Folly

by Stella Cameron

  ‘If you hadn’t talked out of turn, repeatin’ what you shouldn’t be listening to, no one else would be any the wiser. You sowed the rotten seeds here. And what does it matter now, you say?’ Colin warmed up to full pitch. He’d set down his glass, propped his elbows behind him on the bar and made large white-knuckled fists. ‘Who cares who that man on the hill was? You tell me that.’

  ‘I say—’

  Alex cut Major Stroud off. ‘I should think anyone who cared about him before still does, Colin. That’s an awful thing to say. I, for one, would like to be sure who he was and why he was there. He must have had a reason.’

  ‘You’ve got that right, Alex,’ Will said. ‘I reckon that’s the most important thing the plods have got to ferret out. If they knew that they might get somewhere.’

  ‘And people might stop being killed or hurt,’ Fay said, hugging herself in a red down coat. ‘And we could all stop jumping at our shadows. Poor Reverend Restrick – we haven’t got a word about his progress. Charlotte hasn’t come back here. I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘The question that matters,’ Kev said, ‘is whether that was Edward Derwinter who died up on that hill. He was the older brother, remember.’

  ‘So you keep saying.’ Will gave the bar a vicious swipe with a cloth. ‘What’s your point? Whoever he was, that man is dead now.’

  ‘His point,’ Colin said, ‘is that he’s angling toward it being all a made-up story that Edward died years ago. And that if he was still alive, it would mean Edward was the next in line for the Derwinters, not Leonard. The money would be Edward’s.’

  ‘So? A fat lot of nothing it means now. If it was Edward and he was alive, he’s gone now so nothing changes,’ Will said.

  ‘Ah, but there’s more, isn’t there?’ a man called out. ‘Why don’t you explain proper, Colin?’

  Will slammed up the flap and came from behind the bar. His was the second pair of fists in evidence and Alex closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and opened them again. ‘I want this to stop now. Or take it somewhere else.’

  ‘That’s the way, Alex. Ms Bailey-Jones has told you how it’s going to be, fellas,’ the major said, but Will’s fists were in evidence again.

  ‘Alex Duggins,’ Alex said loudly and with no prior intention of doing so. ‘Remember that, please. I’m not married any more.’ And she wanted to forget everything about Mike and his name. If she ever saw it in print again it would have nothing to do with her.

  Major Stroud pushed his lips and mustache out in a thoughtful pout. ‘OK, old thing. As you will.’

  The slightest pause was followed by Colin saying, ‘Stop shilly-shallying, Kev. What do you want to hear someone else say – just so you can pretend to the Derwinters that your own nose is clean.’

  Will grabbed the man’s arm and gave him a mighty shove, knocking him off balance. Colin staggered but managed to stop himself from falling. ‘This is too much for Alex,’ Will said. ‘It would be too much for most people but you’ve all piled on and it’s enough.’

  ‘Out!’ Alex cried. ‘Get out until you can be civilized.’

  ‘For crying out loud,’ Kev exploded. ‘They’ll be wrong, but don’t tell me the police won’t charge Leonard Derwinter with killing his brother. And they will say it was to keep his hands on what he’s used to having.’

  With a hand over her mouth, Alex sagged. She’d started to feel sick.

  The solid feel of Will’s arm surrounding her shoulders was a comfort. ‘Look, Alex,’ he said, ‘why don’t you get out of the village for a break? You’re wearing yourself down, girl. I can run this place for you – I’ve had practice. We’re all worried about you.’

  She gave him a grateful smile. ‘Thanks, Will. I may have to think about that seriously.’

  THIRTY

  O’Reilly hovered at the top of the stairs, hidden by a wall, until Lily Duggins left her reception desk and went into the kitchens. Only two lunchtime diners were seated and they had listened in silence to at least part of the argument in the bar.

  He had heard the entire thing.

  Swiftly, he went downstairs and slipped outside. One of the early comments hurled by Winslet had been that there were plenty of people in the village who knew more about the Derwinters than they were saying. Someone else had chimed in that ‘you can’t bite the hand that feeds you’.

  O’Reilly and his team had interviewed all the villagers, but that had been when the case wasn’t as advanced as it was now. And it made sense that what amounted to a feudal village would be tight-lipped.

  He turned his collar up against the wind. A grayish cloudbank on the horizon taped white land to blue sky.

  The oldest, sharpest candidates he could think of for a little early history of Folly-on-Weir and the Derwinters were the Burke sisters. They might know very little, and they were canny enough to keep secrets if they thought it was to the advantage of a friend, or themselves, but approached in just the right way they could decide they’d like to help him. Particularly when, thanks to Constable Bishop, who had visited the old ladies’ shop, he’d thought of an opening. Constable Bishop was still finding excuses to haunt the place for tea and a host of cakes, scones with jam and clotted cream, and other goodies she listed regularly and with a look of bliss on her healthy country girl face.

  He knew the sisters lived over their café and it was called Leaves, or something similar. For tea leaves, he supposed. And the place was on Pond Street off Mallard Lane, close to St Aldwyn’s.

  The local school continued to operate. Not too many snow days for the children of Folly-on-Weir, but there were more teenagers than usual about, which meant he passed a group of four. For all he knew these were the only four in the village. They must travel to school by bus and few things on wheels were moving today.

  He’d grown up where winters were mean and he walked on treacherous ice and snow with sure feet. He liked to see the occasional horse and rider ambling up the lanes and along the roads, but there were none of those today, either. A pristine quiet flattered the sparkling air.

  Pond Street – more of a wide pathway than a street – was easy to find, as was Leaves of Comfort. A simple sign stuck up on wooden posts showed above the hedge in front of a pair of semi-detached cottages with doors painted a rich indigo. Bow windows on either side displayed what seemed to be more books than anything else, except handcrafts. A pile of books with a teapot on top. A row of books held up by jars of jam used as bookends. Hand knitted dolls and teddy bears artfully stretched on their stomachs around a large, open book. In what seemed an original blue carrying case open to display three sections stood a surprising collection of antique Matchbox cars he fancied a look at himself.

  And lace tablecloths, lace-edged guest towels, lace doilies, lace antimacassars like the ones his ancient granny still used, lace-embellished everything. He smiled to himself, but straightened his face at once and raised the doorknocker. It barely fell, making one solid echo to the inside, when a window opened over his head. ‘Hello, down there,’ a firm voice called.

  O’Reilly stepped back, his warrant card already out of his pocket. ‘Detective Inspector Dan O’Reilly,’ he said to the woman he recognized as Harriet Burke. ‘We met before, Miss Burke. Sorry to interrupt when you’re probably taking a rest before opening up, but could you spare me a few minutes of your valuable time?’

  ‘Hah,’ she said. ‘When you get to my age, the fewer rests, as you put it, the better. You never know when you’ll forget to return from a rest altogether, if you see what I mean. And I can’t afford time wasting anyway. I need to pack in as much as possible.’

  He was tempted to ask if she risked sleeping at night but smiled instead and gave what he hoped was an understanding nod of agreement.

  ‘Come on up, then. Door’s open. Stairs straight ahead.’

  Another nod and he followed her instructions. Inside he met the fragrant aromas Officer Bishop rhapsodized about. She had even given it away that Lamb had made a sneaky person
al visit to the shop. Freshly baked goods tickled his nose. And again he was surrounded by books, teapots, and lace, lace, lace – and embroidery. His mum would love the place, although she’d love it more if it were in Ireland.

  ‘Tea’s brewing,’ came Harriet’s announcement from the top of the stairs.

  A long-legged, extra-long-tailed tabby cat met him before he got all the way into the Burke sisters’ flat. ‘That’s Oliver,’ Mary said from a plump chair. ‘He lets us live here.’

  Harriet laughed, such a sudden, high trill that O’Reilly cocked his head inquiringly.

  ‘Listen to Mary,’ she said. ‘That pretty boy’s only been here a few days and she didn’t want to keep him.’

  ‘Poppycock,’ Mary said. ‘I had to test you, sister, to make sure you could seriously care about him.’

  He entered a comfortable if old-fashioned sitting room with a fireplace at one end. Doors in two walls must lead to bedrooms, kitchen and the rest of the flat.

  Harriet left and returned quickly with a large teapot covered with a quilted tea cozy. She set it on a tray beside floral, fine bone china cups arranged across the top of the kind of tea trolley he hadn’t seen in years. From a cupboard underneath she took a two-tiered cake plate already piled with cakes.

  ‘Sit down, Inspector,’ she said. ‘The sofa’s comfortable enough as long as you don’t sit in the middle. You’re likely to get stabbed by the springs if you do.’

  He accepted a fragile cup and saucer and sat down. Harriet balanced a plate on one of his knees and held out the cakes. Gaining trust was essential and the tea ritual made for the right atmosphere. He took an almond tart, and when the display continued to hang in front of him, smiled up at Harriet and helped himself to a lemon curd slice. ‘You’ll fatten me up,’ he said, praying the goodies would stay balanced, and took a sip of milky tea.

  While she made her selections, Mary put on one of the thickest pairs of glasses he remembered seeing.

  When both women sat facing him, he got the impression they could communicate without talking.

  Intelligent faces, both arranged in questioning mode.

  ‘I’ll have to eat these before I do another thing,’ he said, biting into the tart and making appreciative noises. ‘One of my people, Constable Bishop, has told me how wonderful the food is here. I have to say, she’s told the truth.’

  ‘Now, now, Inspector, surely everyone tells you the truth.’

  He expected Mary to smile but she didn’t, just continued to watch him through the distracting lenses of her glasses.

  ‘You’d be surprised.’ Until he decided whether this pair was as harmless as they appeared, he’d keep things very light.

  They ate and drank in silence with the cat swishing around their legs.

  ‘No scraps,’ Mary said archly. ‘He’s a piggy. Human food is bad for cats.’

  O’Reilly gave a sage nod, but he did stroke the sinuous cat.

  When he could, he set the teacup and plate aside.

  ‘You can manage more than that,’ Harriet said, already on her feet. ‘Have you had your lunch? I forgot it’s a bit early. I could pop a steak and kidney pie in the oven for you. No rabbit pie, I’m afraid.’ She chuckled.

  With barely a pause, he laughed, too. ‘What I had was enough, thank you.’ Funny how many people assumed all Irish liked rabbit stew or rabbit pie. Never a favorite of his – the meat was too slimy. In fact he wasn’t particularly tempted by any meat.

  The front door opened, ringing a little overhead bell, and slammed shut again. ‘It’s Tony. All right if I come up?’

  ‘Of course,’ Harriet called out. ‘Tea’s already made.’

  Damn, damn, damn.

  O’Reilly watched Harrison come into view and the way the cat leaped into his arms. Fair enough. He’d carry on as planned rather than look as if he was keeping something from the vet.

  ‘Inspector O’Reilly,’ Harrison said. ‘I’m interrupting. Just wanted to stop in and see how my favorite ladies were doing. I can come back.’

  ‘No need,’ O’Reilly said. ‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t say in front of you.’

  ‘Join us,’ Harriet said, already pouring a fresh cup of tea. ‘Sit by the inspector.’

  O’Reilly would rather be able to see the man’s face but there was nothing to be done about it. Harriet piled cakes and biscuits on to a plate for Tony Harrison.

  O’Reilly took a good look at the man’s expression and decided he looked entirely too comfortable with the situation.

  The couch sagged when the vet sat down at the far end from Dan. At least Alex was more on her guard about the man than she’d been before last night’s announcement. The two of them together didn’t make O’Reilly happy, not that he knew how seriously to take the Australian story.

  He would see how comfortable Harrison was in a moment or two. From his jacket pocket he took an evidence bag with the piece of lace inside and held it out to Mary. ‘Have you seen this before?’

  Mary held the bag at the end of her nose. ‘Mmm.’ She turned the bag over, and back. ‘We’ve seen this on something, Harriet. Take a look. Tell me if it’s that Violet Knot pattern. I don’t think it’s made any more.’

  The two women literally put their heads together over the bag.

  Looking for Harrison’s reaction was irresistible but the man chewed on part of what looked like a ginger toffee biscuit and looked disinterested.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Harriet said. She pulled out a drawer in a tall chest and removed several white items. ‘These laces can be so intricate, Inspector, and so beautiful. You don’t often find the kind of antique collection we have. This one is a table doily.’

  She held a circular piece that was all lace and embroidery.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said.

  ‘See that,’ she pointed to the center. ‘That’s stag and bird. What’s called a figural piece. Imagine working that.’

  ‘Oh, my ears and whiskers,’ Mary muttered reverently. ‘Do you have the Pointe de Venise there? I know the inspector would be fascinated by that.’

  ‘Right here,’ Harriet said and whipped a fragile white lawn blouse, all tucks and fine embroidery, across his knees. ‘At the bottom of the right sleeve and around the neck. That’s the Pointe de Venise. It’s missing from the edge of the left cuff.’

  ‘I had no idea.’ O’Reilly made sure he looked admiring. ‘You didn’t say where you saw the … Violet’s Knot, was it? Anywhere in particular?’

  A thoughtful vagueness overtook them both. Finally Mary said, ‘I do know it was used on brides’ handkerchiefs. See the fine thread of silver in the knots? And …’ She held the lace to the lenses of her glasses. ‘I think there might have been initials. That’s what they do for brides’ handkerchiefs. You look, Harriet.’

  Harriet looked, holding the piece almost as close as Mary had. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘We think we’ve got the rest of this handkerchief,’ O’Reilly said, watching for any giveaway reactions but seeing none. He sighed. ‘We’ll have to take a closer look now we know what it might have been.’

  The only response he got was purring from the cat curled by the fire.

  O’Reilly wished, fervently, that Tony Harrison would just disappear.

  ‘Would you say you were long-time residents of the village?’

  That got him scrutiny that questioned his sanity. ‘We were both born in the village,’ Harriet said. ‘We left when we went away to school but apart from that, this has been our home.’

  ‘Well now, and that’s wonderful,’ O’Reilly said, trying to make sure his smile wasn’t obviously condescending. ‘So there’s not much you don’t know about major events during your lifetimes.’

  Both women shook their heads, no.

  ‘You must have known Edward Derwinter when he was a child.’

  He felt Harrison turn to him but when their eyes met, Tony’s were interested but untroubled.

  ‘We knew Edward,’ Mary said. ‘Nice boy.
Edward was always very quiet – silent even. He had a severe stutter and I don’t think his father had a lot of patience with that so the child rarely spoke at all.’

  ‘How do they say he died?’ This was a shot in the dark. ‘They do say he’s been dead for years.’

  He felt the sofa sag even more as Harrison settled himself more comfortably. Damn the man, observing and filing away anything he decided was useful. O’Reilly cleared his throat. Why should any of this be useful to the vet?

  ‘After the accident he went away again.’ With a piece of shortcake halfway to her mouth, Harriet paused, her expression far away. ‘He’d been at school somewhere up north since he was little. By then he’d have been about … eight. There were rumors about why Cornelius Derwinter would pack off a motherless boy, then never have him home even at the holidays, but they were only rumors. Not one of us knew the truth. Leonard stayed close to home.’

  ‘Cruel,’ Harrison said under his breath, and both women nodded, yes.

  ‘What accident would that be?’ They were skating on the edge of something useful, O’Reilly could feel it.

  The sisters glanced at one another and shrugged.

  Lavender was a scent that could become oppressive, O’Reilly decided. He had an urge to stand up and throw open the window – and walk around the room. He had an equally strong – and he knew, wrong – urge to get tough.

  ‘You said Edward was sent away after the accident.’ This pair was sharp, but would they deliberately withhold important information in a murder enquiry?

  If they think protecting someone is more important than the truth. The realization served to harden him. ‘Either of you?’ he said sharply.

  ‘A child drowned in the Windrush,’ Harriet said. ‘At Bourton-on-the-Water. Four or five, he was and he was playing around on those flat rocks. So was Edward. Children have always done that. From what we heard, the younger boy slipped and drowned.’

  O’Reilly frowned. ‘The water’s so shallow there.’

  ‘He hit his head. No one noticed until it was too late. There was talk about Edward being – well, it was wrong of course – but the suggestion was that he was too stupid to help the other boy. And some even said it was Edward’s fault.’