‘And what did old Audrey say to that little request, Mr Eavesdropper?’
‘Now, you won’t believe this, but she just laughed. She sounded half-demented for a moment, and little Miss Findlater sort of spluttered and faltered, trying to say something she couldn’t get out.’
‘The old cow!’ judged Flo, making a face that conveyed a suitable amount of disbelief.
‘That’s what I thought. In spades!’
‘So what happened next? I’d never have known this had happened, from what I’ve seen of them recently.’
‘Old Audrey starts going on about how weak Harriet’s discipline is; how she can’t face teaching the lower class because of the behaviour of the young children; how she bursts into tears if there is any unpleasantness, finally running off to Mummy if things get really unpleasant.’
‘Still, she could’ve let her have her turn, couldn’t she?’
‘She said she wasn’t fit to be a teacher any more; that she’d got worse with age, and that when she, Audrey, retired, she was going to recommend that Harriet be offered early retirement on mental health grounds!’
‘Oh, my Gawd! And how did she take that?’
‘Burst into tears, called old Audrey an ‘unspeakable lady-dog’ – her very words – then rushed off home, presumably to Mummy and Daddy, to have her tears dried and her hand held.’
‘So why weren’t they at each other’s throats?’
‘For one, Harriet’s that timid, she wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and for another, I was just going into the Ring o’ Bells the next lunchtime for my daily half, when I saw a van draw up, and a big bouquet of flowers being delivered at High Gates – no doubt from ‘er Ladyship to old Droopy Drawers, by way of apology, or for being so honest, if you ask me.
‘She’s that soft, that would probably have shut her up. I’d ’ave thought that the last thing she wanted was that poor wet hen snivelling and weeping all over her for goodness knows how long.’
‘Well, we’ll never find out, will we, now that ’er Ladyship’s been murdered?’
The words were hardly out of his mouth, before they both inhaled sharply and turned to stare at each other, faces horrified.
‘She never!’ hissed Flo.
‘She wouldn’t! Would she?’ hissed back Saul.
III
Sitting at the kitchen table, now almost stripped of all its cups and saucers, sat little Maura MacPherson, her Celtic-red, curly hair pulled back in a fluffy bun at the nape of her rather sturdy neck, and Stevie Baldwin, taking time-out from the crowd in the other rooms.
Maura opened the conversation. ‘These cakes will stop their mouths, when they’ve eaten all the hot cross buns at home, won’t they?’
Stevie smiled as she agreed. ‘I don’t think any amount of cakes would be enough for my gran, so I’ll need to take plenty home with me.’
Niceties dealt with, Maura got straight to the point. ‘Ghastly business, that, yesterday!’ she declared sparingly.
‘Unbelievable,’ answered Stevie, leaning down slightly to scratch just below her right knee.
‘Who on earth do you think could have done such a thing?’ Maura asked, making it clear that this was a blatant opening gambit for a good old gossip.
‘Off hand, I really couldn’t say. Whoever it was must have hated her very much,’ returned Stevie, in acceptance of the invitation. ‘Have you got any idea who might have had it in for her; who might have had a motive for wanting her out of the way?’
‘It’s funny you should ask that,’ Maura said innocently, knowing full well that that was just the question she had wanted to be asked, for she was bursting with a theory, and wanted urgently to test it on someone other than her husband. ‘My Angus told me a very strange little tale only last week, but I think I can see the sense of it now.’
‘What was that?’ Stevie asked, rubbing at her leg again.
‘Is that thing giving you trouble?’ Maura asked, having noticing her scratching a couple of minutes ago.
‘Oh, you know how it is. These National Health prostheses aren’t very comfortable, but I’m saving up for a state-of-the-art one that not only looks better, so I can wear a skirt again, but is much more comfortable to wear.’ Stevie made very light of the loss of her lower right leg. ‘Anyway, go on.’
‘Well, wee Angus said that Isaac Borrowdale was being silly, and Mrs Finch-Matthews saw him, and told him not to be a little scamp. Angus said that Isaac seemed to clamp on to the word ‘scamp’, and proceeded to tell the headteacher that he wasn’t a scamp because he didn’t have to send money to his daddy.’
‘What on earth does that mean, Maura? It’s just a load of gobbledygook.’
‘Hang on a wee minute and I’ll unravel it for you. It seems that Daddy works from home, for which I myself can vouch. Well, lately, when the mail comes, there seems to be a lot for him, and he overheard his mother say what he thought was, ‘More money from your ‘scamps’. Well, It made no sense whatsoever, until I heard the local news last night, and there was a piece where they were asking people to be extra vigilant about computer ‘scammers’. What do you reckon, Stevie?’
‘I reckon you could be right, Maura, for I’ll add my twopenn’orth now, but it’s come in a rather roundabout way. Let me explain. My grandmother is a friend of Miss Findlater’s parents; they’re of an age, and have known each other for a long time. Harriet confides her little snippets from Audrey to her mother, who usually passes them on to my grandmother, who usually passes them on to my mother, and finally to me at the end of the line.
‘It would seem that Seth Borrowdale acquired a criminal record as a juvenile, and wasn’t really dragged onto the straight and narrow until Martha got her claws into him. She’s a strong-willed woman with a lot of pride, and she’d be mortified if he was caught for anything else illegal after all this time: in fact I think she’d swing for him if he tarnished her holier-than-thou reputation. But can a leopard ever change its library books, let alone its spots?’
‘Don’t be so silly, Stevie! It wouldn’t be able to hand over its card with paws like that!’ Maura had unintentionally joined the game.
‘Just as I said,’ smiled her companion, pleased at the witty reply to her rather silly comment. Anyway, it would seem that when Seth was at school, and it was this very village school that he attended, he was one of Mrs Finch-Matthews’ first pupils when she began teaching. And it would appear that he was a ‘scammer’ even then. She caught him buying Dinky cars from the new in-take of five-year-olds, with bubble gum for payment, then he went on to sell them to his friends in the upper class for their pocket money.
‘Apparently he was strangely possessive about his own toys, and actually kept two sets of cars and trucks and things. This, I think, came from Seth’s own mother to either Harriet or her mother. It would seem that when other children came round to play, he would get a collection of battered old toys out to share with them.
‘When he was on his own, however, it was a different matter. He had a pristine set of playthings, kept immaculate, and in their boxes. These were for when he was playing on his own. He didn’t like to share the good things with other people, in case they damaged them. Now that’s damned odd in a child so young, don’t you think?’
‘Not only is that weird,’ Maura agreed, ‘but I think the business about using bubble gum as currency, to get his hands on hard cash, at that age, is positively criminal. I bet the mothers of the little boys who swapped their cars were livid.’
‘No doubt, but what could they do about it? Their little darlings had, as it were, chewed the gum and found it good. That particular kind of currency had been confined to the waste bin or swallowed out of devilment, long before they found out what had been going on.’
‘But that just backs up what I said, and confirms that he’s been a bit of a wide boy since he started school. I wonder he doesn’t have a criminal record.’
‘Maybe he has, and we just don’t know about it. You know that stuck-up bitch o
f a wife would cover for him, just so she could retain her air of superiority and respectability.’
‘Come to think of it,’ Maura commented, a look of deep thought on her face, ‘there have been a couple of times when he’s been away on business, or so she said, for a few months at a time. I wonder if he could actually have been ‘doing time’?’
‘Wouldn’t that be great?’ Stevie asked, with a laugh. ‘That’d knock Little Miss Snooty off her pedestal, and no mistake.’
‘Aye!’ said Maura, with a wicked little twinkle, as she rose to go back into the dining area to buy a few more cupcakes to replace the ones she’d unconsciously eaten while chatting to Stevie.
IV
Meredith Allington, from Cobwebs, and India Bywaters-Flemyng of Paddock View entered the fray, one just a few seconds after the other. Thus they arrived simultaneously at the display of cakes, which was already showing signs of being depleted. They were both one half of two local couples, and had known each other since starting school.
Meredith Allington, an avid gossip-hound, the end of her nose twitching as it did when she scented prey, opened the conversation. ‘Well, what do you think of yesterday? Just desserts or what?’
‘I say! That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? She was just a harmless old biddy not long off retirement.’
‘Harmless old biddy – my arse! That’s not what you’ve been saying all these years, and I still can’t understand why you let your Sholto go to that school after what happened.’
‘That was a lifetime ago. I haven’t thought about it in years.’
‘No, of course you haven’t.’ Meredith’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. ‘I remember the things you used to say about her: the way she treated your other half, and half scared him to death, until he developed that stutter. And he’s not that much better now. You told me that he said he used to wet his pants every Monday morning, just at the thought of going back to school after the weekend.’
‘Let’s get these cakes sorted out and bought, and we can have a chat in a minute,’ countered India in self-defence, pretending an unnatural interest in a blood-red strawberry tart.
‘Tinned fruit!’ was her friend’s reaction. ‘Let’s away to the kitchen for a coffee when we’ve made our purchases, and we can have a good old chew of the fat.’
Knowing Meredith’s unerring instinct for rumour and her love of dissecting any gossip in the offing, India agreed, and chose a Victoria sandwich and three sticky lardy cakes for their tea that afternoon. Sunday would bring endless chocolate, and this should satisfy the sweet teeth of both her son and her husband until then.
Meredith pounced on the strawberry tart from which she had just distracted her friend, and even had the grace to look a little guilty. ‘Sorry! I just love tinned strawberries. I can’t seem to help myself.’
Once settled in the kitchen with mugs of coffee – the cups and saucers had run out, and were piled in the sink and on the draining board in an ever increasing mountain – Meredith was off again, like a terrier with a scent. ‘Look what she did to him. He had no speech problems before he started at that school. And you only stayed in the village because you could run the businesses as you do.’
‘Well, it helped that Hartley’s aunt died and left us that pile of a property of hers. That’s what got us started; nothing to do with his ‘communication problems’.’
‘And it’s jolly lucky you did inherit from her. What else could he have done?’
‘He doesn’t have a stutter when he’s at home.’ India was feeling decidedly defensive of her beloved spouse now.
‘No, but you know you have to handle all the customers for the riding school and trekking, and do the welcoming and the hand-backs of the cottages, because he can’t get a word out.’
‘Oh, look! There’s a couple from one of my holiday homes, just gone through the hall,’ said India, pointing in a way her mother had always told her was bad manners. ‘I think I’ll go and have a word, see how they’re settling in.’ Where Meredith Allington was concerned, she had to take her opportunities to escape where she could, and with a quick wave, she disappeared back into the other room in search of sanctuary.
Her quarry was surveying the goodies on display while her husband was leaning against the wall pretending indifference, although he kept a close eye on what his wife was selecting.
‘Hello there!’ India cooed in her quarry’s ear, making her jump slightly. ‘It’s Virginia Grainger, isn’t it, from number five? And this is your husband Richard,’ she added, as he moved away from the wall to join them. ‘India Bywaters-Flemyng – I handed over the keys to your cottage when you arrived.’
‘Of course. How nice to see you again,’ smiled Virginia, indicating that she would take four scones and four jam tarts. ‘There seems to be a lot of chat going on here. Is there something on in the village for Easter?’ she asked, innocently.
‘Nothing so inviting, I’m afraid,’ India replied, not often being the bearer of news, having a friend like Meredith. ‘I’m afraid the headmistress of the local primary school was murdered yesterday, and we’re not used to such sensations in such a quiet backwater as this.’
At the word ‘murder’, Virginia’s face had drained of colour, and her husband’s had assumed a strange blank expression.
‘You’ve had a murder here?’ Virginia asked, in a tiny voice.
‘Yes. Yesterday. At the school. Down the road and across the crossroads from where you are.’
The holidaying couple exchanged a horrified look, and Richard took his wife’s arm. ‘I think we’ll be returning the keys to the cottage to you later today.’
‘But why?’ India was mystified by their reaction. She hadn’t even had a chance to go into the gory details yet.
‘We came here for a break because, if you must know, we recently became entangled in a double murder, and now we’ve barely settled in here only to find there’s been another one just down the road from us. I don’t know about you, Virginia, but I don’t think I could bear to be in close proximity to another one, could you?’
‘Absolutely not, Richard. Let’s go and pack. Oh, we don’t expect a refund or anything like that,’ Virginia added, looking in India’s direction and, hanging on to her husband’s arm, they made their exit, almost forgetting, in their haste to grab their bag of sweet goodies, but pausing, of necessity, on their way out, to return their cups and saucers to the kitchen.
‘Extraordinary!’ exclaimed India, immediately disengaging her mind from this meeting and leaning forward to ask Ruth if they had any hot cross buns.
‘Certainly not,’ was the reply. ‘If we sold those, Anne and Chris Hammond would be after us for trying to put the village shop out of business.’
India gave her a comprehending look, for it didn’t do to tread on the commercial toes of another business in the village; if, that is, one wanted to stay in business oneself. With a wary glance towards the kitchen, she managed to slip through the door and out of the house without being caught by Meredith again, to her obvious relief.
V
Miss Harriet Findlater had more or less recovered from her conniption of the day before, and turned up about an hour into the bake sale to choose something for a treat for herself and her parents. She had thought it better to get out and about as quickly as possible after the awful shock she had suffered, and she never failed to support anything the school had organised.
After selecting three blueberry and three chocolate muffins, she carried her purchases to the kitchen, where she found Stevie Baldwin at the sink washing and drying cups and saucers, and stopping momentarily to lift her right leg from the floor to ease the pain where her prosthesis rubbed.
‘Hello, Miss Findlater,’ she called. Don’t have one of those clunky mugs. Here – I’ve got a nice clean cup and saucer for you – much more refined, if rather utilitarian. Help yourself from the urns. They’re labelled. I’m just getting this done before I refill them.’
‘Where’s Ruth?’ asked Harrie
t, glad to be in familiar company.
‘Having a cuppa herself. She deserves it: it took ages to get all this set out, and with it being Good Friday, Septimus couldn’t be here to give her a hand. I say, what do you make of that awful business yesterday?’
Harriet Findlater groaned, and sank into a chair at the kitchen table with her recently filled cup. ‘I don’t know what to make of it. In fact, I don’t want to think of it at all: it was just so awful,’ and with this declaration, she ran her right hand over her face as if to brush away an irritant.
‘I know how you feel, but someone did that to her, and I’d rather we knew who it was, so they can be locked up before they do it again.’
At this, Harriet looked aghast, as if the thought had never crossed her mind, then asked, ‘But who? It was so barbaric. I can’t think of anyone who would do something so … so … savage. Can you?’
‘No, but your memory of Mrs Finch-Matthews goes back much further than mine. Can you think of anyone who would bear her a grudge so strong that they would do something like that?’
‘No, of course I can’t.’
‘I bet you could if you tried. You know you’ve got a marvellous memory, and you know more than anyone else about our little school now.’
Flattery always produced results, and Harriet Findlater propped an elbow on the table, her chin in her hand, and began to cast her mind back. ‘Well …’ she began, tentatively.
‘Yes? Go on! What?’ Stevie encouraged her, drying her hands and sitting opposite her at the table, where she placed a pile of saucers and a few cups.
‘It’s such a long time ago, my dear. I’m sure it can’t have any relevance after so many years.’
‘You let me be the judge of that. Now, don’t tease. Tell me what you’re thinking about before I burst.’
‘It’s the Darlings. The couple who run the Ring o’ Bells.’
‘She can’t have taught them; they’re much too old.’
Pascal Passion (The Falconer Files Book 4) Page 5