The House Sitter

by Jill Barry

  “Have you seen enough?”

  “I think so. How about you, darling?”

  Mrs Barnard nodded her head. “I like the house very much. Could I ask why the vendors have put it on the market?”

  “Ah, sorry, I should have said earlier. They want to live closer to their daughter in Wiltshire. They’ve been very happy here but I think they miss being around their grandchildren.”

  “That’s understandable,” said Mr Barnard. “So, are there many young families in the village?”

  “There are a few,” said Bethan. “Mostly the dads are forestry workers. The children are bussed to the nearby primary school. There’s a community hall, though I’m not sure you’d be interested in bingo or ladies’ keep fit classes.”

  “Well, maybe not the latter,” said Mr Barnard. “My wife might, though.”

  She grimaced. “I’m not very good at joining in organised events. Walking’s more my cup of herbal.”

  “Don’t worry. She’s not socially retarded,” Mr Barnard ducked.

  Bethan chuckled. “There are things to do around here but mostly they involve driving five, ten, or fifteen miles. It comes with the territory.”

  “It’s one of the reasons we asked for a viewing.”

  “We’re certainly not your average thirty-something couple about town,” said Mrs Barnard.

  “You can say that again,” said her husband. “We’ll be in touch, Mrs Harley.”

  Bethan moved towards the front door and opened it.

  “By the way,” Mr Barnard waited for his wife to step outside first. “I forgot to mention I overshot the turning to the house earlier. We realised our mistake and I used the lay by down the road to turn the car around.”

  “No problem. Lots of people do that,” said Bethan.

  “It’s only that there was a vehicle already parked, with no one inside. I can’t help thinking this isn’t the kind of day to attract twitchers or ramblers.”

  Bethan frowned. “Can’t help you there. It certainly isn’t anything to do with my client list. I don’t have any more viewings booked for today.” She pulled the front door shut and checked it was secure.

  “He’s so nosey,” said Mrs Barnard. “The vehicle probably belongs to someone walking their dog. Dog owners can’t stop going out just because it’s raining. Thanks, Mrs Harley. We need to do our sums, consider our options and get back to you soon.”

  “Thank you. Don’t hesitate to get in touch if you’d like a second viewing. Take care.” Bethan watched them get into their car. Take care – two words used so often these days but here in Three Roads, seeming to gain an extra resonance.

  The Barnards set off down the track. Oh, please, she thought. Don’t let that old witch be lying in wait. Surely even Ruth Morgan couldn’t be evil and twisted enough to have cooked up some plot to spoil Bethan’s day?

  Sadly, she had a feeling this particular couple were batting a little bit out of their league. She might be proved wrong but her intuition didn’t often let her down. On the other hand, sometimes the Bank of Mum and Dad offered salvation. The couple had obviously liked what they saw and Bethan, showing them round, felt far more relaxed without the house sitter lurking in the shadows.

  She scolded herself for her lack of professionalism, secured the hood of her white raincoat and strode down the track to check out the parked vehicle Mr Barnard had noticed. Paranoid, she might be, but she couldn’t drive away without doing so, however much she knew it could have nothing to do with the house sitter. There were too many question marks around Ruth Morgan’s previous behaviour to allow Bethan to drive off regardless.

  To her relief, she noticed nothing untoward, like an offensive sign. But, once on the main road, looking down towards the most populated part of the village, Bethan recognised the vehicle in the lay by. It wasn’t only that it was a black Range Rover. It bore a memorable registration; the personal number plate RK 1973 announcing the presence of one Mr Ray Kirby. She wondered whether he’d chosen this because he’d been born in that year, and couldn’t stop herself from calculating how many years older than herself he might be. Was he hoping to take another look at the house before he left the area? If so, why hadn’t he rung the bell? He hadn’t been sitting in the vehicle when Mr Barnard spotted it.

  She told herself Ray Kirby might have arrived well before she had, called at The Sugar House but, having no luck with that, decided to go for a walk. If this man didn’t let a curmudgeonly farmer’s lack of consideration faze him, he wouldn’t allow a rainy morning to deter him. But, realising he was out there somewhere, and the house sitter was also out there somewhere, Bethan sucked in air and shook her head. Why did she keep torturing herself with these random dark thoughts? Even after such brief acquaintance, she’d a shrewd idea Ray Kirby played to win. No way could even Ruth Morgan get the better of him.

  So, how would the house sitter have known he was in the vicinity? Ms Morgan hadn’t been around on the day of Ray Kirby’s viewing. She’d been in her own home, unless she’d been snooping and noted a strange vehicle in the lay by. Unless – unless she’d happened along the track just as Mr Kirby was about to come down it. He might even have approached her. Now that was a scenario Bethan knew she needed to check out, if only for her own peace of mind.

  She walked back to her car. Seated behind the steering wheel, she tapped her fingernails upon it and knew her imagination wouldn’t let her drive off until she called her office and confirmed her whereabouts, in tune with the Suzy Lamplugh effect. In fact, each of her admin assistants had been known to ring Bethan’s mobile if concerned she was taking longer than estimated for a valuation or viewing. Her assistant answered on the third ring.

  “Hi, Chris. Just letting you know I’m leaving The Sugar House and heading for The Devil’s Pool.” She paused. “No, not for a swim, thanks for asking. Our Mr Kirby has parked his car in the village and I’ve a feeling he’s checking out the countryside. If he wants a second viewing, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, I’ll be a half hour or so.”

  Ruth trod the stony path winding through the forest, pushing on until she reached her target. To her annoyance, she found the bench surrounded by foliage. Fronds of tough grass trailed around the seat. Thistles abounded. She clicked her tongue against her teeth.

  “Good girl. Sit. Stay,” she instructed the dog. “Nasty stingers!”

  Sparkles gave her a mournful look but did as she was told and settled herself at Ruth’s feet.

  “Good girl,” said Ruth again. She patted the Labrador’s head and turned her attention to the swathes of wet grass and spindly gorse, pulling and tugging until the nearest armrest was cleared. She picked up Sparkles’ lead and attached it to the wooden strut before fumbling in her pocket for a doggie chew and offering it.

  “Silly girl,” she scolded as the treat fell to the ground. “You’ll have to winkle it out from the wet grass now, won’t you? I shan’t be long. Be good.”

  Ruth hurried off, picking her way, taking care where she placed her booted feet. Keeping to the overgrown but still discernible narrow path between the trees. She planned to be gone a matter of minutes. She didn’t even know whether she could bring herself to carry out what she had in mind. All she cared about was keeping intact her life and future prospects. She was the one throwing the dice. She didn’t intend letting anyone jeopardise her plan.

  There were plenty of houses this Kirby man could buy. If he imagined he could ingratiate himself by offering her a bit of typing and possibly house sitting, he was very mistaken. Three Roads didn’t need tainting by someone so brash as he. Perhaps a dip in a cold pool would put paid to his plans for a rural retreat.

  She’d gone through a lot over the past days. A mere few days but each filled with so many events since the shock of discovering her friends’ intentions. Friends! They needed to be taught precisely what true loyalty demanded. The more she contemplated Suzanne and Eddie’s casual disregard of her feelings, the fiercer her indignation stung. Lemon juice on a cut finger
.

  She’d enjoyed the role-playing outside the offices of Baldwin, Caldwell and Balls. It gave her huge satisfaction to think the Harley woman had quit the premises while Delyth stood there, chatting with two house-hunters. The negotiator could never associate her with the elegantly attired auburn-haired woman to whom she’d probably given only a cursory glance. Ruth still gloated over that quick decision to look away, avoiding eye contact with someone who might have quashed her plan.

  Valerie and Brad had lapped up her story of the unfortunate criminal’s remains, with an awful fascination. To her knowledge, the couple hadn’t even set foot in Three Roads.

  The ‘bomb’ she fabricated had surely shocked and horrified Mr and Mrs Hunt when they drove into the village. It had proved simple to manufacture that bit of mischief but the incident’s devastating and satisfying result was the placing of doubt in the minds of these particular house hunters. And no one could suspect her of being the perpetrator.

  Kirby hadn’t been such a pushover. Doubtless, had his bit of stuff been with him, he might have found her reaction rather different. She could well have warned him not to laugh off the incident. Such happenings weren’t that unusual in rural spots where some folk still mistrusted incomers and envied their ability to pluck the plum from the property tree.

  Ruth had formed her own conclusion about Ray Kirby. He was adept at getting his own way. He hadn’t yet learnt it wasn’t all about who might be bigger and more physically powerful. If he came a cropper at the waterfall, it would be no one’s fault but his own. She’d warned him. In return, he’d boasted about his outdoor skills.

  Nor should those two doctors be thinking of Three Roads as their retirement place. They’d be as out of place as a pole dancer at a funeral. The placing of the field mouse in the conch shell was arguably Ruth’s best trick yet. She’d timed matters to perfection and the canine presence in the house pointed to an obvious conclusion regarding the culprit.

  The Harley woman had behaved less than charmingly. Once Eddie and Suzanne saw the error of their ways and removed their house from the agency’s list, Mrs Smart Arse Harley would be on her bike. Sobbing over her lost commission.

  Ruth caught a rattle of gunfire drifting on the breeze. Soldiers must be on manoeuvres on the plains across the valley. Her mouth twisted as she recalled Ray Kirby’s mention of his military background. Maybe that was another reason for him to favour settling in the area. Well, he’d be out of luck if he tried to drive back through the village and take the ranges road towards the A40. The road was currently closed. She’d received notification of the date via the customary Ministry of Defence email to residents.

  Ruth contemplated her next move. Could she really commit murder? Probably not. But could she engineer a happening that might well occur whether or not she instigated it, especially when it involved someone not paying sufficient respect to his surroundings? Yes, she could. So long as the stakes were high enough to tempt her and no one suspected her.

  The stakes were high enough. There was absolutely no reason for anyone to suspect her. And surely there couldn’t be anyone else wandering the woodland? The rain hadn’t ceased. People around here talked about that thick, invasive drizzle permeating their bones, despite waterproof protection. Ruth, partially sheltered from the elements by the woodland, was so close to her prey, she could hear the waterfall roaring. Anyone stupid enough to stray that way might well receive much more than the satisfaction of capturing a few delightful images on a state-of-the-art camera. Those unforgiving rocks, jutting like sharks’ teeth from the river’s underbelly, would not be visible in any viewfinder.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bethan convinced herself Ray Kirby would have headed for the scary falls as her daughter called the local beauty spot. She’d taken Poppy and her daughter’s best friend for a picnic nearby a few years before and been warned not to take any chances, even on a calm, dry day. To discover the bench set back from and above the whirling waters was a relief.

  Now she turned off the main road and drove as far as she could along a track used mainly by workers managing the land. Where had she left her car when she brought the girls? On one side of the road, there was a pull in area, marked with a Forestry Commission sign. She needed to park and check all was well with her client. For once, she didn’t even stop to lock her vehicle, so intent was she on following her hunch.

  If anyone asked what motivated her to set off like someone playing amateur detective, Bethan wouldn’t be able to spell it out. An accusation based on a woman potentially dressing up and deliberately terrorising people viewing her friends’ house, would be greeted with derision.

  Who else but yobs would hurl such a putrid package at a Porsche’s windscreen?

  There was nothing sinister about an ancient farm tractor conking out and being abandoned until its one-man-band owner got around to sorting it. As for the last incident, how and why would Mr and Mrs Deacon’s dear friend produce a dead field mouse and stuff it inside a decorative shell in the downstairs cloakroom so it putrefied and discharged an eye-watering stench?

  But how stupid was Bethan going to look if and when she came upon Ray Kirby happily waterfall watching? He’d think she was some kind of stalker. Maybe even assume she fancied him. Why else would she turn up in the woods on the off chance he might be there alone?

  Bethan stopped suddenly. She’d just taken a young couple around The Sugar House without any problems whatsoever. That happy fact hadn’t really impinged on her.

  Why?

  Because she’d been jittery, that’s why. Apprehensive. Convinced the house sitter must be somewhere, waiting to cause mayhem. But maybe Ruth Morgan had already left the house before the answerphone message was left?

  Bethan stood, twisting her wedding and engagement rings around her finger. That dismal mew of a buzzard always sent a shiver down her spine. The predator swooping on some hapless creature was an aspect of nature, but the wingspan of a jumbo jet plus the cruel beak took this big bird into the premier predator league. She pictured the buzzard swooping. Opening its maw. Soaring upwards after it launched from the trees beside her. Other birds, tuned into danger, scattered like ashes from a shovel.

  Another sound made Bethan frown. Why would she hear a dog barking? Might it be Sparkles? If it were, why would Ruth Morgan take the old Labrador along, if intending to engineer some malicious act? She judged the excited yelping to come from the woodland on her right and wondered if the buzzard had spooked the dog or vice versa.

  Should she investigate or should she ignore it and continue what she came here to do? The answer arrived in the form of a golden Labrador, bounding through the undergrowth, lead trailing.

  “Sparkles!” Bethan waited for the animal to reach her.

  Clumsy as ever, the dog managed to tread on each of Bethan’s feet and bump her bony head against both her human friend’s knees.

  “Where’s your mistress, then? What’s going on, girl?” Bethan felt her pulse ratchet to High Doh as she straightened up, clutching the leather lead firmly and tried to think logically.

  If Sparkles was attached to her lead, Ruth Morgan must be in the area. What if she’d tripped and fallen? What if she’d hit her head on a stone and lay unconscious in the undergrowth? Irrespective of her dislike for the woman, Bethan knew what she must do. Treading carefully, she led the dog back the way it came.

  “Hello?” She called as she followed a narrow track climbing towards a grassy plateau. On it stood the wooden bench she remembered from her only previous visit but which now didn’t tempt her to sit down on it. There was no sign of the house sitter.

  It didn’t take forensic skills to realise the Labrador’s lead must have been tied to the bench’s arm. Sparkles had possibly been startled by the buzzard, become agitated and broken free. The wood must have rotted because of age and persistent wet conditions. But why tether the dog if the sole object of visiting the forest on a dismal day was to give her some exercise?

  Bethan turned and r
ejoined the main track, still holding tight to Sparkles. If Ruth Morgan had suffered an accident off piste, so to speak, it would probably be quicker to locate Ray Kirby and enlist his help. She needed to express concern at noticing his vehicle in the village and wondering if he’d turned up, hoping for a second viewing. As a businessman, surely he understood her urge not to delay a possible offer. He might even have contacted his partner and received the thumbs up.

  She heard the clatter of light artillery from the other side of the village. Could she also hear the rush of water?

  Ray Kirby couldn’t believe the jaw-dropping majesty of the landscape. He never failed to marvel at the magnificence so often found in Welsh scenery, coastal or inland. Yet who’d have thought such a gem could be concealed amidst massed conifers, each one seemingly a clone of its neighbour. Countless tourists, let alone county residents, must have passed the turning to Three Roads, oblivious of such riches within easy reach.

  With no poncey gastro-pub in the village, no teashop with lovingly handcrafted goods to interest visitors, he could visualise making trip after trip to this secluded spot. What was its name again? He remembered the English version. The Devil’s Pool didn’t do this feature justice. Claudia was going to love it. She’d be using the whoosh of water to inspire her next song. He’d be acting as soundman while she experimented with cadences. No doubt about that.

  No one had thought fit to construct a viewing platform. He looked around for a seat but this miniature Niagara Falls didn’t come with commercialism. Good. He and Claudia could bring folding chairs. Having walked down here, he realised he could park the car far closer than the village lay by.

  It had even stopped raining. Almost. The clouds were skulking away. Shredding. Watery sunlight flooded the countryside. Could he capture that exquisite rainbow in his viewfinder? Ray reached for his camera. He could email the image to Claudia after he got back. Hey, lovely lady! How about that for your next song? Rainbow’s End had to be the ultimate cliché but right at that moment, he believed it signified an astonishing omen for their future.