by Jill Barry
Suzanne closed her eyes. From nowhere came the swift and powerful image of Eddie and Ruth in an intimate situation. Had he ever strayed in that direction? The vision loomed with such clarity, Suzanne’s eyes opened again as she wondered if she dared confront him. But Eddie was immersed in the latest book starring his favourite feisty woman detective and her laidback, always in the doghouse, male sidekick. Not Suzanne’s cup of tea at all.
The telephone line at The Sugar House was down the next day. Eddie, exasperated, picked up his mobile phone and rang to report the fault. No sooner had he finished the call than his ringtone pinged.
“Mr Deacon? It’s Briggs, Caldwell and Balls here. We couldn’t reach you on the landline.”
Eddie recognised the voice of the leggy blonde sales negotiator. “Hello, Bethan. It’s a damn nuisance, but these things happen. One of the joys of living in the sticks. . . though I suppose I shouldn’t say that, should I?”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear.”
“So, any news for me?”
“Yes indeed. A couple from Worcester have expressed an interest in your property. Mr and Mrs Hunt are asking if they may view this afternoon, if possible.”
“No problem. What time should we get the coffee on?”
“An old cliché but it can’t do any harm, Mr Deacon. Is two o’clock all right?”
“We’ll be ready.”
“I’m sorry I can’t bring the Hunts myself but we’re short-staffed today. Fortunately, they seem quite happy to come under their own steam. The husband says they’ll stop off in Knightly for lunch and a look around so that’s a good sign, don’t you think?”
“They sound a sensible pair. No good doing a whistle stop tour. House purchasing’s far too serious a business.”
“Indeed. Anyway, keep your eye open for a black Porsche. According to Mrs Hunt, it’s her husband’s pride and joy.”
Eddie cleared the call and padded through to the conservatory where he found his wife watering her collection of plants. “Hey, we have our first prospective purchasers, my sweet, arriving this afternoon at two o’clock. And get this – they own a Porsche.”
“Fabulous. They can’t be short of a few bob, then.” Suzanne beamed. “I’m glad we got the house spick and span for the valuation. I don’t have to rush around tidying up, but I’ll give both loos a going over.”
Eddie threw up his hands. “The cleaner skinned the place alive yesterday, for heaven’s sake. Everything’s already beyond tidy and we need to have an early lunch, something like bread and cheese so the smell of food doesn’t linger.” He tilted his head to one side. “Is that someone at the back door?”
“It’s probably Ruth. Shall I go?”
“Leave it to me. You do what you have to do and I’ll get shot of her.”
“Make sure she knows we have people coming later, Eddie. I don’t want her turning up accidentally on purpose and putting her oar in.”
“She wouldn’t do that, would she? After all the fuss she made over our decision to sell, I got the impression she was ready to help when it came to packing up?”
Suzanne didn’t answer.
Eddie hurried through to the kitchen and opened the door to find Ruth standing outside. She held out a wicker punnet containing two jars of glowing crimson chutney nestling in a bed of dark green tissue paper.
“Good morning, Eddie. I’m tidying my cupboards and wondered if you’d take these off my hands.”
“Brilliant! My favourite.” He hesitated. “I’d ask you in but we’re a bit tied up. People coming to view after lunch, you know.”
“Really? You must be pleased to have somebody biting so soon. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help? Do you have plenty of fresh flowers around the place?”
“How kind you are, but we’re pretty much organised. Before the valuation, I had to stop her indoors from buying half a ton of lilies. Talk about the Chelsea Flower Show.”
“I can imagine. Please tell Suzanne I’ll be thinking of you both.” Ruth took a step backwards. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“Why don’t you come and have a cuppa around four o’clock? We can tell you how we got on. This couple sound promising – Suzanne likes the fact that they drive a Porsche, but it’s early days, of course.”
Ruth nodded. “Sorry, but I’m a bit busy today too. I should know better than to begin on cupboard tidying when I still have proof reading to finish.”
“You know best. Well, the offer’s there, my dear. If you change your mind, just turn up. The viewing is at two, just so you know. They’re coming from Knightly, without the agent present, so I hope we make a good job of showing them round.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s your home, you’re proud of it, so who better than you two to show people around? See you soon, Eddie.”
He watched their friend walk away. He hadn’t wanted to seem churlish but, unless handled with the verbal equivalent of velvet gloves, his wife could become a little distraught. It was one of the reasons why, almost a decade before, he’d decided they should give up hotel keeping and seek a quieter way of life. That and the valuation he received from the local estate agency. Now they’d made the decision to put this house on the market, he hoped Suzanne wouldn’t rev herself up to High Doh each time the agents arranged a viewing. If that were to happen, maybe he’d tactfully suggest she go and stay for a week or two with their daughter in Salisbury. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before someone fell in love with The Sugar House and made a realistic offer.
While returning to Rock Cottage, Ruth congratulated herself for calling round with the chutney, an action the Deacons would consider perfectly predictable but which had resulted in her learning about the afternoon viewing. Now, despite limited time at her disposal, from several options already considered, there was one she thought she could achieve without too much effort. Three Roads might be described as a village at the back of nowhere but its dearth of residents, plus the unlikely possibility of tourists venturing this way now that what passed for summer had ended, resulted in a factor more precious than platinum.
The idea slipped into her head like cream caressing a slice of apple pie. All she need do was prepare her missile and get herself in position on the bank above the last bend. Motorists had to negotiate this before the downward slope into the centre of the village, if you could describe it as such. She kept herself fit by walking and practising yoga and she knew this would help her carry out her plan. The spiteful prank mightn’t be enough to deter keen buyers but it was the kind of thing that might play on the mind of someone looking to move into a small, rural community. Especially a female someone.
She let herself into her cottage. Too strung up to contemplate lunch, Ruth went upstairs and took out her exercise mat. An hour’s stretching and meditating would calm her. After all, she was only trying to help her friends. They needed her more than they realised. Moving away from Three Roads was not the right decision and they must be prevented from achieving it. All she intended to do was nudge them towards changing their minds.
Afterwards, they could all return to their same, secure way of life. She’d be extra solicitous. She might even suggest they both took a relaxing cruise while she cared for their house and dog. They wouldn’t be able to tap into that kind of trustworthiness once they moved away to live in Wiltshire.
By half-past one, Ruth, safely screened by foliage, crouched upon the bank adjoining the bad bend. The county highways department had long before placed appropriate warning signs and clearly only a reckless idiot would pretend to be a motor rally driver along that stretch. Ruth knew which village residents left for work each morning and what time they normally returned. People didn’t travel home to lunch when their offices were situated twenty miles away. The scattering of forestry workers occupying the sturdy terraced houses on the far side of Three Roads made sure they took food with them each day. Meals on wheels weren’t on the menu in Three Roads and none of the elderly residents as yet needed such a
service anyway. A minibus whisked away the school age youngsters in the morning and returned them mid-afternoon.
Phil Sartin and his clapped-out tractor was the variable factor, but this morning he’d driven his land rover to a farm sale over Brecon way. Ruth, having passed the time of day with him on her way round to The Sugar House, resolved to take him a batch of scones and a pot of raspberry jam some time soon. The cussed old blighter possessed a tongue that’d slice carrots, but keeping in with Phil was the equivalent of insurance.
He still owned the swathe of land adjoining The Sugar House, including the ground fronting its driveway. The Deacons retained right of way across that area, a condition written into their deeds, though that wouldn’t prevent Phil from making their lives difficult if Ruth tugged his strings. The farmer might be glad to see the Deacons go, given he didn’t much approve of them, but equally, it might suit him to act awkward and give them a rough time over access, if it meant keeping in with Ruth, whose help Phil Sartin needed with paperwork and sundry other matters.
She shifted her weight, wedging one foot on a shelf of jutting-out rock, ensuring she could aim confidently with her right arm. Timing was crucial but fortunately she had sight of the brow of the hill leading to the steep bend. She’d played cricket at boarding school and didn’t think she would misjudge the angle. Glancing at her watch she saw it was now a quarter to two. She sucked in her breath only moments later, hearing the sound of an engine, but relaxed as she saw the familiar dark green of a forestry van tackling the slope down.
The Porsche must have been on the van’s tail. Ruth saw its shiny black bonnet nose like a predator over the brow of the hill. She groaned in annoyance. It was a little too early, a little too close for comfort to the vehicle in front.
To her relief, the forestry van driver, having rounded the bend with caution, accelerated away along the straight piece of road through the village. She recognised the man’s spiky blond hair. He used to carry out bob a job tasks for her late aunt. What would he think if he saw sensible Ruth Morgan, wearing grey jogging pants and baggy hooded top, waited, perched above the road ready to commit an act of vandalism?
But no one could have seen her slip through the undergrowth. As soon as she accomplished what she’d come to do, she planned on pushing her way back through the foliage into the wooded area behind. Once more on the footpath, she’d pull down her hood and walk for an hour, completing her usual circuit with the calm confidence people expected of her.
The Porsche progressed sedately down the hill. Ruth lifted her arm. Flexed her wrist. Hurled her ammunition. The nauseating bundle hit the windscreen with a satisfying squelch.
Chapter Five
Eddie paced up and down the Aubusson carpet in the drawing room, as Suzanne insisted on calling their sitting room. “I hope this pair won’t keep us hanging around.”
His wife looked up from her magazine. “You can hardly accuse them of being late. A few minutes or so when they don’t know the area is perfectly understandable.”
“For some reason, I’ve got the colly-wobbles.”
“You’re usually the calmer one.” She smiled at him. “Don’t forget how long it took to sell our hotel, Eddie. Maybe this decision is bringing back memories. The wrong kind of memories.”
He ceased pacing. “I think I hear something. That engine sound might just belong to a Porsche.”
Suzanne waited while he went to investigate. She frowned as she heard his surprised exclamation but following him, discovered he had already gone outside, leaving the front door gaping. He was standing beside a sleek black vehicle. Porsches always looked sinister to Suzanne but the iconic car wasn’t responsible for the shiver down her spine.
Eddie was listening to something the driver was saying. Shaking his head. Something had to be wrong. Why weren’t Mr and Mrs Hunt climbing out of their posh Porsche?
Combined aromas of lavender wax polish, Arum lilies and freshly brewed coffee drifting from her house had filled her with satisfaction but now Eddie was hurrying back across the gravelled forecourt and spoiling the moment.
“I need a bucket of soapy water, a sponge and a cloth. Can you go and talk soothingly to the Hunts?”
“Have they been in an accident?”
“Just go, Suze. You’ll soon find out.” He headed into the kitchen.
“Utility room, under the sink,” she called after him before hurrying towards the Porsche.
“Oh, my word.” Suzanne halted in front of the car to be confronted by a slimy mess. She wrinkled her nose. The gunk surely consisted of animal dung rippled with smashed eggshell fragments and it obscured most of the windscreen.
She went around to the passenger side and carefully opened the door. “Mrs Hunt? This must be very distressing for you. I can’t think who’d do such a horrible thing.” Wild thoughts raced through her head. Could this have something to do with animal rights protesters? Surely that made no sense?
Mrs Hunt unfastened her seat belt. Suzanne, while admiring her beautifully-styled silver-grey hair and caramel cashmere sweater, thought the woman’s eyes sparkled with anger rather than shock.
“Mrs Deacon? The attack took us completely by surprise. Robert was driving very cautiously down the hill but if he’d been going any faster, who knows what might have happened.”
Mr Hunt climbed out of the driving seat and came around to shake Suzanne’s hand. She noted his grim expression.
“My husband will clean up your windscreen.”
“The bonnet as well.”
“Of course.” Suzanne spoke soothingly. “There’s coffee waiting to be poured. Why don’t you both come inside and relax?”
“Relax! Tell me, is this the kind of thing you’re forced to endure in these parts? Is this why you’re moving? Trying to avoid some Welsh Mafia obsessed with keeping out we English?”
“Absolutely not.” Suzanne appealed to Mrs Hunt. “I understand how traumatized you must both feel, but believe me, we are English and we’ve never known any incident like that happen before. Please come inside.”
“You go, Marcia. I’ll stay out here.”
Suzanne made no attempt to protest. “My husband’s on his way,” she said. “Let’s get you inside, Mrs Hunt.” She waited to be invited to call the visitor by her first name but soon realised it wasn’t going to happen.
“We’ll go straight into the kitchen but that door on the left belongs to the cloakroom if you want to wash your hands.”
“My hands aren’t soiled. Robert put the screen wash and wipers on so he could see to drive the rest of the way. It wouldn’t have been safe to stop on that hill, so we’ve absolutely no idea who threw that mess. Or, should I say, who attacked us.”
“Please sit down. How do you like your coffee?”
“Black with a splash of milk, please. No sugar.”
Suzanne saw Mrs Hunt glance around. Eddie always trumpeted how their kitchen fitted every woman’s idea of country-dwelling heaven.
“I have to say the online photographs don’t really do this kitchen justice.” But Mrs Hunt spoke without enthusiasm.
“Thank you. The whole house needed massive renovation when we bought it and we’ve made even more alterations over the years we’ve lived here.”
Mrs Hunt accepted her cup. “I’m sure. Do you mind if I ask why you’ve decided to move?”
“We want to live closer to our daughter.” Suzanne didn’t mention Penny was married to an army officer and might conceivably not remain in her current home for more than a couple of years.
“And where does your daughter live?”
“In Wiltshire,” said Suzanne, her hopes plummeting. This woman probably couldn’t wait to get out of The Sugar House, despite the allure of its culinary area.
“Tell me, have you enjoyed living in Wales?”
“Very much. I can honestly say these last eight or nine years have been among the happiest of our lives.” She looked around, relieved, as the men joined them.
Eddie headed for
the coffee machine. “Round the kitchen table, are we? Well, that’s nice.” He poured coffee into two mugs.
“Do sit down, Mr Hunt. Milk and sugar?”
Robert Hunt seated himself beside his wife. “Thank you. Glad to say the windscreen’s pristine again. But what a welcome that was. Not.”
Suzanne winced. “I was just telling your wife how happy we’ve been in this village. Believe me, I truly am flabbergasted. It’s difficult to comprehend why such a horrible thing should happen when Three Roads is such a close-knit little community.”
“Maybe a little too much so for us.” Mr Hunt stared into his coffee. “And I doubt you can judge whether that was an act of random vandalism, or something more sinister. Whichever it was, the person or persons responsible have done your friendly community no favours.”
“It’s understandable you should feel like that.” Suzanne sighed. “But we really wouldn’t lie to you. To the best of my knowledge, nothing like this atrocity has ever happened here before.”
“Seems a bit fishy to me.” Mr Hunt glanced at his wife. “What do you think, Marcia? Are we being given some kind of message? Should we waste these good people’s time any longer?”
Mrs Hunt looked apologetically at Suzanne. “To be honest, I don’t think I could ever feel comfortable about coming back here. Although your house is just the sort of property we’re looking for. But I do wonder if this village might be a little inward-looking for us.”
Disappointment hit Suzanne like a stomach punch, making her gulp. “That seems such a shame. But I understand. And if you were to change your minds, I guarantee you could travel down that road and back ten times a day without any problem at all.”