Weycombe

by G. M. Malliet

  She’d been divorced so long ago she couldn’t be bothered to mention her former husband. She might even have forgotten his name: I always suspected that despite hanging out with Garvin, the village scribe, she was one of these women happier on her own. She was happy with her work, content with her lot, and had the wisdom to shut up and be grateful. I should have suggested she embroider that on something.

  She did not seem to have a dread of growing old, or of living like a character in some Anita Brookner novel, drawing out the long days in a sort of pointless shuffling about. You saw lots of those Brookner women in London: they worked for the Department of Something Boring and took pottery classes and hung around galleries and so on but it was all a pretext to find a mate, or at least to keep busy-busy until a mate came along. Or so it seemed to me. I had vowed I would die before I joined their legions.

  As I walked in, the bells over the door chimed, a curtain leading into the back of the shop parted, and Frannie breezed in like a vaudevillian stepping onstage.

  “You’re famous,” I told her.

  “So are you.” She pulled her shawl closer, bracelets jangling. “Not in a good way, sadly.”

  “So it was you. You were mentioned as a woman walking her dogs. I know of only one other person it could have been, out there at about that time.”

  “They didn’t use my name!” she said. “I hope not. They’d no right. The police promised.” She was being more than a bit disingenuous here. Rashima had told me Frannie had broadcast her involvement to everyone who would stay to listen. It made me wonder how far she could be trusted.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I just put two and two together. They said you—someone—saw Anna go by and then, as you were turning back with the dogs, at the top of the hill, you saw her stop to talk with someone. The police put out a call for that someone but no one has come forward. The logical suspicion is that Anna was talking with her killer.”

  “They said as much to me.” Frannie looked alarmed, uneasy. She’d been dragged into something really ugly as a witness, so no wonder. But she was, on some level, excited by it, at being the center of attention. It positively shone out of her eyes.

  I saw little point in beating around the bush. We both paid our respects to Anna’s memory (“Shocking!” “So sad.” “So young … ish”) and then I said, “Am I remembering right, that Jason worked for you once?”

  She was sorting through something in a drawer and gave the drawer a harder shove than was needed to close it.

  “Yes. I gave that little son of a bitch a job for the summer. Did you see him at Anna’s wake? You could tell he was stoned.” Then her expression froze as her brain caught up with her mouth. “I mean—meaning no disrespect to Anna, but you know what I mean. He wasn’t literally a son of a bitch, he was only her stepson, besides—”

  “I know what you mean. Go on.”

  “He stole from me. He took from the till, which was stupid of him—of course I’d notice during the end-of-day tally and it could only have been Jason. Probably he thought someone my age was too senile to notice. Presumably he stole to support his habit. One of his habits. I believe he also rifled through my purse one day. I had a prescription for sleeping pills and about a third of it had disappeared.”

  “You’re sure it was Jason.” It was not a question. “The purse rifling.”

  “Not one hundred percent, but near enough—yes. I left him alone to run the shop while I popped out for a sandwich and to run errands. I don’t believe people will behave in a trustworthy fashion if you treat them as if they’re untrustworthy. I’d never had a serious problem operating under that principle until Jason. It still makes me angry to think about it. I trusted him because I didn’t think he’d be that dumb—I knew his parents. It’s not as if he had wandered in off the street.”

  “I think he was past caring,” I said. “Addicts lose their reason.”

  She nodded. “I guess. At some point last year, the story went round that he had traveled to North Africa for reasons unknown. Some were rather hoping he’d become a suicide bomber. One of the stupid ones that accidentally blows himself up before he reaches his target. More likely he was on a drug expedition.” She held out a hand and began distractedly to check the state of her manicure; her nails were painted a blackish red. I noticed she had the beginnings of arthritis in her thumbs.

  “He vanished almost as soon as the wake started,” I said.

  “Making a run for it, do you think? What a foolish thing to do.”

  I shrugged. “I’m pretty sure they’d have stopped him from flying out of Heathrow. The police looking for his stepmother’s killer, I mean.”

  “Would they stop him?” she asked. “There’s no warrant been taken out that I’m aware. But I think he’d go to ground somewhere they’d never think to look. Someplace with no extradition treaty.” She seemed certain a guilty conscience was at work. Maybe she thought it was Jason she’d seen that morning at a distance. That was interesting, right there. Jason did have a way of turning up like a bad penny. But when I asked her, she shook her head.

  “I couldn’t say,” she replied. Whatever that meant. British reticence? Or she wasn’t sure what she’d seen?

  “Hmm,” I said. I decided not to pressure her. As to Jason’s making a break for freedom to parts unknown—it was a theory, but it was likelier he would pop in and out of the village to see what pickings he could glean off his father. If he ran, he’d run for the nearby hills. Scotland would be a good guess, or Wales. Anna and Alfie had a house out there in the wild, as I recalled. Some unpronounceable place. I supposed Milo and Co. knew all about that but I might point them in that direction when I saw them again.

  Gently, I guided the conversation back to that day by the river, what she’d seen or thought she’d seen.

  “Are you sure about the time?” I asked. “The paper said it was nine o’clock.”

  She sighed; her exasperation with the Chronic was plain. Garvin, her geriatric paramour, was thought to drink or be losing his eyesight, or both—possibly related conditions. “Then the paper got it wrong. Honestly, Garvin needs to hand the reins to a younger person. The dogs always get their walk at nine before I open the shop at nine thirty. I reach that part of the path by nine fifteen. Not more than a minute or two off either way. It wasn’t nine.”

  “Nothing delayed you that day? Or threw you off your routine?”

  “No. The police asked me the same thing. It was a normal day and I have to keep the dogs on their schedule. I’m religious about it. Otherwise—accidents. You know.”

  I looked over at the dogs, who managed to look embarrassed.

  “And you saw someone with Anna?”

  “Yes, I did. I saw them from the back, though. I never saw the face.”

  “Man or woman?”

  She shook her head. I noticed her hands were trembling even more as she played with one of the long silk scarves at her neck. Nervousness? Parkinson’s? Or lying?

  “A man.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m pretty sure, Jill. Everyone on the trail wears jogging pants and hats and scarves and jackets. Sometimes a balaclava when it’s really cold. It wasn’t a large person. So perhaps a woman.”

  “Jason,” I pointed out, “isn’t a large guy. What was this person wearing?”

  “The usual black Lycra pants. A jacket. A hat. The jacket was blue.”

  “The hat?”

  “It was gray.”

  “Could it have been someone with gray hair?”

  She paused, considering. “Well, I suppose it could have been. From that distance, and looking down, a gray hat could look like gray hair.”

  “Could you spot the brand of any of this stuff? Generally there’s a logo.”

  Again she shook her head. “Too far. The police asked me the same thing. They were so insistent, my head started
to hurt.”

  That seemed like a hint that I should back off, so I did. I started wandering about the shop, inspecting items at random. She had a gift for choosing things a tourist might buy on impulse, even though the tourist could buy the exact same thing back home, probably for less money. But they would always remember that they bought that candle or incense or whatever on their vacation to historic Weycombe.

  As I shopped around I reflected that Frannie might make a compelling witness, despite all the black liner and mascara and the head scarves and stuff that made her look like a fortune-teller. A life-size scarecrow sat on a chair in one corner, part of a seasonal display, and whether or not Frannie realized it the scarecrow woman was dressed just like her.

  She seemed sure of herself but her memory was largely based on her daily routine. She struck me as a bit persuadable, a bit bendable, wanting to please. It was hard to see which way she’d bend but for now, I’d say Anna had a good and observant witness on her side, at least as far as pinpointing the time.

  “Good,” I said. “That’s good that you’re so sure, I mean. I was a reporter. I’ve seen the most competent witnesses torn to shreds by a good prosecutor. You’re sure it was a blue coat? Dark blue, was it?”

  Now she looked doubtful.

  “Not purple?”

  She squinted up at the ceiling fixture. She’d painted her eyebrows into an unhappy clown expression, like a mime.

  “Maybe purple blue. Purplish.”

  Maybe she was not the unshakable witness after all. “They’ll want you to be consistent,” I said.

  “It was dark blue.” She nodded her head, having settled it in her mind once and for all, nailing down that feathery testimony.

  “Did you see anyone on the water?”

  She started to shake her head, but then she said, “Not then.”

  “Not then?”

  “Later that morning, from the shop window. I saw someone in a kayak. I remember thinking it was too cold for that. There’ve even been paddleboarders out there. It’s ridiculous.”

  My heart gave a hard thump, the blood catching up to a missed beat. I thought of the person I’d seen on the river as I headed to Macy’s that day, and how I’d had the same thought. Sports enthusiasts knew no common sense.

  “Man or woman?”

  “I don’t know. A woman, I think.”

  “Could it have been the same person?”

  She shook her head decisively.

  “No. They were wearing a red jacket.”

  She seemed satisfied with that logic, as if a person could only own one jacket and never change it.

  “The news report said it was probably a male you saw.”

  This seemed to confuse her. “It did?” she said. “Garvin again, I suppose.”

  “You know the sun was bright that day. It had to be in your eyes.”

  “Ye-s-s-s. Whoever it was, was sort of silhouetted against the sun. You’re right.”

  Her eyes danced across my face and would not meet mine. Every actor I’d ever hired to play the shifty-eyed villain had had the same look.

  Frannie was lying. Interesting.

  “So it could have been a woman.”

  She seemed to be recalled to some warning, probably from Attwater and Milo, that she wasn’t to talk about what she’d seen. They knew witnesses could mess up their own testimony, shade it and color it in the retelling. They knew that all witnesses are unreliable, the more so as time passes.

  “Really, Jillian, I’m not at liberty to say. Anyway, it’s too awful. I don’t want to talk about it now.”

  Again I decided I’d be wise to back off. I feigned interest in a tray of reading glasses.

  “It really was a shame,” she added. “About Jason, I mean.” She was sorting baubles by color into a tray. “He was a natural at sales.”

  I’m afraid I snorted at this. “I’ll bet,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean that exactly, the drugs. It’s that women trusted him, you see. Trusted his taste.”

  “Mmm.” More fool them. I was looking at a necklace that wasn’t half bad, though, and thinking I should buy something to show my goodwill.

  “Still, he could be a bit of a lad.”

  Such a useful phrase. We don’t really have the equivalent expression in the US. Our “bad boy” carries heavier connotations. “Bit of a lad” covers a wealth of wayward behaviors like a tent dress.

  But Frannie was getting jumpy again. I finally asked her if something was wrong.

  “Wrong? Jill, I just witnessed a murder. What could be wrong?”

  Of course, of course. But did I imagine it, or was there more, something beyond that?

  I tried a long shot, a test of how much she knew of the intrigue that tended to bubble around Anna. “There was some sort of tension in the book club, before it disbanded,” I said. “Any idea what that was about?”

  “You’re asking me? Ask Heather or someone. I thought it was your book club. I wasn’t a member; I was never invited to join.” Ah. It was clear this omission had stung. Book clubs were tricky things. I knew of a club that ran for decades until it blew up over an infidelity in the ranks. One member had dropped out, as it turned out, so she’d be free to meet up with one of the other women’s husbands. I knew this because the dropout had become my stepmother.

  “But you were so busy running the shop,” I said diplomatically. “I don’t suppose it occurred to anyone you might be interested.” In fact, Frannie was never a candidate, and it had nothing to do with her busyness. It was feared her taste in literature would mirror her taste in clothes and jewelry. Danielle Steel meets Alexandre Dumas. “I was ready to quit myself but it disbanded before I could. You didn’t miss much, trust me.”

  She didn’t look mollified. For some reason, the snub still bothered her.

  “But,” I added, “maybe I will have a word with Heather. Another word, I mean. She and Anna were not exactly close, but Heather saw a lot more of her than I did. Thanks for the idea.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Frannie, again with that skittish look. Some gadget for attaching price tags fell from her arthritic hands; I swooped in to catch it before it hit the floor.

  That really seemed to unnerve her. It was clear she couldn’t wait for me to leave. It was almost as if she was waiting for someone else to come in—she kept checking her watch, like she had an appointment.

  I decided to end her misery; I could always come back.

  “Well, bye,” I said. “See you around. If you think of anything else … ”

  “If I think of anything else,” she said, with some asperity, “I’ll call the police.”

  That was me put in my place.

  21

  Of course I had no intention of talking with Heather. One visit to Little House a week was my limit. I had said whatever came into my head to calm Frannie. It seemed to work. But my leaving worked even better.

  I stopped at the coffee shop for a soy latte and to jot down as much of the conversation as I could remember. Frannie’s jittery body language said plenty. But what, exactly? Still, I wrote it all down, in no particular order. One day—I hoped—this would be part of my story.

  As usual I was in no hurry to return to an empty house. I sat at my favorite corner table, recalling Frannie’s weird demeanor and appearance, as Bathsheba slept nearby. Then I cast my mind back to the last book club. The last intact book club, that is. It happened to have been held at Macy’s new place.

  We’d been on Wolf Hall, and the whole subject of adultery and Anne Boleyn’s reaction when Henry’s wife Katherine had died. Her undiluted joy that her nemesis finally was gone, legitimizing by her death Anne’s own marriage to Henry. Henry had shared Anne’s joy, short-lived though it turned out to be.

  Heather’s take on this had been surprising. She felt that Anne had been unjustly stigmat
ized as the other woman. Heather was a second wife herself, and this was my first inkling that perhaps she had not met Gideon after his first wife died, but before. This cast her in a new light for me: not the goofy queen of homespun naïveté, but a potential homewrecker like Boleyn.

  “Easy for some to say,” Anna had said, turning to stare at our hostess, Macy. She held the stare until Macy, realizing a strange hush had descended on the room, looked up. Anna had muttered the words almost under her breath, but they were audible.

  As they were meant to be. This was the Weycombe Court equivalent of throwing plague-infested bodies over the wall into Macy’s garden. (I was constantly thinking in terms of Borgia metaphors in the days when the book club began blowing up.)

  Anna had turned away with a sniff and made a covering dive for the nacho dip. Macy actually grabbed Anna’s arm, forcing her back into the sofa. It was not a wise move. Anna jerked away abruptly, teeth bared. Predictably, the nacho dip fell onto her white skirt. Macy released her but continued to hold that frozen blue stare. The soft overhead lights were reflected in her eyes, contributing to the impression of a malevolent force having taken control of her brain.

  Anna stared back, wiping furiously at her skirt with a serviette the while. It was then that Macy crossed the line, although half the people hearing this exchange didn’t understand what was going on.

  “You treat him like he’s not even there,” said Macy. “He needs to prove, if only to himself, that he’s alive.”

  “Who?” This from Heather. The rest of us knew without asking.

  “You have no idea what you are talking about,” hissed Anna. “And it’s no fucking business of yours, anyway. How dare you? Who are you anyway?” She paused for a deep breath, then fairly shrieked, “You are nothing but a trollopy little stop-out and the whole village knows it.”

  Wow. While I and some others might have felt this was Anna calling the kettle black, it was time to break the two ladies up before a hair-pulling catfight got underway. What had been said so far was already so terribly non-British, you could hear a pin drop as people waited for the next round, wondering what on earth to do. It was hard to imagine where it might lead if cooler heads did not prevail. I don’t normally do cool head but this time it seemed to fall to me.