nor did she dismiss the fact that Harriet, according to Mavis’s list, made three aborted phone calls to Miranda early this past Wednesday from the Warwick Hotel. Up till now, Emily had been waiting for something to happen. It would be a step forward if she could be on the offensive, like any pro on top of her game.
She covered the remaining ten miles to the River Bovey in under a quarter of an hour, the dense charcoal of the sky giving way to glints of brightening as the sun did its best to poke through.
Approaching the main artery of the town, she came upon a hub of activity on this late Friday afternoon. Cars and tiny vans tooled around in all directions, stalking parking spaces unavailable to larger means of transport. Joining the fray, she managed to zip into a space vacated by another Vauxhall that had wedged between a brace of Mini Coopers. Her immediate destination was the tea shop on the tour itinerary Harriet had been aiming for, to use the phone or as a smokescreen for another getaway before Emily had zipped by the exit and stopped her. In Emily’s case, the tea shop offered a quick way to make herself presentable. She would also down a scone and some fruit along with a cup of Earl Grey. In somewhat better shape, she would then locate Miranda’s present whereabouts and hope for the best. Assuming, that is, Miranda had changed her mobile number and place of residence as she’d indicated during Emily’s phone call regarding permission for Will to inspect her roof. Whether Miranda made these changes to her mobile, etc., as an offensive or defensive measure was another matter.