Hattie stared at the vicar. Of moderate height and middle-aged, his dark hair was stylishly groomed and his eyes, a deep piercing blue, strayed over her body as his head tilted to one side. Hattie wondered what his wife was like? With limited knowledge of a vicar’s wife, she imagined the woman, no doubt busy at the vicarage, her arthritic fingers crocheting cardigans for babies in Africa.
Roger sat down on the bench and shifted his weight to lean in closely. Hattie felt uncomfortable and wondered what she could do to put the vicar off.
Hattie wasn’t a church-going person and the only religion she’d had any input into in recent years was several sessions with a shaman, who ran courses in a tepee, in a meadow at the hotel. The shaman’s magic potions and sessions of self-discovery had sent Hattie on a hallucinatory journey that had taken weeks to get over and she had no desire to go on any spiritual or religious journeys again.
Reggie appeared with their drinks. ‘Tonic water for the lady,’ he said, ‘and a pint of the county’s finest ale for his worshipfulness.’ He gave Hattie a wink. ‘I’ll put it on your tab,’ he said and went back to the ramblers.
Hattie took a large gulp of her drink and, as the best part of a bottle of gin blasted down her throat and into her system, making her eyes bulge and smart, it was all she could do not to choke. Damn Reggie and his tonic water!
‘So, will we see you at morning service?’
‘I haven’t been to church for some time, especially since my husband, Hugo, passed away.’
‘Then there is every good reason for us to support you, my dear; you’ll find the parishioners at Saint James’ are very welcoming.’ Roger’s hand patted Hattie’s knee.
Bugger! Hattie thought. Wrong tactic. ‘I felt that God let me down when Hugo was called, we only had two short years together.’ Hattie failed to mention that when they’d married, there was a chance Hugo wouldn’t get past eighty and, having lived the life that he’d led, it was a miracle that he’d got that far.
‘We are here in your hour of need.’
The vicar licked froth off his lips and looked settled for the rest of the afternoon and Hattie felt that her only need was to get away.
‘My wife, Penny, wondered if you would help on the village fete committee?’ ‘Er, well, I…’
‘Splendid. We meet tomorrow, at the vicarage. Penny has been busy making sponge cakes. Your neighbour Marjorie will be attending too, you can come together.’
‘Oh, righty-ho,’ Hattie said and staggered to her feet.
‘Take care, Mrs Mulberry, I’m so glad that you’ve moved to the village.’ The vicar stroked Hattie on the arm. ‘You’re a most welcome resident and I’m sure that your days here will be interesting.’
Hattie recoiled. The vicar was wearing aftershave and the faint trace of a sweet and spicy aroma made her stomach churn. She didn’t trust herself to speak for fear of slurring her words and with a wave of an unsteady hand, teetered carefully out of the pub garden.
The duck was on the pond. When he saw Hattie step onto the village green, he moved through the water as if attached to an outboard motor. His eyes, like black beads, stared hard.
‘Don’t you eyeball me,’ Hattie said, seeing double and cursing Reggie’s drink. She squinted at the duck. There appeared to be a whole flotilla of ducks glaring back as Hattie concentrated on moving past the pond without falling in.
Quack, quack! she heard in the distance as she moved off. ‘Quack bloody quack to you too!’ she replied.
It had been her intention to walk to the holly wood and have a poke around to see where Barry had ended his days and, taking it very steadily, she put one new trainer in front of the other and began to make her way.
The woods were cool and soft underfoot and Hattie realised that she probably wasn’t in the best state to be having a look at the scene of crime. Not that she’d a clue where that might be. She entered a copse of trees; their canopy of green leaves and twisted branches gave a good covering of shade. The dimly-lit copse was lined with holly bushes and was quiet and tranquil. With not a soul in sight, it provided a perfect place for Hattie to sit down. She’d decided that she’d have a rest for five minutes.
In moments, Hattie was sound asleep.
‘HATEEEE!’
A voice sounded in the distance and, through her sleepy fug, Hattie opened one eye. It was dark and cold and she hadn’t a clue where she was. She thought she was dreaming and closed her eyes to go back to sleep. In her dream, she was sitting on a private balcony on the Queen Mary, overlooking the turquoise expanse of a gently lapping ocean. But she could hear footsteps rushing towards her and twigs cracked as steps approached. A blinding light from a torch shone in her face and Hattie quickly realised that she wasn’t cruising in the Caribbean but lying prostrate on damp undergrowth in a deserted wood.
‘Hattie!’
She heard Reggie yell and felt him fall to his knees beside her.
‘What are you doing out here?’ Hattie asked and held a hand to her eyes to shield the bright beam of light.
‘Christ, I thought you’d copped it…’ Reggie breathed a sigh of relief and grabbed hold of Hattie, pulling her into his arms.
Hattie smiled. It wasn’t a bad place to be and, as the warmth from his body penetrated her thin dress and she lay her head on his chest, Hattie wondered what on earth Reggie was doing in the woods at dusk.
She looked up at his face and asked the question.
‘I saw that you were unsteady when you left the pub and felt guilty at giving you so much gin,’ he began, ‘but I thought it might help your conversation with the vicar.’ He eased himself into a sitting position with his back against the tree, keeping a hold of Hattie with one arm wrapped tightly around her. ‘When it calmed down at the pub I nipped over to your cottage but you were nowhere to be seen; the only resident was the duck and he was creating a right commotion.’
‘The duck?’
‘Aye, he seemed to want me to follow him and, as there was a torch by your back door, I grabbed it and jumped over the wall in pursuit, across the field, and here we are.’
Quack, quack! A noise sounded beyond the bushes.
‘The duck led you here?’ Hattie shook her head in astonishment.
‘Yes, he seems to know a short-cut.’ Reggie said. ‘But I thought you were dead when I saw you lying here, you gave me such a fright.’
‘I sat down to sleep off your gin, it’s a lethal weapon, laid me out good and proper.’
‘Thank god. There couldn’t be two deaths in the same place.’
‘Eh?’ Hattie turned and looked at Reggie. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘This is where Barry was found, right here, against this tree.’
‘Shite,’ Hattie said and shuffled away.
‘It’s all right, there was nothing nasty, just a bottle and an empty pill box, they say.’ Reggie reached out and tucked Hattie back in the crook of his arm.
‘Do you think he killed himself?’ Hattie couldn’t help but ask the question.
‘It looked that way but the more I think about it, I have my doubts.’
Hattie snuggled into Reggie’s embrace. She had a feeling that this conversation would help with her investigation and was keen for Reggie to tell her what he knew.
‘What makes you uncertain?’
‘He didn’t show any signs that there were problems,’ Reggie said. ‘I knew him well, he was always in the pub and it’s surprising how much folk tell you over a pint.’
‘You’re a bit like a Samaritan?’
‘Well I wouldn’t say that, given the circumstances.’
‘Fair point.’
‘But I had a niggling feeling that he was upset with his boss; he never said as much but the odd word made me think it.’
‘John Hargreaves?’
‘Aye, he’s a right shit, I’ve no time for him. Always the last to put his hand in his pocket in the pub.’ Reggie sighed. ‘Full of bull, too.’
‘Why’s that, then?�
�
‘Reckons his care homes are the last word in comfort for the elderly but that’s not what I’ve heard.’
‘Not all they’re cracked up to be?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put a relative in one, put it like that.’
Hattie decided that she needed to begin her investigation by having a look at the company where Barry had worked. As she formed a plan, she was distracted by a warm hand running gently along her arm.
Reggie reached out and touched her face, running his finger over her lips. ‘You’re a very bonny woman,’ he whispered, then he moved forward to kiss Hattie. He traced her features and his hand moved softly along her neck, pausing at the rise of cleavage before cupping her breast.
Quack, quack! The duck waddled into the clearing and created a such a commotion that Hattie and Reggie pulled apart.
‘Should we find somewhere more comfortable?’ Reggie took hold of Hattie’s hand.
‘Preferably not anywhere near the pond,’ Hattie said and glared at the duck. She linked her fingers into Reggie’s and looked up at his smiling eyes. ‘There’s a cottage not far away,’ she said.
‘That’ll do nicely.’ Reggie grinned and, kissing Hattie on the top of her head, led her out of the holly wood and across the field to her cottage.
7
‘Q uiet night at home in front of the box?’ Alf asked the following morning as he stepped into the kitchen and noted two glasses on the table, next to an empty bottle of wine.
‘Mind your own business,’ Hattie replied. She stood at the stove, frying several slices of bacon and hoped that Alf didn’t get too close. Her mouth tasted like the bottom of a bird cage and she was naked beneath the old shirt she’d pulled on.
She’d been naked from the moment Reggie unlatched the stable door to the kitchen and pulled her into his arms, removing her clothes as he did so. For a man of maturing years, he was incredibly virile, and Hattie hadn’t had a wink of sleep. He’d left only moments before Alf arrived and Hattie knew that Alf would have caught sight of a tousled Reggie, leaving Lover’s Lane on his way back to the Holly Bush, eager to crawl into his own bed and grab a few hours’ sleep before opening time.
Which was more than Hattie could do.
She’d assured Marjorie that she’d be on the case straight away and needed to make a start. Her neighbour would want some feedback, or at least to know Hattie’s plan of action. It was the wretched village fete meeting that night too.
The bacon was crisp and smelt delicious. Hattie turned off the stove and slid it onto rounds of buttered bread then slathered it with ketchup.
‘Tha’ looks like tha’ could do with one of these,’ Alf said and began to eat.
Hattie was gagging for carbohydrate. Anything to mop up her hang-over and restore her to a state where she could make it up the stairs and attempt to get ready for the day.
‘Perhaps just one,’ she said and, grabbing a plate, piled it high. She reached for a mug of tea and hurried out of the kitchen. ‘Keep yourself busy today,’ she called out over her shoulder. ‘Marjorie might come over to have a word with you about a conservatory.’
With a silent prayer of thanks that she’d escaped further cross-examination by Alf, Hattie smiled longingly at her breakfast and headed up the stairs.
A SHORT WHILE LATER, Hattie drove along the country road to Marland. She kept to a moderate speed and noted that her satellite navigation system indicated that she would arrive in approximately thirty minutes.
She wanted a little bit of time to gather her thoughts before her meeting.
Earlier, having restored life back into her limbs by eating the bacon sandwiches and taking a very cold shower, Hattie had dressed carefully. She chose a Breton striped dress, which the assistant in Jaeger had assured was of a stylish, “fit and flare” cut. It would flatter Hattie’s curves. Choosing red courts and a navy clutch, Hattie thought of her dear friend, Jo, who always seemed to know what worked best in outfits and would be proud that Hattie was taking a more classical approach. Gone were the plunge necklines, animal prints, slashed hems and tight body-con Lycra, to be replaced by clothes more fitting to a woman in her middle years. Hattie personally thought that it was a bloody shame that she could no longer get away with it, for she’d loved her racy wardrobe and had enjoyed many years of mischief creating her “look”.
Hattie was heading for the Castle Care Communities care home in Marland. She’d placed a call earlier and, after stating that she had an elderly relative that needed residential care, the manager had arranged for Hattie to have a tour of the property that morning. She wanted to get a feel for the ethics of the company and their attitude to employees and residents.
It might be an interesting visit.
The road by-passed the village of Kirkton Sowerby and Hattie had a strong urge to turn off and head for the hotel, where she used to work with Jo. Boomerville, as the hotel was now called, was a retreat for mid-lifers and encouraged guests to participate in a variety of courses to enhance their later years. Hattie remembered the fun she’d shared with Jo when they were establishing the business and setting up the courses. Following its success, Jo had rolled the concept out around the country, with a new hotel about to open in Bath, in the south-west. Lots of counties now boasted a Boomerville and Hattie wondered how many mid-lifers had benefitted from a stay there.
She glanced at the clock on the dashboard and decided that if she had time on the way back, she’d stop off for a coffee.
‘You have reached your destination,’ the Irish voice on Hattie’s sat nav announced. Hattie’s car had been a gift from Hugo, and he’d found it amusing to have a jovial navigation system installed.
‘To be sure!’ Hattie replied but with little time to react, she missed the turning.
‘Eejit! Turn around and go back.’
Hattie wanted to tell the device to feck off, but instead, did as she was told.
Set at the end of a steep incline, beyond a high and intimidating wall, the care home was a Grade Two listed building that sprawled across an area partly shaded by a sheer rock face. Castle-like in style, it reminded Hattie of the house in the Rocky Horror Show. She left her car in a pot-holed parking area and climbed steep stone steps that led to the front door. As she rang the bell, she thought of the photograph on the home’s website which had used a considerable amount of artistic licence.
She wondered if Dr Frank-N-Furter would answer the door and was pleasantly surprised to see a smartly-dressed woman, wearing a tight pencil-skirt dress, waving through the glass window. As the woman slid back the lock, she said, ‘You must be Mrs Mulberry, here for a look around on behalf your uncle?’
‘That’s me,’ Hattie said and walked into the foyer, where she stepped onto a traditionally-patterned carpet. She stared at the high ceiling with carved cornices and a wooden dado rail. Pictures of countryside scenes hung from thin chains above oak-panelled walls. Fire-doors screened corridors and Hattie peered through one to see a sweeping staircase with a galleried landing. Weak sunlight filtered through stained glass windows and Hattie imagined that the property must have been a fine house in its day, despite the foreboding atmosphere that she felt as she looked around. She hoped that it was more cheerful in the residents’ rooms.
‘I’m Nancy Clifford, the manager, welcome to Marland Manor,’ the woman said and indicated that Hattie should sign the visitors’ book. ‘What’s your uncle’s name?’
Hattie was tempted to say Frank, as she scrawled her name alongside the day’s date and noted that there had been few visitors in the preceding days. ‘Uncle Charlie,’ she replied, ‘he’s my uncle through marriage, Charles Eden. My late husband was terribly fond of him, as indeed am I.’
‘Is it nursing care that Charles will require?’
‘Yes.’ Hattie thought fast. ‘His doctor has recommended that we find a reliable service that knows how to deal with dementia. I have Power of Attorney.’
‘Then you can make decisions for your uncle and you’ve come
to the right place.’ Nancy gave a warm smile.
Hattie noticed that her teeth were straight and white, her pink lips glistened with lipstick. Nancy was an attractive woman for her age, which Hattie judged to be in the middle fifties. ‘Where do we start?’ Hattie asked.
‘Follow me.’ Nancy moved towards a door and, taking a card from her pocket, swiped it along a contact strip, at shoulder height. ‘The security of our residents is our utmost concern,’ she said. ‘They require our constant attention.’ She indicated that Hattie step forward as she unlocked the door. ‘They tend to go wandering if left to themselves.’ She gave a dismissive shake of her coiffured head.
In a large open room, a group of elderly people sat in wing-backed, upright chairs; each had a uniformed carer alongside them. The staff looked up as Hattie entered. Nancy called out a greeting to the residents, but no one looked up. The staff returned Hattie’s smile; they appeared to be busy, tending to the resident in their charge.
Nancy asked Hattie to step into the hallway then excused herself to speak to a nurse on medication duty. Hattie slipped back into the room and, as she looked around, she noticed that with Nancy out of sight, the smiles had been replaced with scowls. She hurried back into the hall as Nancy reappeared.
They proceeded to visit other rooms in the home where, Nancy explained, various activities such as painting or drawing, and music and games took place.
‘It’s important that residents have stimulation,’ Nancy said as they went into the dining room and viewed catering staff preparing for lunch. ‘Our food is very nutritious and there’s plenty of choice.’ She smiled as a chef wheeled an enormous heated trolley into the room. ‘We encourage everyone to select their own meals.’
As they left, Hattie looked back to see the chef make a rude gesture behind Nancy’s back. He shrugged when he realised that Hattie had seen him.
The tour continued upstairs and Hattie viewed a luxurious bedroom, complete with bathroom facilities, suitable for a person with mobility difficulties. They wandered past several closed doors and Nancy said that she was unable to show Hattie an occupied room as she had to respect the privacy of the residents.
Hattie Goes to Hollywood: Shenanigans, fun & intrigue in a new mystery series! Page 6