by JL Merrow
All right, so maybe I did care a little bit.
Cherry scarfed the food down like it was the best meal she’d had all week. I guessed she must have been cooking for herself again.
After we’d eaten, I opened the wine and poured a couple of glasses. Cherry took a long, deep swallow. Looked like she might be settling in for the night, so it was just as well I hadn’t yet got round to filling up the spare room with junk again.
“Right, down to business,” I said, putting my feet up on the coffee table. Cherry’s tsk was so automatic I don’t reckon she even realised she was doing it. “Tell me everything you know about Amelia Fenchurch-Majors. Apart from She’s dead, ’cos I noticed that one already, ta.”
Sis curled her legs up neatly on the sofa. “Where do you want me to start?”
“I dunno . . . Uh, what did she do for a living? Did she work? Or did she live off old Alex?”
“Well, she was one of these women who say they have a business but seem to have an awful lot of free time nevertheless.” Not that Sis was bitter or anything. “She was an events planner, apparently, although if you ask me, she was more interested in interior design. She had plans to completely modernise their place in St. Leonards—had already started, actually. That driveway is all new since she came on the scene.”
“What? No way. That farmhouse of theirs is listed, innit?” I was honestly a bit horrified. No wonder she hadn’t been bothered about stomping all over those old wooden floors in her stilettos—by the sound of it, she’d been planning to rip ’em out anyway. “They’ve got rules and regs about that sort of thing. I had a job once on one of those old almshouses in St. Albans, the ones near St. Peter’s Church, and you wouldn’t believe the hoops they had to jump through just to get an extra loo put in.”
Cherry gave a tight little smile. “Lance plays golf with the head of the planning committee. She’d have had no trouble.”
“Yeah, who is this Lance bloke, anyway?”
“Amelia’s business partner. Apparently.” You could cut the sarcasm with a knife.
“You reckon he was a sleeping partner?”
Sis looked torn, but eventually admitted, “I don’t know she was having an affair with him. And I only met him the once. But I wouldn’t be surprised. Although goodness knows why she’d want to,” she said with a hint of a shudder.
“Bit of a minger, is he?”
“No-o . . . There’s just something about him. You’d have to see him yourself. And I could be wrong,” she added virtuously. “Gregory found him fascinating.”
“Your Greg finds roadkill fascinating. Did he reckon Lance’d look great mounted on the wall next to Mrs. Tiggywinkle?” Mrs. T. was, or rather had been, a hedgehog, personally taxidermied by the scarily reverend Greg.
“Don’t mock. At least Gregory has an artistic hobby. When was the last time you did anything creative?”
I gave her a look. “Not half an hour ago, as it happens, and you practically licked the plate clean. So don’t give me that, or you’ll be cooking your own tea next time.”
Give her her due, Cherry blushed. “Um. Sorry. I forgot. But please don’t make fun of Gregory’s choice of relaxation.”
I frowned. “Why? Someone else been having a dig?”
“Oh . . . It was only Amelia, and only the once that I heard. But she said it to the bishop.” Sis seemed upset, as well she might.
“Yeah, that was a bit out of order. Still, look on the bright side. She won’t be doing that again.”
Cherry snorted. “You’re horrible.” She took another sip of wine and visibly tried to straighten out her face.
“So what else can you tell me about Lance? What’s his surname?” I sniggered as a thought hit. “God, I hope it’s not Boyle.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s Frith.”
I frowned. “That sounds familiar, somehow.”
Cherry beamed. “You’re thinking of the Scottish divination system, aren’t you? It’s quite fascinating to compare it with what you do, although it was much more ritualistic, of course.” She paused. “You know, you really ought to experiment. Try taking your shoes off next time you use your thing.”
“Uh . . . What? And seriously, what? Sis, for me to be thinking of your Scottish wotsit, I’d have to have heard of it at some point in my life, yeah? And what the hell have my shoes got to do with anything?”
“You know, most people would do some reading around their subject,” Cherry said severely.
I’d never quite got around to telling her about the whole dowsing club fiasco. Partly ’cos she’d already left home when it happened and we hadn’t been on all that good terms anyhow. But mostly ’cos it wasn’t an experience I fancied reliving anytime soon.
“Oi, I read around it on Saturday. Much bloody good it did me.” Reading. That sparked a thought . . . “Got it—Frith was the name of the bunnies’ god in Watership Down, wasn’t it? I remember you reading me that when I was little. You got your knickers in a twist ’cos I laughed at that bit where the rabbit tells Frith to bless his bottom.”
“Well, trust you to reduce the favourite book of my childhood to its lowest common denominator.”
“Anytime, Sis. Anytime.” Funny, though. I’d had no idea I remembered that. God knows how old I’d been, although I reckoned it’d been before we’d moved out of London, so I couldn’t have been more than eight. “I liked that book,” I said, as it started coming back to me. “Fiver, the little one, he was the most important, wasn’t he? Had all these weird visions and stuff that saved all their lives.”
“I can’t imagine why he was your favourite,” Cherry said drily. “Although, come to think of it, I’d have thought you’d like Bigwig too.”
I grinned. “Any similarities between my fiancé and a hulking big bruiser of a bunny rabbit are . . . probably best left unmentioned when he’s around.”
“Probably best left unmentioned when I’m around too.” Cherry refilled our glasses.
When Phil got in around eleven, he found us both half-asleep in front of the telly, Cherry wearing an old pair of my pyjamas that looked almost as bad on her as they did on me. Although I s’pose Greg, if he’d been here, might have begged to differ. The wine bottle, needless to say, was empty.
Cherry twisted round in her seat to beam up at him. “Oh, hello, Phil. You missed a lovely meal.”
“Save me any leftovers?” he asked, looking amused.
“Nah, sorry.” If he’d wanted feeding, he should have said he was coming over. Not that I wasn’t glad to see him. “Fish stir-fry thing. Wouldn’t have kept. There’s bacon and eggs in the fridge, though, if you’re hungry.” I shifted my legs.
“Don’t get up. I’ll just grab a sandwich.” He disappeared, presumably to the kitchen. Unless he had some secret sandwich stash elsewhere in the house I was unaware of, which was pretty bloody unlikely on several different levels.
Cherry unwound her legs, stood up, and stretched. “I should head to bed.”
“Big day tomorrow?”
She shrugged. “Just a day. Still, at least I won’t have to get up so early, staying here,” she added, brightening.
“Oi, no getting any ideas about moving in.” It’d be the kiss of death for my sex life. “And don’t forget to take your stuff out the machine.” We’d bunged her work shirt in for a quick wash, together with any other bits and bobs she’d wanted to add—I’d carefully not paid too much attention.
Sis nodded and padded off. I heard her saying good night to Phil, then he appeared with a couple of beers in one hand and a plateful of cheese sarnies in the other, and plonked himself down next to me on the sofa.
I grabbed a sarnie. Well, it was only polite to keep him company, wasn’t it?
“Cheers,” I said, and took a bite.
Phil gave me a look that was darkly amused. “One of these days I’ll add Tabasco sauce to the top one. That’ll stop you.”
“Nah, you love me too much.” I was fairly certain he’d made extra on purpo
se anyway. He knew me pretty well by now. “So go on, what’ve you found out about dear departed Amelia?”
“Amelia Fenchurch-Majors was in business as a freelance events organiser, in partnership with Lance Frith.”
“Yeah, Cherry was telling me about him. You met him?”
“Not yet. Got an appointment tomorrow.” Phil hesitated. “He wants to meet you.”
“Me? Why?”
“You found her, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but so what? God, I hope he doesn’t want me to tell him about it.” I felt a bit queasy and took a sip of beer to settle my stomach.
“Not sure. We only spoke briefly on the phone. Frith’s been across country, sorting out some do at a castle in the Cotswolds.”
“Huh. That’s not much of an alibi. That’s only a couple of hours from here. Maybe a bit longer, with summer weekend traffic, but not much.”
“Agreed. What did your sister tell you about him?”
“Not a lot. Well, nothing concrete, anyhow. She reckoned him and Amelia might have been doing the dirty, and she thought there was something off about him, but she couldn’t say what. Oh, and he plays golf with the head of the local planning committee, in case that turns out to be vitally relevant to solving the case.”
“Christ knows, at this stage. So are you up for it? I’m seeing him for lunch tomorrow in the White Hart, at one. I told him you might have to work.”
I thought about it. “Nah, I can make it. Might not have time to get home for a change of clothes, mind, but don’t worry—the morning job’s a dishwasher, not drains. Surprised he’s okay with coming out our way, though, if he’s based in St. Leonards. You’d think he’d want you to go to him.”
Phil shrugged. “Maybe he’s checking the place out for a function? At any rate, it was his suggestion.” He huffed. “Maybe he’s just the obliging sort.”
“Okay, I’m trusting this bloke less and less the more I hear about him.”
“He did sound pretty keen to meet you.” Phil smirked. “That’s suspect in itself.”
“Git. So what else can you tell me about him?”
“Think I’ll let you form your own impressions. Wouldn’t want to bias you in advance.” Phil demolished a second round of cheese sarnies in about three bites. I thought about nicking another but decided I wasn’t peckish enough to bother. Which was just as well, really, as by the time I’d done debating about it, the rest had disappeared too.
I grinned. “Going for the record, were we? Never mind. I like a man with a healthy appetite.”
Phil raised an eyebrow while chugging back his beer. I was duly impressed by his coordination. “Appetite for what?” he asked, putting the bottle down.
“Something a bit tastier than a cheese sarnie?” I suggested. Suggestively.
“Oh yeah? What’s that, then?”
“Well, there’s choccy biccies in the cupboard, if you fancy some,” I teased him.
He gave me a look. “Serve you bloody right if I went for it. C’mere.”
Things progressed nicely after that. Phil had my T-shirt off in under three seconds—there was one record he was definitely in the running for—and I wasn’t doing too badly with his clothes either, despite the fact he’d cheated by wearing a shirt with buttons.
In fact, I won the race to get the other bloke’s trousers undone, and celebrated by shoving my hand in Phil’s kecks and wrapping it around his nice, hard prick.
He groaned. “Fuck me.”
“Planning to,” I panted, my own stiffie twitching as he grabbed my arse.
Which, of course, was the exact moment Cherry walked in.
“Tom, did you want a hot choc— Oh.” She went as pink as her namesake. “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep and— Sorry. I didn’t realise you were staying over, Phil.”
We scrambled apart like a couple of naughty schoolkids, holding our flies together and hoping nothing would fall out.
At least, that was what I was hoping. And I reckoned I knew Phil well enough by now to speak for him too. In certain circumstances, anyhow.
“Sorry, Sis,” I started. “Didn’t mean to give you an eyeful. We’ll just—”
“Oh no, please. I’ll just make my drink and take it upstairs.” She gave us a soppy smile. “I really should get used to this, shouldn’t I? After all, you’ll be living together soon. Actually, Phil, I meant to ask you about that. There’s a new barrister at my chambers who’s looking for a flat—are you planning to rent yours out? I don’t think she wants to buy, but if it’s available to rent soon, she’d be very keen. Do you have a date in mind yet?”
Phil looked at me.
I looked back, a bit guiltily. “Uh, we haven’t really talked about that yet, Sis.”
“Oh.” Cherry looked at us both, obviously confused. “I thought— Oh, well, never mind. I’ll just leave you to, um . . . Good night.”
She scarpered. Phil turned back to me, face still flushed and his hair all mussed up. He looked fucking gorgeous, and just a tiny bit uncertain. “Maybe we should—”
“I know just what we oughtta do,” I told him, and shoved my hand back down the front of his kecks.
There was the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps, running upstairs.
Never let it be said my sis doesn’t know what’s good for her.
I got to the White Hart just after one the next day, to find Phil and our mutual dinner date were already in there propping up the bar with a couple of drinks. Phil was on the sparkling mineral water, so the whiff of gin as I approached them had to have come from Lance’s glass.
Lance Frith was . . . Well. I could see what Cherry had meant when she’d questioned why Amelia would want to sleep with the bloke. He wasn’t bad looking, mind. But he was just a bit . . . alien. He was a skinny bloke, and he’d dressed all in black, which could have been ’cos he was in mourning, but I was betting it was just his normal clothes. He was that sort of bloke. The look was completed with a bushy dark beard—very trendy—and big eighties-style goggly sunglasses—very not, especially indoors. His high forehead was creepily pale against all the darkness, and his full red lips the only spot of colour.
Round his neck, he was wearing a crystal divining pendulum. Was he taking the piss?
“Sorry I’m a bit late,” I said, joining them. “Traffic.” Actually it’d been the customer, who’d been a total git about the bill, but there was no need to go into all that.
“Not to worry,” Phil said. “Lance, this is Tom.”
Huh. So we were all on first-name terms already, were we?
Lance gave me a dreamy smile. “Tom. Poor Amelia told me all about you. I feel we have a connection already.”
“Uh, it’s great to meet you,” I lied, taking his outstretched hand. It was limp, and I couldn’t wait to drop it again. “Good of you to come so far out of your way.”
“Please. It’s hardly the other side of the country. I’m used to travelling for my work in any case.”
“Shall we?” Phil gestured to the restaurant bit of the place.
We wandered over and hovered at the door until a waitress appeared with a handful of menus. It was the one who’d been on the bar the other night, so I gave her a friendly smile, and she dimpled back at me before leading us over to a table at the far end of the room.
Funny how you never think of German people having dimples. Swiss, yeah, or Austrian, but not German. What’s that all about?
I took a seat near the wall, and Lance squeezed in next to me. Phil sat opposite.
“You’re an events organiser, right? Think you might put something on in this place?” I waved my hand at the dark wood-panelled walls surrounding us. The last time I’d been in the restaurant here had been for Gary and Darren’s wedding reception, now I came to think of it. That’d been an event and a half.
Lance’s smile twisted. “I did have it in mind for a ghost-themed evening. I’m not sure I have the heart now. Tell me, are you sensitive to such things?”
“Uh . . . You mean,
um, spirits? No. Sorry.” Even as I said it, I realised I wasn’t quite certain myself. See, me and Dave had sort of made the White Hart our regular meeting place, and I’d pretty much got used to how it felt here, but, well, there was definitely something I was picking up on. If I stopped ignoring it.
Hairs prickled on the back of my neck and my face must have grassed me up, as Lance leaned closer, his gaze intent through the smoky tan of his sunglasses. I had to fight the impulse to draw back, away from him. “But you do sense something here, yes? Tell me. How does it feel?”
“Dunno, really. Just . . . vibes.” To say I wasn’t comfortable with this was the understatement of the millennium. Weren’t we supposed to be interrogating him, not the other way around?
Lance nodded, like he’d heard what I’d thought, which in no way made me feel any better. “You find hidden things, yes? And this is an old building. Fifteenth century, I believe. Are you aware of the wealth of superstition attaching to erections of this era?”
“Uh . . .” Not so much, no. And I was really wishing he’d get out of my face while using the word erection.
“All sorts of things have been found hidden inside the walls of medieval structures. Shoes, they’re very common. Dead cats too.”
Actually, that one sort of rang a bell. Not that I’d ever found any mummified cats in the course of my working day, thank God. Had to shift a couple of live ones off cisterns and out of airing cupboards before I could get to work, mind.
“Used garments,” Lance continued. “And witch bottles.”
I frowned, confused. “Which bottles?”
He nodded, which wasn’t exactly helpful. “Typically, they contain samples of urine, and a pierced heart of some kind.”
Lovely.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress interrupted, the German accent subtly making it sound like we’d better be.
“Five minutes,” Phil said firmly.
I was thinking it might be a fair bit longer than that before I got my appetite back, but I dutifully glanced at the menu and picked out the first thing that looked vaguely all right.
Lance was still ignoring his. “Did you know the Nether Wallop Cache was found to contain literally dozens of garments or garment fragments hidden inside the framework of the building, including hats, shoes, and underwear? So what does that tell you?”