In her head, the music had started, the opening strains to Swan Lake, but this time her role wasn’t a cygnet. This time, she’d take on the role she was born for, the role she’d never got to dance on stage – Odile, the black swan. She’d watched Tamara Rojo claim the role, turning through thirty-two fouettés and Libby knew, one day, she’d do the same, but she’d be better. She’d be better, because she’d be England’s own prima ballerina.
But instead of ruling the Coliseum, here she was, performing substandard, rusty turns in a cottage in the Lakes. In the home of Margaret Keeley, another dancer who should’ve been a prima ballerina but had it ripped away from her.
The imaginary music ended, but Libby shook her head and moved into first position, ready to start again. Her ankle throbbed, unused to the punishment after only a brief warm up. This time, she’d do it perfectly.
Halfway through, with sweat pouring down her back, a knock on the kitchen window stopped her dead. Was it Patrick, coming to check she was okay? Patrick? Why was he her first thought? She unfastened her shoes and kicked them under the sofa, hiding the evidence.
There was a second round of knocking. A persistent caller – not how she pegged Patrick. Robbie maybe, was something wrong?
Libby hovered by the door to the kitchen, peeking to see who it was, but the efficient LED lights under the wall units meant she could see nothing but her own reflection and the silhouette of a male. What if it were Patrick? She stepped forwards, as did he. It wasn’t Patrick. It was Jack.
‘Let me in, Libby,’ he said, his voice low.
‘Why?’ Because I accused your mum of murdering Maggie?
‘I want to talk to you.’
The door wasn’t locked, left open for her to pop out for a cigarette later, but if the key were in, she might have chance to lock it. She glanced over. No bloody key.
‘Libby...’
Her phone was in her bag sitting on the kitchen table, too near the door for comfort, but there was no way she could make a run for it. Maybe she could blag it, calmly walk over but then call the police. The police? Oh, ha ha. PC Andy, Sheila’s eldest son? Well, she could call the cavalry, at least.
With all the nerve she could muster, she headed across the kitchen, as if she were going to the kitchen door, but when she reached the table, she picked up her phone, grateful she’d not taken Robbie off speed dial. She stared at Jack through the glass pane in the kitchen door, his face turning seven levels more angry as he stepped towards her, reaching for the door handle.
Please answer.
‘Libby?’ Robbie said.
‘Remember you said if I ever need anything, I should call you? Jack’s turned up.’
Robbie swore. ‘I can’t–’
‘I have no idea why he’s here, but I might need rescuing. Please.’ She hung up, needing both hands free.
Her mother had trained Libby for moments like this. She could fell someone Jack’s size with a leg sweep, break a few ribs with a well-placed kick, incapacitate him, but if she missed her chance he could easily overpower her.
She backed away, towards the other side of the kitchen as he came in, keeping an escape route behind her. Sadly, that exit involved a deadlock on the front door. Five minutes. The cavalry could be here in five minutes. She just had to manage Jack for five minutes.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘To talk.’ He leaned against the sink, his jaw twitching, his arms folded.
‘About...’
‘You know what about. My mum rang me tonight, crying.’
‘And?’
‘And she said you accused her of murder.’
‘No, I accused her of attempted murder.’
‘Maggie died of a broken neck. There was an autopsy. Mum didn’t kill her.’
‘When did she find out about Maggie and your dad?’
He studied her. ‘Who did you just call?’
‘Robbie.’ Her heart raced too much to have any chance of hiding her tell. ‘Hardly much point in ringing the police.’
His arms relaxed, undoubtedly after calculating how much time he had, and his fingers tapped out a repetitive beat on a cupboard door. ‘Shagging the boss, hey? Was he why you kicked me out?’
‘No.’ Libby edged nearer the door, ready to flee. She could hide in the bathroom. The lock was pathetic, but it might buy her a little time until Robbie arrived. Would he arrive? ‘I kicked you out because you took advantage of my incapacitated state. When did you realise I was out of it?’
‘When you called me Robbie.’
‘You bastard.’
‘It was a mistake. I’m sorry.’ The drumming stopped as he looked her over. ‘A big mistake.’
Feeling naked and vulnerable, she wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Please go away.’
Jack moved towards her, but a little to her left, creating a triangle between the two of them and her escape route. She’d never make it upstairs. Stupid, stupid girl.
‘I don’t want to fight with you, Libby. I like you, a lot. You know that.’
How could she get out of this? Libby’s stomach churned as Jack reached out, his thumb brushing her shoulder, and she turned to the window. Patrick stood on the other side of the glass. Her heart jumped, but her relief was short-lived as Jack toyed with her strap, caressing her skin. She implored Patrick with her eyes.
Please, help me.
Patrick darted across the patio, catching Jack’s eye and Libby seized her opportunity. She raised her hands to Jack’s shoulder as her right leg smashed his left from under him. Using his momentum and her body weight, she toppled him just as she’d learned. Jack yelled, hitting his head on the worktop on his way down, but Libby didn’t look back as she jumped over his flailing legs and ran behind Patrick.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked.
‘Rob couldn’t make it.’ Patrick glanced back at her. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘Fucking bitch…’ Jack lay on the floor, winded.
Libby peeked out, clutching Patrick’s t-shirt. ‘Go home, Jack.’
Jack looked up, rubbing his head. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘You don’t see anything,’ Patrick said, his voice a menacing growl. ‘Get the hell out of here.’
Jack laughed as he stood up. ‘She doesn’t hang around, does she? She hardly drew breath from fucking Xander, to me, then Robbie, and what, a couple of weeks later it’s your–’
Patrick grabbed him, shoving him up against the wall. ‘Shut your mouth. Libby and I are friends. What are you doing here?’
‘I just came to talk to her.’ Jack held out his arms, laughing, showing he had no intention of retaliating. ‘Calm it, man.’
‘He wanted to shut me up,’ Libby said.
‘About what?’ Patrick frowned back at her, still restraining Jack.
‘I spoke to Sheila this afternoon,’ Libby said. ‘You see, Jack, it’s not just me who’s asking questions. Patrick is too, and I bet Grace won’t be far behind. I’m ringing the police. And not your brother.’
Jack closed his eyes, slumping against the wall, his fight gone. ‘She didn’t kill her.’
‘But she tried to?’ Libby asked.
Jack nodded.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Patrick backed away, running his fingers through his curls. ‘She really poisoned the wine.’
‘And what’s the bets that PC Andy knows all about it,’ Libby said.
Patrick sat on the table, next to her. ‘Sheila tried to kill Maggie?’
‘No… well, yes, but half-heartedly.’ Jack stared at the ceiling, fiddling with his watch strap. ‘When Maggie hadn’t been around for a few days, Mum freaked and rang me. She thought she’d killed her. She wanted to go to the police, but then you found the body and it turned out Maggie had broken her neck. Mum hadn’t killed her.’
‘Liar,’ Libby whispered. ‘Your mum went in, she found the body, didn’t she?’
Jack paled. ‘What, no…’
‘Or did you?’ Patrick asked.
‘Yes.’ Jack sighed. ‘The next morning, I came in to see if… well, to see if she was okay or not. She was dead, but the bottle was on the side.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone, or phone an ambulance?’ Patrick asked, his voice quiet.
‘Mum was a mess. She would’ve confessed and what good would that have done? She didn’t hurt Maggie.’
‘And your brother,’ Patrick said, ‘I’m guessing, did a half-arsed investigation so no one would find out what your mum nearly did. Brilliant.’
Jack hung his head in shame. ‘What now?’
Patrick sighed. ‘Look, I don’t want your mum to get into trouble any more than you do. I’ve had tea at her house nearly as much as my own.’
‘But the necklace is still missing,’ Libby said. ‘Someone took that.’
‘What necklace?’ Jack said. ‘Mum didn’t take anything.’
‘A green pendant,’ Patrick said, ‘Egg shaped, with some inscription engraved around it.’
‘No idea.’ Jack headed for the door.
‘Wait.’ Libby bravely approached him, laying her hand on his forehead as Grace had done in August. ‘Whatever influence I hold over thee, be at peace. I set thee free.’
Jack shook his head, giving a hollow laugh. ‘You know that’s all bullshit, right?’
‘Maybe.’ Libby shrugged. ‘Or maybe I had no idea what I was messing with. We’re over.’
Jack simply nodded and disappeared into the night. Libby turned to Patrick, wanting to thank her new superhero, but found she couldn’t speak, her head filled with the memory of Jack stroking her shoulder. What if… what would he have done? Had she created this monster with her summoning spells? She stared at Patrick.
‘You’re okay.’ He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. ‘He’s gone.’
She clung to him, never wanting to let go. With her cheek against his shoulder, she could smell the woody tang of his aftershave. This was… home. Bugger him being a distraction, why couldn’t he be her somebody, the one she’d summoned? Because he’s Scottish, and she’d wished for someone English. Arse.
‘Life’s never dull with you around,’ he said, his head resting on hers. ‘Now, what shall we discuss first, how you took Jack down like that or why you look all… Flashdance?’
She laughed, as tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Are you crying?’
She nodded. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay. I’m impervious to tears now. No more pay rises.’
‘How about jobs? I need one. I’d make a great cow castrating assistant.’
‘If you think cows get castrated, you don’t even make it to interview. What happened to the riding school?’
‘I got sacked today, which makes fourteen jobs in three years.’
He held her at arm’s length, his mouth gaping. ‘Fourteen jobs? You’re definitely not making it to interview.’
She pushed him away, smiling. ‘Like I’d really want to work for you. You’d be grumpier than Rob.’
Patrick’s phone buzzed in his pocket. ‘Speak of the devil.’
Libby dug out a cardigan, painfully aware how flat her chest looked in the leotard. Flashdance. God, he must think she was an utter weirdo. Was that why he couldn’t be her distraction? Or was it because she looked awful? Without asking him, she poured two glasses of the red she’d started earlier, trying not to stare at his arse as he chatted to Robbie. Why did she have a knack for fancying sexy-as-hell blokes she couldn’t have?
‘Libs?’ He handed her the phone, swapping it for a glass. ‘Christ, I need this.’
They sat on the rickety bench outside, and after Libby spent five minutes reassuring Robbie she was fine, she lit a cigarette.
‘Why did you get sacked?’ Patrick asked, wafting her smoke away.
She explained, smiling when his body shook with repressed laughter. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘Oh, it is. Fat, lazy and woefully ineffective? I’d have paid to have been there.’ He sipped his wine and stretched out his long legs. ‘What are you going to do?’
She hugged her knees, resting her chin on them. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s a sign I should move on.’
‘Where would you go?’ He moved his glass in little circles, swirling the wine.
‘I don’t know. Sensibly, I should go to Sydney or London.’
‘Sydney Australia? Bit extreme.’
‘It’s where my parents live.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘A long story.’
He laughed. ‘And London?’
‘Paolo.’ She hoped he couldn’t see her reddening cheeks. ‘My ex. He moved there just before I moved here.’
‘Why didn’t you go with him?’
‘A long story.’
‘You are priceless.’ He elbowed her.
‘So who do you think took the necklace?’ she asked, desperate to change the subject.
‘Beats me.’
‘Sheila mentioned that Maggie had a few flings. Maybe there’s another homicidal wife out there? What about the rich guy who gave her the necklace in the first place, maybe he has a wife hell-bent on revenge?’
‘What, you think she came in, pushed Maggie down the stairs then ripped the pendant from her body, taking back what was rightfully hers?’
Libby laughed. ‘Do you watch far too much CSI, by any chance?’
‘Far, far too much.’ He nudged her, grinning back. ‘But I can’t really see Lucinda Doyle bumping anyone off. She’s more likely to have them excommunicated socially.’
‘Who’s Lucinda Doyle?’
‘Seamus Doyle’s wife.’
‘Seamus Doyle, the poet?’
‘He has a house near Windermere. He’s why Maggie moved up here in the first place.’
‘How on earth do you know that?’
‘Because I went to a black tie shindig with his daughter, Tabitha, last New Year.’
Libby laughed. ‘I can’t see you in black tie.’
‘I wear it very well, actually. Anyway, Maggie was there too. Tabitha really didn’t like seeing Seamus and Maggie together and it was so obvious they were having an affair. Did a valiant effort at ignoring each other, acting like strangers, but the second they were alone, thick as thieves.’
‘Recognise the signs from your own sordid affairs?’
‘Actually, yes.’ He smiled, chinking his glass against hers.
‘So it was still going on, even this year?’
He nodded. ‘I asked her about it when she came to get eye drops for Hyssop. She’d been shagging Seamus for over thirty years.’
‘Patrick, what does Lucinda look like?’
‘Tall, blonde–’
‘Like the ghost of Maggie? Do you think Becky next-door-but-one was telling the truth?’
He fought a smile. ‘If you do move to Sydney, do I get full custody of the cat?’
When Patrick had left, making her lock the door behind him, Libby took out the spell book, flicking through, looking for inspiration. Good luck, grounding, prosperity? A spell for Inner Power and Spiritual Guidance? Perfect. She longed to go outside and sit on the lawn, but what if Jack was still lurking? Instead, she ducked out to collect a few sprigs of thyme, then double checked the door was locked before sitting in the middle of the living room.
The purple, lavender-infused candle sitting on a ceramic dish inscribed with a pentagram would supposedly help clarify her thoughts, while the thyme she held in its flame would increase her psychic powers. Libby watched the herb smoulder.
What do I do, stay in Gosthwaite, go to London, or go to Sydney? I need a sign.
‘Divine power within, bless and guide me on the path of my destiny.’
She repeated the mantra until the thyme was nothing more than ash dotted through the molten wax.
I need a sign.<
br />
Chapter Twenty-Two
Going to his parents’ house always felt just that to Patrick – their house, not the family home. Kiln Howe, an ancient, sprawling farmhouse, was a great place, but aside from Christmas holidays, it held few memories for him. The family home, the place he grew up, was his house on the Green, but the McBride’s had moved out the year he went to university.
He knocked on the door but went straight in, laughing as the pack descended on him – Flynn and Jess, his parents’ flat-coat retrievers, scurried around, while Baxter, Patrick’s old sheepdog, limped along at his heel, his hips clearly no better despite the latest meds.
In the kitchen, his dad stood at the Aga, cooking bacon and eggs and his mum sat at the table, reading the papers – a Saturday morning tradition in the McBride house.
‘Morning,’ Patrick said, dropping a kiss on his mum’s cheek.
‘Morning, darling. Coffee’s fresh.’ She glanced up from the Guardian’s Weekend magazine, just long enough to give him a warm smile. It was always the same when she became engrossed in an article. Years of burned bacon had prompted his dad to take over Saturday morning cooking, leaving his wife to her newspaper. Patrick suspected she’d done it on purpose, just to gain a little time off.
‘You look tired,’ his dad said, wagging a spatula at him. ‘Late night?’
‘Nothing outside of the rules. I was at Rob’s for dinner.’
‘How are they?’ his mum asked. ‘Has Vanessa forgiven him?’
Patrick clenched his teeth, having promised Robbie that, for the sake of the kids, Vanessa’s little holiday would never come to light.
‘They’re fine. What are you reading?’ he asked, pouring a coffee.
‘It’s the most marvellous piece about an artist. He’s from Lochaire. It’s about an hour from where I grew up.’ She folded the pages back to the start of the article. ‘He’s about to be an international success, but what’s fascinating is that he exhibited two paintings of a ballerina. He sold the painting of her dancing for fifty thousand pounds, but turned down another fifty for the second painting, The Broken Ballerina. The price was upped to seventy-five, but he said he regretted showing it and he destroyed it. They’re beautiful paintings.’
Nearly Almost Somebody Page 24