The Secluded Village Murders

by Shelly Frome

  To Emily’s mind, what was really odd was the fact Miranda hadn’t shown the slightest concern over the fate of her fallen roofer, let alone noted that Emily was checking back with Silas and Pru and had omitted Harriet’s name.

  Miranda shuffled over to a picture window and peered out at nothing in particular. Emily walked back to the empty kitchen. She no sooner dialed and said hello when Trevor’s drunken voice cut through all pleasantries.

  “Right, spot on, splendid. May surprise you to know I have solved the whole troublesome business. Packed the two of them off, if you will. Rather, had my housekeeper do so. Trundled them off bag and baggage to Exeter. Wasn’t too difficult to modify their flight plans—death in the family, that sort of thing. Getting rid of the lot of you, you see. Damn nuisance, of course, but nothing further need be said.”

  “Are you serious? Wait a minute, you can’t just—”

  “Made arrangements with Maud as well, only too happy to oblige. Put you up temporarily, spare quarters, no bother, no bother at all. Notified the British Tourist Authority as well. In a word, wiped the whole slate clean. No partial Twinning—erased, never happened, put out of everyone’s mind.”

  She could hear Trevor’s garbled directives addressed to Constance about retrieving Emily’s things and some other leftover odds and ends. Another attempt on Emily’s part to speak was met with the click of the receiver.

  Emily returned to the living room and made her excuses. Miranda saw her out. Framing herself in the doorway, affecting a listless pose, Miranda said, “Oh, Emily, you are in a state. Ever so skittish. What is to become of you?”

  Emily didn’t bother to respond or say goodbye.

  Walking by the newish, British-racing-green Jaguar perched on the gravel drive, Emily noticed a white leather suitcase and matching bags had been flung onto the plush back seat. Though it was clear by now that Miranda was not an intended victim, she definitely had a place in the scheme of things.

  Emily, however, had no place. As if she hadn’t been hit with enough, Trevor had seen to it that her two remaining clients had been shipped off, leaving her with no real justification for being here at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Constance slipped out of the portico of the manor house like a squeamish process server, her voice barely audible. Casting her gaze down and away, she held out a fancy blue shopping bag from Harrods.

  “Oh, and here are some odds and ends, Emily. Left behind in all the rush, I gather. Trevor discovered them slipped behind the dustbin. You may, of course, keep the bag. Our pleasure.”

  Emily retrieved the shopping bag, tossed it in the trunk of the Vauxhall alongside her suitcase, turned back and, trying to hold her temper, said, “You needn’t have bothered. I could have packed my own things and saved you the trouble.”

  Casting her gaze upward, still avoiding looking Emily in the eye, Constance said, “Actually, in view of the state Trevor is in, I . . . that is, we, thought it best if the two of you didn’t, em . . .”

  “Cross paths?”

  After the next awkward pause, Constance went back to her rehearsed speech. “As for the accident at the castle ruins, rest assured I shall see to it, em . . .”

  Ordinarily, when Constance couldn’t avoid a situation and was entirely on her own, she resorted to an “em” here and there in the hope that the other party would fill in the blanks. Coming to her rescue once more, Emily said, “See to it the spiral steps down to the dungeon are roped off?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Off limits. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  The look on Constance’s pale, equine features was so downtrodden that Emily wasn’t about to take any of this out on her. After all, it wasn’t Constance’s idea to clean house so that Trevor could return to his self-appointed role as the blasé village squire without having to deal with loose ends and a pesky Emily Ryder to boot. Let alone the ghastly business surrounding Harriet’s demise. He probably convinced himself that if he could swiftly return Lydfield-in-the-Moor to its quaint, historic coziness, he would have done his civic duty.

  Making one last effort to smooth things over, Constance said, “In future we’ll, perhaps, begin anew. Visit our quaint sister village again one day and, em . . .”

  This time Emily left her hanging. There would be no sister village. Only flickering memories that, too, would quickly fade.

  Facing the waning afternoon light, now tinted with dusty rose, Constance groped for some parting words. Then, as though recalling the end of her recitation, she said, “All the same, with nothing left for you here, perhaps you’d fancy motoring on to the Cornish coast as planned.”

  Emily stood by the side of her car, patiently waiting for Constance to finish her pointless goodbyes.

  “Indeed,” Constance went on, her voice quivering under the strain. “You could meander around the, em . . . winding, cobbled streets in Fowey. Gaze at the lovely sailing vessels and . . . em . . . sort things out.”

  Breaking into a wan smile, Constance started to wave, couldn’t carry it off, and slipped back through the portico out of sight.

  Almost immediately, Tinker came tearing around the gravel drive, his mad eyes flaring, his drooling tongue flapping across his teeth. He looked here and there. When he found no small creature to torment or large, ungainly one to tease, he changed course and raced on.

  The teasing madness of Tinker was the last straw. Emily got behind the wheel, hit the accelerator, and sped through the file of hedgerows, resolving that no one was going to send her packing like some misguided schoolgirl.

  Nearing the access road, she braked, got out, and unlatched the trunk. She rummaged through the shopping bag to make sure Trevor had included her notepads with the rest of the “odds and ends slipped behind the dustbin.” Once she saw that everything was intact, plus a great deal more, she pressed on.

  As glimmers of dusty rose slipped through the break in the sky, she headed back to the High Street and her new, temporary digs. Fending off waves of fatigue, she decided there were four things left to do. Three were on her impending list. Procedures regarding Harriet’s death could wait until tomorrow. For now, she needed to get hold of Hobbs and tell him about Cyril’s gun. She’d call Babs and find out what had been happening at home this whole time, and then she’d call Will and keep in touch as promised. What she would reveal to either one of them was another matter. So was her ability to remain cool and collected. It was all up for grabs.

  Later that night, the fete resumed in earnest. The moratorium had ended as if Harriet’s demise was an unfortunate item on the news cycle about someone no one knew and a matter of conjecture. What’s more, there were so many diversions and amusements that whatever had been slated for the mini-Twinning portion of the bankers’ holiday couldn’t possible hold a candle. The flower show had been dealt with; there was no real need for Pru’s storytelling antics or Silas’s obscure offerings under the tea-and-crumpets marquee. Nor, as far as Emily could tell, was there any reason to notice her own determined presence as she squeezed through the swarms of people and looked high and low for Hobbs.

  When she finally spotted his bulky form deep inside the village hall, he was too engrossed in the hijinks on stage to pay much attention to her. More interesting by far was Benjamin, the huge, hairy shepherd. In the role of the virgin queen—dressed in a grass skirt and sporting a pair of torpedo-shaped breasts—he was bawling over some bloke who had deserted him after promising “a right proper rave-on amongst the haystacks.” Joining him in their own hokey grief was a chorus of farmers wearing outlandish gowns stitched together from shredded strips of sackcloth. The ditties that followed were so lame, they even included a rendition of the old clunker, “Run to the roundhouse, Nellie, they can’t corner you there.”

  Realizing this was the only occasion for the otherwise diffident villagers to let down their hair, and unable to compete with all the howling laughter and applause, the best Emily could do was pass on her cryptic message.

 
“Cyril has a gun,” she whispered in Hobbs’s ear.

  “Has what, love?”

  “A gun. A pistol. A weapon.”

  Barely glancing at her, Hobbs said, “Ah, so it’s more silly buggers, is it?”

  “Listen to me.”

  “Lovely. And where and when did you arrive at this bit of news?”

  “Bovey Tracey.”

  Glancing at her, Hobbs said, “Bovey Tracey? After I bloody told you to—?”

  “Never mind. Look, I could only make out the glint of the barrel before he covered it with a shammy. I don’t know where he is now. But that doesn’t change the fact he stashed the gun in the trunk of his beat-up Morris Minor right after he taunted me with it.”

  Grimacing and shaking his head, Hobbs finally came back with, “You were well-knackered after one of yours scarpered in the moors and the other met her maker at the castle ruins. And here you are, peskier than I found you, with a new dodgy tale.”

  As Hobbs turned his attention back to the raucous goings on, Emily yanked on his arm and said, “Don’t slough me off, Hobbs.”

  “Sod off, will you, lass?”

  “No. You’re a constable and I need you to act like one.”

  Doing another one of his pleas to heaven, Hobbs said, “Then, when you’ve long last gotten hold of yourself, put it down in writing—the details, mind, about the gun and sundry. And leave it with Maud. After my watch here at the fete, and pray, well past your bedtime, I’ll see to it.”

  “You swear?”

  “By queen and country and the bloomin’ Scots Guard.”

  As a clincher, conscious of drawing attention to himself, Hobbs shouted over the encore of “Run to the Roundhouse,” “Never let it be said Hobbs is ever off duty. We have a pact, mind, be it day or night.”

  After offering her a dismissive pat on the shoulder, Hobbs added, “You get some rest now, and that is a ruddy, flaming order.”

  The panto moved on to another raunchy skit featuring a pair of shy but lonely farm animals. Emily worked her way out of the hall and through the milling crowd. Putting it in the best possible light, she told herself that Hobbs needed a way to cover his own negligence, was unable to admit to anything after all he’d been through that landed him back on the beat, but might very well be open to a way to make amends, no matter how much he protested.

  Ensconced in her cramped quarters above the pub, she wrote a note to Hobbs for Maud to pass on about her most recent encounter with Doc and Cyril, listing only the facts—who said and did what.

  She returned to the bar and asked Maud for an envelope. Predictably, she had to ward off more ministrations over her plight as Maud provided her with a mug of tea laced with Irish whisky. This was soon followed by a little fishing expedition, prodding Emily for a clue as to the contents of her note.

  “As you well know, pet,” Maud went on, “I am a beacon for the Neighborhood Watch. Nothing dicey gets past these eyes and ears. So I might well have something to add to whatever you fancy may be amiss. Besides, the place is near empty given the fete and all, save for those two nutters playing whist in the back and making a pint last a fortnight.”

  “Truth is, Maud,” said Emily, “I’m so out of it right now, I might let something slip that’ll get you jumping to conclusions.”

  “Ah, but jumping to conclusions is not altogether amiss, from all the Sherlockian tales I’ve seen on the telly.”

  Moments later, realizing her prying and cheerful banter was getting her nowhere, Maud let out a dejected sigh. “But you will keep me posted, now won’t you, love?”

  Some halfhearted banter over paying for her accommodations at the pub was followed by Emily’s thanks and a promise, bright and early, to run something by Maud apropos of the present situation. Cellphone in hand, Emily borrowed a flashlight, left the premises, and straggled up to the top of the lane. She needed to be well away from the jolliness of the festivities below and high enough to get a strong signal. It was time for the second and third items on her list.

  “Come on, Ryder,” said Babs, getting even more flabbergasted. “What do you mean you’re switching gears and winding things up?”

  Zipping up her windbreaker, Emily said, “Look, I’m standing outside, way up here in the dark.”

  “So?”

  “So there’s no telling how long this connection will last.”

  “Hey, you don’t trust me with some UK number where I can reach you, call me whenever you feel like, and now you give me this? What happened with this Doc character, and what’s the deal with Miranda?”

  Actually, Emily felt bad about playing it so close to the vest but, at the same time, there was no way she could’ve handled Babs’s interruptions prodding for updates.

  Partly relenting, Emily told her that Doc and Miranda’s business in the UK seemed to be over, and from what she could gather, each in their own way planned to head back to the States. In return, all Emily could get from Babs was news that the GDC’s final vote of approval from the village Planning Commission was officially set for Wednesday. Plus banker Brian Forbes seemed a lot more chipper, while his realtor wife Martha had become a lot more testy.

  Before Emily could ease her off the line, Babs began complaining that her take on the GDC project was still in limbo and started rattling on about her theory regarding the Lydfield goings-on, asking Emily to “try this on for size.”

  The way Babs saw it, all the drama had started because Harriet had skipped town without formally signing off on the right of way to the tract on the high meadow. Doc had to go after her because he was on the GDC payroll, and Martha Forbes was definitely in on the action.

  Emily tried harder to cut Babs short as the shadows on the moor grew deeper and the connection began to fade. She wasn’t about to broach the subject of Harriet’s awful death and the fact that her two remaining clients had been subsequently whisked away. The last thing she needed was a lecture on the pitfalls and fallout of getting in way over your head.

  Warming to her analysis despite Emily’s protests, Babs ran on with her guessing game. She figured that with the Curtis property facing imminent foreclosure and Martha dying to know whether Emily’s mom would throw in the towel, it didn’t really matter what Harriet did or didn’t do. And that’s why Doc was called back.

  “Okay,” said Emily, “fine. Are we through?”

  But Babs kept it up, insisting she was on a roll. At the Business Association meeting, Brian showed some projections and had started crowing over incoming revenue, a new strip mall, cinema-multiplex, pizza joints, gas stations, and a humongous cell tower that would service the whole area.

  Emily caught a break when Babs suddenly announced she had a call waiting. “Just a sec, Ryder, hang on, be right with you.” The only value of Babs’s slew of guesstimates so far was the prominence of all Babs didn’t know.

  Less than a minute later, Babs was back on line.

  “Guess what, Ryder? I already checked all the car rental spots. Nothing. Just heard back from the Kent Livery Service and, bingo! Good ol’ Brian Forbes is booked to pick someone up arriving on British Airways tomorrow at Kennedy Airport. Now I wonder who that could be, considering the fact that wifey Martha is holed up at a weekend realty confab in Danbury?”

  “Oh?” Emily said, refusing to give Babs any ammunition that would take her off on yet another tangent.

  But Babs still wouldn’t let go. “Why aren’t you excited? I mean, if the Twinning thing is over and all the action is at home, you should get your bod back here. Let’s keep our eyes peeled, Ryder, and get with the program.”

  “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “Terrific,” said Babs, “you’re on, kid, and I am back on track.” With that, she finally clicked off for good.

  Emily climbed higher up the hill, hoping for a steadier signal. When she’d told Babs she was winding things up, what she meant was that she would spend another day hoping to find some link between Cyril’s weapon and Harriet’s fall. Or, after being appri
sed of police procedure following Harriet’s death, she’d leave everything on this end up to Hobbs, including getting a statement from Trevor.

  At the top of the rise, she tried the B&B. No luck. The phone rang but Will didn’t answer. He could have been out getting supplies or taking Oliver for a long walk. Lydfield Connecticut was a world away, probably bright and sunny on a quiet Friday afternoon.

  In the silence, Emily’s thoughts turned once again to Chris. How could people like Miranda Shaw write him off without a qualm? She must have known, must have heard about the final result of his fall from her roof. Harriet’s suspicious death had also been given short shrift while host Trevor had gone so far as to rid himself of any trace of all three Curtises as fast as he could.

  Adding these iffy factors to her collection, Emily waited a while longer and tried Will again. Still no luck.

  Emily flashed her light on the narrowing path, moved up higher, and stopped at a spot close to the stile and the break in the stone wall. It was hard to believe that only ten hours ago, she’d managed to corral Pru and lead her back, only to come upon something infinitely much worse.

  She hit the speed-dial number again. This time Will picked up and the connection was clear. It seems he’d spent the better part of the afternoon hauling bricks and stones, digging up the front walkway, replacing it with new pavers, and patching up the flagstone steps. As a result, he spoke in the lazy rhythm of a workman who could surely use a little downtime. A rhythm perfectly suited for Emily’s last order of the day.

  Yawning despite herself, Emily remained dead set on skirting around anything and everything the least bit worrisome. After a little small talk about her location high up at the rim of the moor to get a stronger signal, she knew she had to let on about the change of plans. She also had to skirt around what happened to Harriet to avoid any possible recriminations.