He held open the pub door, and noise, loud and cheerful, surrounded them.
“Busy. Live music by moi, and it’s darts night. The team’s playing at home, so no one will hear a note I play.”
“That’s a shame,” she said. She’d enjoyed the ripples of music floating through the school.
They’d started teaching, he said, at the same time.
“I’m hardly teaching, just a couple of sessions to keep my hand in. I came to the Island as part of the ShriekWeek team.”
His body stilled. She felt rather than saw it. Then he was moving through the crowd ahead, greeting everyone he passed.
She felt she’d gate-crashed a large happy family that had no intention of adopting her but were too polite to say so. He seemed to belong from the moment he arrived.
“What are you drinking?” he called over his shoulder as he ploughed his way through to the bar.
“White wine and soda.”
“A spritzer then, Suze,” he said, “and the usual for me.”
The usual turned out to be a black coffee. “Can’t play well if you drink,” he said in answer to her thought. “And I might have to drive later. That’s if you don’t have a lift home and if you wait for my set to finish.”
“No.” Her tone was too loud and shrill. Wine slopped out of her glass as she banged it down unsteadily on the counter. In the sudden silence she was aware of attention from both sides of the bar.
“So that’s the way of it, is it?” He crunched out the words. “Fine. Nice knowing you.”
“No, thank you,” she tried softly, but it was too little, too late. She looked up, wondering how to explain, but he had gone.
“Sorry,” she said to no one in particular.
“No worries.” The barmaid leaned over to wipe the bar and take the unused coffee cup. “I can take you back—you’re up in the new bit, aren’t you? Renting Charm’s house?”
She nodded, no longer surprised everyone knew her business.
“I’m taking out the minibus later to drive the darts team home. A few live round your way. No probs.” Suzie bustled off again, filling orders, clearing glasses as she went.
Maggie sipped at the dregs of her wine. She hated upsetting people. But Suzie had given her a great excuse. When she next got the chance, she could say she hadn’t wanted to take him out of his way. But had her voice sounded too shocked to make that explanation credible?
Chapter Two
Thursday
Maggie woke next morning with a sense of anticipation. She still delighted in opening the curtains to the smell of sea air and a view of breakers crashing on the cliffs, but this excitement was new. Technical rehearsal tonight—that must be why. She’d look out warmer clothes—and enough was enough. She had to stand up to Kyle. He hadn’t turned up for the emergency meeting he’d demanded, and no way was she going to miss the last bus again. Her mind fluttered unhappily over the scene she had made in the pub. Bram Jenkins—she’d learned his name from posters in the bar—didn’t deserve it. She must apologize.
Pageant tomorrow—and the fluttering in her stomach expanded into a battalion of butterflies. It had seemed such a long way ahead when she landed the job in July. She’d just returned to the UK, another unemployed thirty-something in the recession. Her years of experience abroad, teaching English as a foreign language, counted for nothing. Her savings were gone. Event organizing was her chance for a new life, a new home, a new start.
Bram said he’d arrived in Creektown at the same time. Yet he knew everybody. Odd how her thoughts kept twisting back to him. Beads of embarrassment heated her hairline every time she remembered her rudeness. It was the shock. She’d put it right next time she saw him. Perhaps he’d have another class tonight when they had their final meeting, or come to the pageant tomorrow. Or she’d find him playing in the pub.
The hospital would be sending the vicar home today, too, and that would end any stupid speculation about death by face paint.
Her phone chirped again and again. Text message from Emma: Fitting this morning?
How could she have forgotten the Halloween Ball? And would he be there?
****
Emma loved sewing. She made her own clothes and floated round the village in diaphanous dresses overlaid with cable knit fisherman’s sweaters. Her little cottage by the vicarage was full of soft furnishings created from recycled materials. She had volunteered to make Maggie’s dress for Saturday.
“It’ll be fun,” she’d said. “You’ll see. I’m dying to see the manor again. We used to get invites every year, before Lady Eleanor left. I loved the gardens, but I don’t suppose they’ll be up to much this time of year.”
Emma was definitely the positive in her new life. She’d co-opted Maggie into her girl gang from the start, and their weekly pub lunches with Pam and Suzie were something to look forward to.
She cleared a space on the floor of her small living room and ordered Maggie up onto a stool in the middle.
“Are you absolutely sure about this?” Emma was frowning. “We’re talking the Halloween Ball here—the social event of the winter. Not to mention the year.”
“Or the decade. And yes, I’m positive.”
“Don’t think Cinderella would have dared dress up as a pumpkin.”
“I’m not looking for Prince Charming.” Maggie winced. One of those was more than enough. “Just a fun evening. New curtains?”
“Crtns chrt shp,” Emma mumbled through a mouthful of pins. After half a dozen fittings, Maggie had no trouble translating.
“Chrysanthemum by William Morris—my favourite. Lovely for autumn. Doesn’t the vicar have something like it in the vicarage? Any news of him yet? What luck finding these in the charity shop.”
Emma sat back on her heels and picked the pins from her mouth. With her other hand she patted her friend on the legs, rotating her slowly—right, left, and back to start.
“Done,” she said. “You’ll be the star on the night. Want to see?” and she manoeuvred Maggie to the hallway’s long mirror, which caught the light and made the cramped surroundings look so much bigger.
It was incredible how much thinner she looked. “The pumpkin skirt even gives me a waist line. Brilliant job, Em.”
“And your eyes look bigger and sparklier. That tawny velvet really picks out the gold flecks in the hazel.” Emma chatted away as she tidied her sewing things. “Hope the vic’s back in time for the ball. He loves parties. They can’t find anything wrong with him.” Emma searched the carpet for stray pins. “Ruled out allergies from the face paint, though, unless he used lead paint, but that’s been banned since the seventies. Who’d have it around now?”
”Where did you get all your info? Pam? And did they consider the vicarage? I bet its outbuildings haven’t been cleared for centuries.”
“And the vic’s been there for yonks. Perhaps he found an old tin and made himself a creepier colour. He did look decidedly odd,” Emma agreed. “He was so late yesterday, and he did his own makeup and went straight to rehearsal.”
“That’s why none of his stuff was in the props room. What happened to the golden goblet? And why was he late anyway?”
“I don’t know about the props, but with visitors in and out like dolls in a weather house from morning to night, it’s a wonder he got to rehearsal at all. Busy as the pop festival, it was. The usual this one and that from the Women’s Guild, you, me, the gardener from the manor, Pam, our Bram, even his lordship. He came last and stayed so long I had to knock and hurry them up.
“Lord D was nice about it, too. ‘Don’t worry your head about it, Em,’ he says to me. ‘We’re finished here, aren’t we, old boy,’ and he pats the vicar on the hand like he was a Labrador. ‘No need to fuss any more,’ he says and tops up his glass. But the vic looked terrible. Must have been feeling poorly even before he went to rehearsal. I should have made him go to bed, thinking back.”
Maggie sympathized. So much she herself should have done in the past, looking back. Emma sat si
lent, and Maggie did not like to disturb her memories by moving, but she still had to prepare for the afternoon Spanish Club. Her fidgeting tilted the stool, and she clattered down onto the tiled floor, barely keeping her balance.
“Stupid stool,” said Emma, but she still seemed distracted. “I never offered you tea. Want to take the dress now?”
“Tomorrow would be favourite, please. I planned to grab a coffee and something to eat at the Pumpkin. Tech rehearsal later—aren’t you coming?”
“Come with me first to lock up the vicarage. I left it open for Pam’s search this morning. She can’t make lunch, and I’m crying off too. I’d rather wait here in case there’s news of the vic. My phone doesn’t pick up outside signals. You don’t need me, do you?”
Maggie shook her head, though she had been looking forward to their girlie lunch. Perhaps she got on well with Em because she was an overner too, with London roots.
In the vicarage, greasy smudges of fingerprint powder remained as evidence of the police search. The study was out of bounds, sealed off with blue-and-white tape. Emma parked her in the library while she went round the house locking doors and windows.
The bookshelves were surprisingly dust free. New paperbacks rubbed spines with much older leather-bound tomes. The newer titles were intriguing. She hadn’t pegged the vicar as a cosy mystery buff. But Determination Destroyed the Dog sat snugly sandwiched between Confessions of St Augustine and Donne’s Devotions. She’d reached up to slide it from the shelf when Emma returned, jingling her keys.
“Borrow it if you like,” she said. “The vic won’t notice. He’s got far too many books anyway. No one to swap with, now Lady Eleanor’s gone. I’d only be packing it up to sell at the church Christmas Fair.”
Maggie didn’t like to refuse, so she dropped the book into her bag before following Emma out. She pondered the vicar’s eclectic taste in reading and wondered just who bought his books at the church bring-and-buy sales.
She hadn’t even had time to discuss the vicar’s mysterious collapse. And she’d wanted to ask Emma about the vicar’s cryptic words. And why had she said “our Bram”? She crossed her fingers to remind herself to ask later.
****
Suzie was on duty in the Pumpkin again.
“The homemade soup, please—what is it? And thanks for last night—a real lifesaver.”
“Just make sure and catch the bus tonight. No darts, and I have a date.”
“Someone nice? And I’ve brought my bike.”
Suzie tapped her nose and grinned—an open and engaging smile—instantly attractive. She must captivate most men she met. Men like Bram? Maggie wondered, and felt an unexpected pang of dismay. Have to get the head together… What was the matter with her, first connecting Emma and now Suzie with the man, and flinching from a corkscrewing spiral of jealousy?
“Parsnip, and I’ll bring it when it’s ready.”
Maggie sat in her favourite window seat, half preparing the flashcards for the afternoon, half watching people in the square. Everyone must already know of the vicar’s funny turn last night. Passersby grouped and regrouped in small huddles like a complex country dance. She could imagine what they were saying, wondered how many of them blamed her, the newcomer. Funny place, Creektown, full of medieval charm and deadly politeness. So hard to know what anyone really thought.
Pamela Carter cut through the square, her dark uniform immaculate, her walk determined. A front-page story had appeared in the local paper a couple of months ago when she returned to the Island to take charge. She was another who fit in seamlessly, a native.
She slammed back the push door into the pub and marched across. “No news,” she said. “Just thought you’d better know.”
“As everyone has me down as the wicked witch? Are they checking for allergies? Soup’s lovely, by the way.”
“Just time for a quick coffee—have to get back to the hospital, but I wanted to know if you’d seen anything unusual. Was the vicar in the habit of eating or drinking at rehearsals?”
“Not that I’ve noticed. Wait a minute—he did carry some sort of energy drink last night. Probably didn’t have time to eat before rehearsal. Anyway, you were first to check…” To say “the body” was far too melodramatic. “He came straight from the vicarage last night, left nothing in the cloakroom, not even a change of clothes. Maybe a bag went with him to the hospital?”
“No, nothing. I asked Em to sort out pyjamas and the needful last night.” She looked over at the bar, curled a strand of red-gold hair back under her cap. “Did Emma say what they were arguing about?” she asked, too casually.
Maggie hid her surprise and shook her head. “No, but you heard his final words. And the golden goblet went missing last night. He always insisted on keeping an eye on it himself. Don’t even know if he used it in the rehearsal. I thought so, but he was all over the place, getting everything wrong. I could be confused.”
“He just mumbled rubbish—nothing useful there. But real gold?”
“He behaved as if it was, but he wouldn’t have used a real objet d’art as a prop, surely.”
The police sergeant shrugged. “If you find his things, let me know. People do the oddest things.”
True, Maggie thought as Pam left her coffee untouched.
“After making such a fuss about it, too.” Suzie cleared the table, even polishing under the beer mats.
Maggie took the hint. The square had cleared. The sky was bright, and she needed fresh air before Spanish Club. She’d have liked a half-term break to sort out her own life, but the parents wanted the club to carry on as normal. A break for them and much needed extra income for her.
****
Flashcards were a wonderful way to busy the mind, stop it worrying over impossible premises. The kids loved them, too. Halloween stock photos were easy to source—the fantasmas with their ghostly robes made from old sheets, the brujas with their blackout cloaks and pointy hats, the pumpkins, calabazas, or should she use ayotes? She had to have a pumpkin card—the kids had spent so long carving them. Halloween dominoes—she’d made templates and just had to slot in words and photos, laminate, and cut them out.
The session went well, and the children tackled the learning games enthusiastically. Pity they weren’t tidier, though. She must instigate an end-of-class activity which involved leaving the room spick and span.
She felt rather than saw someone watching her. Breath caught in her throat, but there was nothing to be frightened of. Bram leant propped on the door jamb, his right ankle crossed slackly over the left.
“Sorry I’m late finishing.” She hated how teenage she sounded. “Are you waiting to set up class in here?”
“Just came to see you.” He wandered in, picked up worksheets and laid them down again, stopped at the dominoes and started matching the words to the pictures.
She had to apologize. She had rehearsed what she was going to say often enough. She cleared her throat, suddenly thick with nerves. “I wanted to say sorry about last night. I didn’t mean—”
He waved a hand dismissively. “No worries. Forgotten.” But his eyes when she looked were shuttered and told a different story. Change the subject.
“You speak Spanish?”
“Nope. That’s what I came to see you about. A flamenco guitarist should speak the language.”
“You do.” She gestured to the matching flashcards.
“Not too difficult to guess what a fantasma is.” His mouth turned down momentarily in a self-deprecating grimace that made her laugh. “And I know what I need for flamenco. Palmas fuertes”—he clapped a driving rhythmic sequence—“and sordas.” He cupped his hands to produce a rounder, softer sound. “What I don’t know is how to string the words together to make any sort of sense.”
“Evening class is Wednesdays—except not this week. It’s half term.”
“You’re still teaching the little blighters, though.”
“Mmm. The parents pay extra for the club. They want the kids out
of the way at least one afternoon in the holidays.”
“And they enjoy it.”
“Wouldn’t you? Getting to wear a ghastly costume and terrorize the neighbourhood?”
“Every child’s dream.”
Their smiles collided, connected, and grew. A sweetness warmed her heart.
“Can’t make Wednesdays. Work in the evenings.”
Stupid, she thought. She knew that. She had seen him last night.
“Can’t you? Don’t you…?”
“Do private tuition?” For anyone else, but not you. She could not risk the intimacy of working alone with him. “Far too dear.” She’d done it again, offended him. The closed face and shuttered eyes distanced him irrevocably. “I don’t mean…” Her voice trailed away.
She’d hinted he wasn’t trustworthy in a car, and now she’d as much as said he wasn’t rich enough to be of interest. She rushed on into the silence. “I need to attract more people or they’ll close the classes. Numbers are all the authorities care about. Not how much good classes do for the people who come.”
His long fingers closed round the cards, squared them into a pack, then shuffled them with the dexterity of a card sharp in the old Westerns she loved. The cut rippled through the air, loud, sharp, challenging as a slap in the face from a medieval gauntlet.
“So what are you doing here? Really.”
The cards concertinaed endlessly—a hypnotic rise and fall. It was hard to fathom what he meant. He knew she was teaching. What else could she be doing? Did he mean why she was here? On the Island? In Creektown?
“An ad in the Times Ed Supplement. I needed a job. We always had family holidays here until I was a teenager. On the other side of the Island, of course, the tourist belt, but I knew I liked it. How about you?” she asked in her turn.
“Times Ed, ditto. I always wanted to teach guitar.” He was lying. She knew it and he knew she knew it. “How much do you know? Who told you?”
“Told me what? I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” This had nothing to do with implying he was too poor to pay for Spanish lessons, surely.
“No? It’s your turn now. The vicar died. Better get rid of all your green face paint and lie low till the fuss blows over.”
Hauntings in the Garden, Volume Two Page 12