‘He took an overdose. Sleeping tablets. He was found in the holly wood.’
‘Oh dear.’ Hattie leaned in awkwardly, encouraging Marjorie to continue.
‘I didn’t even know he took any damned sleeping tablets!’
Hattie munched on her cake and nodded, uncertain of what to say.
‘The coroner said it was suicide. There was a pill container in his hand and a bottle of whisky by his side. Both were empty. The post-mortem showed a fatal dose of opiates and a large quantity of alcohol in his system.’
‘What about his employers? Did they mention any problems at work?’
‘Barry worked for Castle Care Communities. They have care homes all over Cumbria - he was the operations director. He’d worked there for years.’ She sighed. ‘The main care home is in Marland and Barry went there regularly, sometimes to meet with the MD, John Hargreaves. John thought highly of Barry.’
‘Have his employers been sympathetic?’
‘Yes, John came to the funeral; he told me that he’d make sure that I was looked after.’
‘Well, that’s a comfort.’ Hattie spoke with a soft tone and asked, ‘Did Barry enjoy his job?’
‘Yes, he loved it. He had a good salary with all the perks of a decent expense account and, most of all, he liked to be around Camilla.’
‘Camilla?’ Hattie reached for her sherry and topped up their glasses.
‘His daughter. She’s the company accountant for Castle Care Communities.’
‘Oh, that’s nice that you have a daughter.’
‘I’m not Camilla’s mother,’ Marjorie said. Her words sounded matter of fact as she explained, ‘I met Barry when Camilla was fourteen. We had an affair and when his wife found out they divorced and we decided to get married.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Hattie watched Marjorie cradle her glass with elegant fingers. Her nails were perfectly manicured, and she crossed shapely legs in a graceful pose, flexing elegant feet, clad in expensive leather pumps.
Hattie shuffled her comfy old moccasins on the worn hearth rug.
‘We were happy, he had no reason to do what he did.’
‘How’s Camilla?’ Hattie asked.
‘Hysterical, resentful, angry, she loathes me,’ Marjorie said. ‘But she’s always been like that towards me, ever since he left her mother.’
Hattie thought that Camilla probably had every good reason to resent this woman who’d stolen her father’s heart.
‘Does she live with you?’
‘Heavens, no, not now.’ Marjorie spat the words out. ‘I tried very hard to get on with her and put up with her hostility, but when she went to university she never came back to our home, thank God.’
Hattie watched Marjorie. As she spoke about Camilla, her nostrils seemed to flare in her reddening face and her head jerked back. Hattie could see that Marjorie loathed her husband’s daughter and now realised that it was Camilla who had been in the funeral car with Marjorie and no doubt the person she’d been arguing with earlier that day.
The plot thickens, Hattie thought.
Marjorie set her glass down and, with a carefully controlled voice, turned to look at Hattie. ‘But enough about me,’ she said, smiling politely, ‘what are you going to do with this place?’
‘I’ll do my best to make it habitable, tidy it up, add few coats of paint to the walls, that sort of thing.’
‘It could be divine.’ Marjorie was thoughtful. ‘With a bit of careful planning and a great deal of imagination this place has the potential to be something very special.’ She stood up. ‘May I?’ she asked and stepped out of the sitting room and into the dining room. She studied the ancient beams and ran her fingers along dusty nooks and crannies, then continued on and into the kitchen where she stopped and looked around. ‘You could have a conservatory extension out here. It would make a marvellous living space.’
‘I quite like my little kitchen.’ Hattie joined her neighbour. Together they stared at the dated fixtures, the stone sink and old pine table alongside a range, blackened with age. A gas cooker stood independently alongside a wooden counter.
‘The cooking facilities are pre-war,’ Marjorie said and frowned.
Hattie held onto the back of a creaking rocking chair, the handles worn into grooves from Aunt Annie’s lifetime grip. ‘I’m happy with simple things,’ she said.
‘But think of the value you would put on this place. It would shoot up in price.’
‘I hadn’t thought about selling, not for a good while at least.’
‘Well, let me know if you need any advice.’ Marjorie turned back the sleeves on her tailored DKNY jacket. ‘I was an interior designer before I met Barry.’
‘But you must have your hands full, looking after your own house.’ Hattie thought about the spacious home next door, with no man about the place.
‘I’ll probably have to sell it.’
‘Oh, I hope not.’
‘Camilla is contesting the will.’ Marjorie sighed.
‘Barry left everything to me.’
‘Nothing for Camilla?’
‘She has a good job and a very bright future and he probably considered that she would be well set-up. Whereas, if anything happened to him, I would need a roof over my head, and he wanted me to be able to maintain my lifestyle.’
‘Did Barry leave a note?’ Hattie tentatively asked.
Marjorie’s eyes misted again. ‘No, nothing at all.’ She sniffed and reached into her bag for a tissue. ‘I must let you get on.’ She excused herself and moved across the room.
‘You can go through here,’ Hattie said and went through the lean-to attached to the kitchen. Opening a stable-door, Hattie led them both into the garden.
Marjorie followed. ‘Goodness,’ she said with surprise, ‘it’s glorious out here.’ She looked down. ‘You have wonderful stone flagging that would make a perfect base for a conservatory and save time in the construction.’ She wandered further around the space that Alf had cleared and stopped by the wall. ‘Is that a duck?’
A green head appeared. Quack, quack!
‘Oh, bloody hell!’ Hattie cried out and ran across the lawn to shoo the duck away.
‘Is he friendly?’ Marjorie raised her neatly-shaped eyebrows.
‘He’s a menace.’ Hattie shook her fist at the duck. The duck flapped his wings and tottered off across the field.
‘Well, I’ll be going too.’ Marjorie turned and, together, they headed for the gate. ‘It was nice to see you again, please do come to visit me soon.’
‘Absolutely, especially if you have more of that delicious cake.’ Hattie watched Marjorie depart, her slim hips swaying as she walked into the lane and disappeared beyond the gates of Holly House.
Hattie ran her hands through her hair as she wandered back. Barry’s death didn’t add up. A bloke doesn’t often call it a day when everything appears to be going well, especially with a trophy wife like Marjorie at home. She went back to the kitchen and began to tidy cake plates into the sink. As Hattie lathered soapy water, she considered what she’d learnt. Barry loved his job, adored his daughter and had a beautiful wife. Financially, he was well paid and lived in a comfortable home. He was popular in the pub too but within forty-eight hours of a good session with his friends, Barry was dead.
It didn’t seem right. There had to be more to it. As she looked out at the fields, she wondered why she was so concerned with something that was none of her business. She’d enough to do with sorting the cottage and finding a worthwhile way of spending her days.
All of a sudden, a flash of black and white fur shot across the field and made Hattie jump. It spun around in circles and, as she leant forward, Hattie could see that Ness was after the duck. ‘Wretched dog!’ Hattie watched the dog chase the duck. ‘I’d better get out there before she kills it.’ She dried her hands on her dress and, realising that Alf must be in the vicinity too, decided to collar him with a job.
At least someone would have something to do.
&nb
sp; ALF SAT on a stool in the shed in Hattie’s garden and rolled a cigarette. Ness, who’d slunk in from the garden, lay at his feet, her body occasionally twitching, as she chased the duck in her dreams. Alf reached down and, with a smile, stroked her silky head. She was a grand little dog and his constant companion. Alf had always had a dog at this side, from boy to man there’d always been canine companions trudging faithfully in his footsteps from gundogs to sheepdogs and now, Ness, a collie Labrador cross.
He puffed happily and poured himself a beaker of tea from a flask that Judy had prepared earlier. She’d packed a thick slice of fruitcake too, which sat in a parcel of foil beside him. The sun was shining and, as Alf gazed out of the window, he contemplated his schedule for the day ahead. Hattie didn’t seem to be taking much interest in the cottage, nor the garden, and Alf wondered what it would take to get her involved. He knew that it was only a few months since Hugo had died and wondered if her lethargy was down to grief. They’d only been married for a short while, but Alf knew that Hugo’s time with Hattie would have been hectic, for she was never one to sit still and loved to have fun.
No doubt the old boy went out with a smile on his face.
Alf had known Hattie for some time. During his caretaker days at the hotel where she worked, they’d built a friendship which continued as he worked at the cottage, but now he felt that she lacked her sparkle and needed something to do. The cottage would tidy up in no time, unless she wanted to renovate and improve it considerably, which in Alf’s opinion she should do. It was a cracking place with lots of character and history. In the beam over the fireplace in the living room, a previous resident had carved the date 1787. If the cottage could speak, Alf was sure there’d be tales to tell and he wondered how many folks had passed through its doors.
Alf thought about Marjorie too. He’d seen her arrive earlier and she’d not long gone. How was she was feeling? Village gossip was rife with rumours and many considered that Marjorie must have driven Barry to suicide. Why else would a decent, hard-working bloke, who appeared to have everything, give up on life? Alf didn’t believe a word of it and shook his head.
With a sigh, he hauled himself to his feet, pinched the stub of his roll-up and swigged the last of his tea. ‘Come on, old lass,’ he said to Ness, ‘let’s see what the missus has in mind for us today.’
HATTIE WAS STILL in the kitchen. She was bored. Bored with the inactivity of having nothing purposeful in her life. It was all well and good watching Alf set about his jobs around the cottage, but she had no interest in gardening, painting walls, sealing windows or mending cracks in the ceiling. Hattie was quite happy to let him get on with it.
She’d cleared away Marjorie’s carrot cake, resisting the temptation to finish it off. Half-heartedly, Hattie made a stab at cleaning the floor and dusting surfaces. There was a pile of washing to be done but she didn’t feel like doing it and stuffed it in a cupboard, out of sight. She was glad that Marjorie had gone. The woman made Hattie feel frumpy and she wished that she’d been wearing something smarter than a shabby old dress when her neighbour had unexpectedly arrived.
Hattie stared out of the kitchen window. Alf was in the garden now, digging the border nearest the wall. He was under strict instructions to have it finished by teatime. Ness was glued to his side, tail thumping and body tense. She looked for robins to chase away, as fat tasty worms surfaced from the newly turned soil. Hattie was pleased that Alf was making a good job of tidying things up but even the garden couldn’t capture her imagination for long, despite her spasmodic attempts to show interest. The previous day she’d been to the garden centre in Butterly to purchase a few plants then spent an afternoon digging them in. Now she could see that Alf had abandoned his spade and, with a grimace, was inspecting her efforts.
Hattie dried her hands and stepped out.
‘What’s this all about?’ Alf pointed to the newly-purchased plants.
‘I thought I’d stick a few flowers in.’
‘Tha’s hopeless.’ He shook his head. ‘Did you not water them after planting?’
‘It rained…’ Hattie lied and shuffled about on the path in her slippers as she watched Alf lift a watering can and pour.
‘Hmm.’ Alf shook his head. ‘You can leave the planting to me in future.’
‘Like everything else.’
Hattie was grumpy as she strutted around the garden, pulling at a shrub here and there.
‘What are your plans for this place?’ Alf called out as he walked over to a brick outbuilding, adjacent to the cottage. ‘There’s plumbing and electricity out here and plenty of space.’
‘It was probably the outside lavatory and wash-house in a previous life,’ Hattie said, catching up with Alf. They opened the door and jumped back as a pile of abandoned packing cases and boxes tumbled out. Hattie had flung them in there as she’d unpacked, and Alf swore under his breath as he shoved them to one side and went in. Battered old trunks, piled ceiling-high, were packed with treasured bits and pieces from Hugo’s home.
‘It’s a damn mess,’ Alf said and began to throw the empty boxes onto the path. ‘But it’s a decent space and it’s been renovated. You could do something with it if you got rid of all this crap.’
‘What’s the point?’ Hattie followed Alf into the space he’d cleared. ‘I’ve enough room in the cottage.’
Alf stood in the centre of the large room and took stock. ‘It would make a grand office,’ he said, ‘and you need to find a job.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re bored and it’s not a good thing.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘You’ll age before your time, having nothing to do.’
Hattie spun around and stared at Alf. ‘Age?’ Her hands flew to her face.
‘Aye.’ Alf grinned. He’d hit a nerve.
‘But what could I do?’
Hattie sat on a trunk as Alf paced the room and pondered the opportunities.
‘There’s a vacancy for a barmaid at the pub,’ he said, ‘but with you having your eye on the landlord, that might not be a good idea.’
Hattie began to protest but he went on.
‘Roberts’ Convenience Stores need someone to help out with cleaning and working the till; the proprietors are struggling to recruit.’
Hattie argued that she couldn’t see herself working alongside Joan. ‘It would be a tight squeeze behind that counter,’ she said, ‘and I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than spend a day with Arnie.’ She paused. ‘I could help with your handyman business?’
Alf laughed. ‘You haven’t a clue what to do and would be more of a hindrance than a help.’ He produced a tin from his back pocket and, with skill, rolled tobacco into a paper and lit-up. ‘You could set up an investigation service.’
‘A what?’ Hattie pulled a face and waved smoke away.
‘Tha’s always been a nosey bugger, you could go undercover and help folk out.’
‘What, like a detective?’
‘Aye, why not, it might be a bit of fun being a private dick.’ Alf chuckled and drew heavily, the smoke billowing into the room.
‘I’ve no experience,’ Hattie said, but the idea suddenly had appeal.
‘Yes you have,’ Alf said, ‘all those years of running a hotel, working out who was sleeping with who, who couldn’t pay their bill and what all those folks got up to on their holidays.’
‘That was just shenanigans.’ Hattie tilted her head to one side and looked out of the window. She thought about all the fun she’d had uncovering the lives behind the faces of the hotel guests. There was little she’d hadn’t found out by the time they checked out.
‘You had that con-man arrested.’
‘That’s a point.’ Hattie remembered a resident, who on the surface was Mr Charm, but through her investigations had turned out to be a professional conman whom she’d sussed out and exposed. She also knew most of the constabulary in Cumbria, which could be extremely useful too.
‘Up to you.’ Al
f nipped the stub of his cigarette between two calloused fingers and put it in his pocket. ‘But you’ve a grand building out here that would make a fine working office, if it had a lick of paint and a few decent shelves.’ He stood by the door and stared at Hattie. ‘Think on,’ he said, then turned and went back to the garden.
HATTIE THOUGHT on for the next twenty-four hours. Village life was offering nothing more exciting than the possibilities of joining the Saint James’ church committee for the annual fete, or a day out with the ramblers, none of whom would see seventy again. She wondered if she should have carried on cruising. Had it been a mistake to come back?
Alf was right. Hattie needed a job.
The following morning she got up early and dressed smartly, choosing stylish shoes and a designer bag to match. As she stood in the kitchen, Hattie prepared Alf’s bacon sandwiches with care. When she heard his four-wheel drive rumble to a halt in the lane, she placed a pretty embroidered cloth on a tray and, adding a pot of tea, sugar and milk with a cup and saucer alongside the breakfast, strutted into the garden.
‘Morning Alf, hello Ness.’ Hattie smiled fondly at the dog.
Alf looked puzzled as he opened the gate. ‘Everything alright?’
‘Absolutely,’ Hattie replied and walked over to a sunny corner, home to an old iron table and two rickety chairs. ‘Here, enjoy this before you make a start.’ Hattie placed the tray down.
She reached in a pocket and found a biscuit for Ness.
‘I’m going out for the day,’ Hattie said and dug into her bag for her car keys. ‘I’ve got a lot of shopping to do.’ She walked to the gate. ‘Oh, and while you’re about it, find the paint brushes; I’ve an office that needs sorting and there’s no time to waste.’
Alf shook his head, his eyes wide. His mouth was slack as he sat down and reached for a bacon sandwich, all the time watching Hattie as she jumped in her car and drove off.
‘Well, I never,’ he said. ‘About bloody time!’
5
Hattie was bursting with energy. With her mind made up and feeling focussed, she couldn’t wait to get back to work. The outbuilding, to her surprise, was in remarkably good condition and soon took shape as she made it a priority over jobs being done on the cottage. All Alf needed to do was fit suitable shelving and bespoke cabinets to create a professional working space. The decorating was soon finished and a tasteful rug from Capsticks Carpets in Butterly was laid on the stone-flagged floor. Stylish blinds, from the same supplier, were hung over the window frames.
Hattie Goes to Hollywood: Shenanigans, fun & intrigue in a new mystery series! Page 4