A Stab in the Dark

by Karen Chester

  A deep gutter surrounded by sloping roof separated them. Isla was leaning against the parapet, her hands curled over the edge. The buttress was low, only coming up to her hips, and the stonework was worn and crumbly. And beyond the precipice was a sheer seventy-foot drop to the ground below. Araminta firmly pushed the thought of that from her mind and took a first step on the gutter.

  “Isla, nothing is ruined,” she said, trying to sound reasonable and calm. The rusty metal creaked beneath her bare soles.

  “But it is. I fell for Joel’s charms because I was lonely and stupid, afraid of being alone for the rest of my life. Your aunt and uncle trusted me, but I deceived them; I allowed Joel into the Hall, knowing what his lordship thought of him. How could I?”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Joel fooled a lot of people.”

  Isla shook her head wildly. “He was so cock-a-hoop, strutting about the Hall and acting as if he was lord of place. He insisted I show him everything, so I did, except for the bedrooms. He even wanted to come up here. He stood on this very spot, with his foot on the parapet, and he looked around and said All this should be mine. And still, I didn’t see what was right in front of me.”

  Araminta took another step and trod on a shard of stone. Pain stabbed into her arch. “You saw what you wanted to see.”

  “Yes! That’s exactly right. And I only saw the truth when we were in the library, and he told me to take the silver dagger for him, and to bring it to him. He was climbing up the stairs, you see. He was going to poke around upstairs, pry into his lordship’s bedroom and study. Suddenly, I saw what he was, what I’d become, and...and something broke in me. I ran up the stairs after him. I didn’t know what I was going to do, I was just blind with—with grief and anger. He laughed at me, and I lost my mind. I lunged at him with the knife, but he grabbed it from me, and then...he lost his balance. He toppled over the balustrade and fell to the ground below, face first. I raced down and managed to turn him over. His eyes were open, but he was so...still. That’s when I saw the dagger sticking out of his chest. He was dead, and I’d killed him!”

  “It sounds more like an accident to me.”

  Isla groaned and leaned back against the parapet. “I wanted to kill him. But do you know what’s even worse? I still love him.” Her voice wavered. “I still love him. Even though he was a cheat, a liar, a thief. Even though I meant nothing to him, I want him back. How can I? It makes no sense. Tell me, why am I still mourning him? Why?”

  “Because you’re only human. You feel the same emotions everyone else experiences.”

  “No, don’t feed me that pap! I won’t stand for it.” Grabbing onto the merlon for support, Isla scrambled up onto the parapet.

  “Isla, no—” Araminta stifled a scream. She shifted forwards, terrified.

  “Don’t come any closer!”

  Araminta halted, thrust the hair from her eyes. “Jumping won’t solve anything.”

  “It would stop me from feeling anything.”

  The woman was staring at the drop below her, swaying slightly in the gale. Nausea roiled in Araminta’s stomach, sweat prickling the length of her spine.

  “And what about my aunt and uncle? How would they feel?” Araminta demanded. “Is this how you want to repay them, after everything that’s happened?”

  “Would they even miss me?”

  “Of course. They’d be devastated. You can’t do that to them. Now, stop being an idiot and get down from there.”

  Araminta was close enough to see Isla’s stick-like legs trembling, her brogue shoes scritching on the crumbly stone parapet.

  “I can’t face them.” Isla sounded faint, as if she were already falling away.

  “Please, Isla, don’t do—”

  Someone yelled. Araminta glanced over her shoulder to see Ollie charging towards her like a wounded bull. His hair was soaked and dark, his eyes bulging, while his wrists were still cuffed together. The gutter jounced and shook as he stampeded closer. Behind him, DS Kumar appeared around a chimney.

  “Hey, watch out!” Kumar called out, the wind muffling his warning.

  Araminta started to move, but the edge of the gutter caught at her ankle, and she fell to her right, landing spread-eagled on the sloping roof. As she pulled herself upright, a heavy weight smashed into her back, and slammed her down, squashing the air from her lungs. Ollie had crash-tackled her.

  “Get...off...me,” she tried to yell, her lungs struggling for air.

  Ollie lifted himself off her, but instead of letting go, he dragged her to her feet and pulled her back against him. He flung his arm over her head and jammed it against her throat. The jagged edge of a broken piece of tile wavered in front of her eyes.

  “Keep away!” Ollie screamed at DS Kumar. “Or I’ll do the stupid bint in.”

  He could slash her with the shard of slate, but his sinewy forearm was causing her more alarm as it crushed against her larynx. She tried to prise his arm away, but Ollie shook her roughly until she stopped. His breathing was laboured, his flesh hot and sour. The smell of desperation, she thought faintly as she gasped for a morsel of air.

  “Saunders, don’t make this harder on yourself.” Kumar’s voice seemed to come from a great distance.

  Black dots danced in Araminta’s vision. Her fingers scrabbled against Ollie’s brawny forearm, but her strength was fast draining away. She couldn’t last much longer; she was going to black out. No, this wasn’t really happening, was it...?

  A banshee scream ripped through the air. Ollie grunted in surprise. A second later the crushing pressure on Araminta’s throat lifted, as did Ollie’s grip on her. She fell to her knees, her throat protesting as she gasped for breath. She turned her head to see Ollie also on his knees, with Isla on his back, kicking and punching at him, all the while emitting ear-splitting shrieks. With his superior bulk, Ollie could easily have shaken her off, but instead he seemed terrified, cowering beneath her demented blows. Only when DS Kumar pulled Isla off did she suddenly come to her senses. She collapsed next to Araminta, shaking and hiccupping.

  DS Kumar dragged Ollie away none too gently. “Are you all right?” he called out to Araminta.

  Araminta nodded, nursing a throat that felt like she’d swallowed fire. She turned to Isla.

  “Thank...you...” she croaked.

  Isla hauled herself into a sitting position. Her legs and hands were scratched and bleeding, her fingernails torn. “I couldn’t let him hurt you,” she whispered.

  “What were you two doing here?” Kumar asked, keeping a tight hold on his captive.

  DCI Clegg had appeared and was making his way across the roof, his mouth pulled down in a tight, disapproving curve. Behind him, Araminta’s aunt and uncle appeared, with Hetty bringing up the rear, all three faces taut with apprehension.

  Araminta looked at Isla. “It will be all right,” she said.

  Was it wrong of her to say that? To give Isla false hope? Araminta thought not. Isla was worth fighting for.

  “I’ll be there for you. We all will.” Her throat was hurting too much to speak further. She held out a hand to Isla.

  Isla glanced up at the stormy sky, then she took Araminta’s hand, and together they struggled to their feet.

  17. The Unvarnished Truth

  “HONEY’S GOOD FOR SORE throats,” Laura said. She pointed to the shelves lined with pots and jars of golden nectar. “Get one of those.”

  Araminta rose from her chair and walked closer to inspect the produce. “Lavender honey. I like the sound of that.” She reached for a jar.

  Garrick, who had been bent over his cheese display, straightened and gave her a slight frown from beneath his sweep of black hair. “The Yorkshire wildflower honey would be better,” he said, joining her at the shelves.

  “Would it?” Araminta pressed a finger to her neck where a faint bruise still lingered.

  “It has honeycomb, which is delicious.” Garrick picked up a small jar of honey with a handwritten label for her to inspect.
“Plus it evens up my bottles nicely. It’s been irritating me all day, but now with that jar gone these shelves look splendid.” He pressed the honey into Araminta’s hands, then tidied the remaining jars. “See?”

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  Araminta returned to the table she was sharing with Laura and opened the jar. Using a teaspoon, she sampled a dollop of honey. The sweet viscous liquid slid down, soothing her ragged throat with its delicate flavour.

  “Your jars will only get out of order again when a customer comes in for honey,” she said.

  “Yes, unfortunately.” Garrick sighed. “Customers can be so inconvenient.”

  From the other side of the table Laura gave her a wink. “Aren’t you glad you dragged yourself out for this?”

  “Actually, I am,” Araminta said. “It’s nice to get away from those reporters lurking outside my cottage.”

  It was five-thirty in the evening, and they were sitting in Garrick’s shop, Garrick having already gleefully shut the doors at five on the dot. Laura and Araminta were picking at the ‘scraps’, as Garrick called them, which, this evening consisted of a chicken-and-leek pie, melt-in-the-mouth prosciutto, cubes of Manchego cheese, and a perky homemade ginger ale.

  Seven exhausting days had passed since Ollie Saunders had almost choked her to death, though it wasn’t that that haunted her, but her memories of Isla—lying grief-stricken at the foot of the stairs where her lover had died, then teetering in despair on the parapet, before shrieking like the undead as she launched herself at Ollie. And most of all, Isla revelations. She and the secretary weren’t that dissimilar, she’d discovered. Both of them had been lonely and miserable, and both had found an unexpected home at Missenden Hall.

  “What’s happening with the murderous secretary?” Garrick asked, as if reading her mind.

  “She’s not exactly murderous,” Araminta objected, taking another scoop of honey. “It was more of an accident.”

  “I’m not judging her.” Garrick cradled a wheel of blue cheese in his arms. “We’re all potential murderers, given the right circumstances.”

  “She’s cooperating fully with the police,” Araminta said. “Ellen Digby is her solicitor. She makes DCI’s quake in their boots.”

  “Doesn’t sound cheap,” Garrick remarked.

  “She and my aunt went to boarding school together. She’s doing it pro bono.”

  “So your aunt and uncle are fully behind Isla?” Laura asked, taking the jar of honey from Araminta for a sample.

  “Yes.”

  “And how are they holding up? Must be awful for them, having their dirty laundry aired in public.” Laura lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “It’s all anyone can talk about around here.”

  “Gossip, the grease that keeps the wheels of our countrified hamlets creaking.” Garrick gently manoeuvred the wheel of Roquefort into place in the wall of cheese he was building. “Don’t worry, Araminta. It will all die down when the next bit of sensationalist news breaks, like a royal baby cutting his first tooth, or an English cricketer getting legless and obnoxious, or something equally irrelevant.” He stood back to admire his work. “So, do you know if Joel Taylor really was your uncle’s son?”

  Laura spluttered, and honey dribbled from the corners of her mouth. “Garrick!” she protested. “That’s—that’s not a polite thing to ask.”

  He gave her a blank look. “I wasn’t trying to be polite. Sorry,” he added to Araminta.

  “No need for apologies.” Araminta handed Laura a paper serviette. “You’re only voicing what everyone else is wondering. The answer is, it’s no one’s business except my aunt and uncle’s.”

  She had no intention of telling them anymore than that. A few days ago Aunt Edwina had confided in her that Uncle George, due to a severe case of mumps after their only child had been born, had been rendered infertile. This had made Robert’s death all the more devastating. It also meant that Joel Taylor couldn’t possibly have been his son.

  In Araminta’s mind the only definitive answer lay in the samples of Joel Taylor’s blood stored in the pathology lab. But it wasn’t her place to press for a DNA test. Aunt Edwina and Uncle George had reached an understanding, and they appeared to be at peace with their decision. They were also preoccupied with the business of supporting Isla and dealing with the police and the press. On the surface they seemed their normal selves, but Araminta knew they had been altered forever, in some ways seemingly for the better. There was a new gentleness in the way they behaved towards each other, even if it was just to pass the marmalade.

  “And the tours?” Laura asked. “Are they to continue?”

  Araminta sat up. “Oh, definitely. They start again from next week. The website came back online today, and tickets for the first day are sold out already.”

  “Just goes to show you, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. And you’ll be the tour guide?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll be helping out for the rest of the summer.” Araminta nibbled on an olive. Without her pushing, her aunt and uncle would’ve shut down the entire show and retreated into their shells. Only when she’d promised to oversee all tours had they relented. With hard work and a bit of luck they might earn enough over the summer to stave off the creditors and have enough spare to make some urgent repairs.

  “That’s good,” Garrick commented. “Something to keep you busy instead of just idling about.”

  “Thanks.” Araminta gave him a mock bow. “I can always trust you to speak the unvarnished truth.”

  “It’s one of my many virtues.” He rotated a Stilton cheese a few degrees.

  “Such as modesty.”

  “Oh, I’ve never been modest.”

  Laura snorted into her ginger ale. “Tell us something we don’t know, darling.”

  Someone rat-tat-tatted on the glass door, and a tall, toothy woman with dead-straight ash blonde hair and candyfloss pink lipstick gave them a dazzling smile.

  “Yoo-hoo!” She beckoned to them, a diamond ring flashing on her finger. An oversized handbag dangled from her other arm, the fluffy head of a toy Pomeranian poking through the handles.

  “Oops, look sharp,” Laura muttered out of the corner of her mouth. “It’s bloody Octavia Higginbottom. What’s she want?”

  “I think she wants Garrick to open the shop,” Araminta said as the woman gestured to Garrick more urgently.

  “Garrick, daaahling,” the woman drawled through the glass as Garrick sauntered towards the door. “Be a dear and let me in, won’t you? I just need to pick up a few things, some macadamia nuts, and quince paste, and—oh, that cheese over there looks divine. I must have a closer look. Hurry up, now, I don’t have all night, you know.”

  Garrick walked up to the door and nodded to the woman outside. “We open at nine in the morning.”

  “Oh, but—”

  He ripped down the blind, obscuring her flabbergasted expression, and dusted his hands.

  “I think I’ll finish this off with a few boxes of carraway seed crackers,” he said as he returned to his cheese display.

  Laura sighed. “And to think instead of loitering here, we could be drinking champagne in a fancy hotel.”

  Araminta chuckled. “Perhaps, but we wouldn’t enjoy it as much as this.”

  A FEW HOURS LATER, Araminta walked home by herself, declining Laura’s offer of a lift. After a hectic few days, it was a pleasure to stroll down the quiet lanes and to breath in the cool night air. Reaching the cottage, she did her usual jiggling routine with the gate, its rusty squeak reassuring. She entered the cottage and went upstairs to her bedroom. As she tossed her bag on a chair, her glance fell on the silver-framed photo next to her bed.

  “Well, darling, it looks like I’ll be spending the next three months or so here,” she said.

  Ian gazed back at her.

  “I’m actually looking forward to it.” She plopped herself on the bed and eased off her espadrilles. “Maybe I’ve turned a corner. What do you think?”

  Sh
e picked up the photo and traced a finger over her husband’s image. The ache in her heart was present as always, but not as acute as before. Ian was gone, but her memories would last forever.

  A knock sounded on her front door. Araminta frowned. It was rather late for visitors to drop by, and the knock was too tentative for an emergency. She returned Ian’s phot to her bedside table, then slowly descended the stairs.

  Should she arm herself with a poker, just as a precaution? Don’t be silly, she told herself. This was sleepy old Cranley; many people didn’t even bother locking up when they went to bed.

  She opened the door. A young woman hovered on the porch. It looked like she’d been in the act of leaving but spun around at Araminta’s appearance.

  “Hello,” Araminta said. “Can I help you?”

  The girl wore faded jeans, white trainers, and a green parka. She was tall, with coltish long legs and a skittish look about her. “Are you Mrs Templeton?”

  “I am. And you are?”

  A faint line appeared on the girl’s smooth brow. Her eyes were blue and troubled. “Your husband was Ian Templeton, a police detective?”

  It was Araminta’s turn to frown. “That’s correct.” Her voice was calm, but underneath her nerves were trilling, warning her. Something wasn’t right.

  The girl pushed dark hair away from a pale, perfectly oval face. Her lips trembled.

  “Who are you?” Araminta asked again, gripped by a strange feeling of dread.

  The stranger swallowed, then lifted her chin.

  “My name’s Willa Bradshaw,” she said in a small but determined voice, “and I believe Ian Templeton was my father.”

  ~ THE END ~

  Dear Reader

  If you enjoyed this book please consider leaving a review. Reviews help me to reach more readers and are always much appreciated.