Chapter Three
She was all fingers and thumbs as she packed away her teaching materials, the cards, and crayons. Jimmy Tolliver had left his notebook behind again—she scooped it into her mammoth carrier bag, had a last look round, and realized it was almost time for the final rehearsal.
In a normal technical rehearsal, only the stage staff was involved. But this was ShriekWeek. Nothing was normal. The whole cast was called to give the makeup team timekeeping practice. They’d only timed the difficult characters before—the Grey Lady, the Archbishop. And now the vicar, who loved dressing up and playing the martyr, was dead. Hard to believe. “This’ll be fun,” she growled under her breath to Emma, who had arrived at the head of a troupe of children hyped up to chandelier-swinging heights. Great, just great.
Emma already wore her white overall under her coat. “Adults first, d’ye think? Then the weenies don’t have a chance to ruin their costumes before the off—”
An ear-shattering shriek interrupted their planning.
“My mask’s gone, and my ghoulie’s all torn. What’ll I do-o-o-o?” Jimmy Tolliver, of course.
“Buck up, I’ll find you another mask. Not a monster this time.” Emma came to the rescue. “How’s about a skeleton?”
****
“Well, that did the trick.” Maggie was well out of breath as they followed the stream of bouncy ghostlings up Hill Lane to the graveyard. Jimmy’s running skeleton disappeared over the rise, and she felt instantly relieved. The children were out of sight. Someone else could watch them now.
“Timing was spot on tonight, everyone made up and out by the ten-minute call.” She’d been too busy to brood about Bram and his warning, but now she needed to find a way to broach the subject with Emma, who was chattering on.
“We impressed the honourable sponsor, anyway. Did you see him when Kyle was grovelling around?”
“First time I’ve seen Lord Donnal since my job interview. And I didn’t take much in then, I was so busy trying to land the job.”
“He’s bankrolling the production as well as hosting the Halloween Ball. He turned up tonight to look after his money, no doubt.”
“ShriekWeek won’t make him money. It may bring in more punters for the pubs and Kyle’s B&B. Goodness knows he needs the business. How does he survive?”
They stood at the top of the rise looking down the grassy slope to the cathedral ruins. The moment of contemplation suddenly shattered. A cacophony of noise erupted below.
Jimmy’s eldritch wail rose in pitch over adult voices and angry shouts of “Get him! Catch the beggar!” Maggie was sure the expressions would have been stronger had there not been so many children around.
Kyle and Lord Donnal were running frantically in opposite directions round the ruins.
Jimmy came tearing up the hill, sobbing. No one followed. For once, not him in trouble.
Maggie blocked the child’s path and confused him by jinking left as he went right. He cannonaded into her—a solid thump into her solar plexus. “What happened? Are you all right?” she gasped, winded.
“The racket he’s making, he’s all right. Nothing wrong with his lungs, any road.” Emma’s concerned expression belied her grumbling.
And the boy had her measure. He stopped his girning and complaining and squared up to her. “I’m in shock.” He stood stock still, blank-eyed, but only managed to hold the pose for a second before he erupted again, jigging from one dirty trainer to the other.
“It’s the vicar’s ghost,” he said, puffing out his sparrow-like chest with importance. “I saw him. I saw him first.”
“What makes you think you saw the vicar?” Maggie’s question was cautious.
“He was standing in the vicar’s bit, doing that thing with the drinks he did. Waving his gold cup.”
“He had the goblet? And he looked like the vicar?”
“Naw, he was wearing a mask—my mask. He looked like meeee.” And the child squealed like a piglet in pain. “Am I next? Am I going to die?”
“Certainly not. Unless you keep squeaking and annoying us.” Maggie had found exactly the right response to put the mischievous grin back on Jimmy’s face. “But don’t tell anyone else about the ghost. Our secret.”
He nodded earnestly but warily. “Mr Lachlan and Lord Donnal saw it too. They yelled and tried to catch it. But you can’t catch a ghost. I know that.”
But you could catch a person who broke into the school to steal a child’s mask. The chill of the evening permeated her bones even though she had brought an extra sweater and woolly socks to go inside her winter boots.
The green face was surely no coincidence. Someone was threatening them and the success of ShriekWeek by pointing out its relevance to the murder.
Bram was right. She had to lie low and fight back. But she needed help. And there was no one she could trust. Not even Emma. Why had she kept quiet about her argument with the vicar? She glanced sideways at her friend and saw her return the stare just as distrustfully.
“You know who it is.” A statement, not a question.
“I think I know who it is,” Maggie replied carefully, “but what I don’t know is why. You, I suspect, know the why.”
They walked stiffly and silently back down the hill the way they’d come, until Maggie could stand it no longer. If she shared information, she might get some back.
“I’m in the frame for this. Pam’s still trying to prove the vicar’s death is the result of an allergy to the face paint. What really happened yesterday? Before the ambulance came, the vicar mumbled something about you, then rambled a bit, said ‘nighty night’ and something about a wolf and Red Riding Hood. Does any of that make sense?”
“I told you all I know.” Emma clamped her lips in a tight line and marched on.
“Not about the argument. Pam told me about that.”
“It’s not my secret to tell.” Emma kicked hard at a tuft of grass, which flew into the air like a football.
“Bram’s secret?” Maggie guessed.
“That’s not a secret—everyone knows. Bram’s just out of prison, did two years for killing a woman. Drunk driving.”
Everyone but her. Maggie stammered in horror. “B-b-but everyone talks to him. Everyone likes him.”
Emma looked at her pityingly. “Bram’s local. He belongs here. And not everybody likes him.”
“Why did you call him your Bram the other day?”
“That your last question?” Emma matched her pace to Maggie’s, and they walked on more companionably. “He’s family. Come to think of it, we used to call him Wolf as a baby. Those eyes, you know. He’s innocent, of course.”
What nonsense! He was convicted. But as a relation she would say that.
“I suppose you’ll be telling me you’re related to Jimmy Tolliver next,” Maggie joked as she pushed open the heavy oak door back into the school.
“’Fraid so.” And Emma was not joking. “My sister married an Islander, so I’m part of the fabric too.”
****
The old-fashioned farmhouse kitchen with its brightly enamelled range and long refectory table was her refuge after work. Cosy and welcoming, it provided everything she’d ever dreamed of when poring over British magazines during her years abroad.
But eating a cheese omelette alone at a table meant for family and friends emphasized her loneliness and insecurity. She had to be ready to defend herself if Bram was right and worse came to worst.
She must make a list and note everything she knew. It had worked in the past to draw up two columns—one labelled yes and the other no—to decide what to do after Mark’s death. It had cleared her mind and made the decision to return home easy.
She padded round the kitchen, feeling the cold quarry tiles underfoot. Her indispensable red notebook hid as usual amidst piles of paperwork, promotional flyers, and rehearsal notes. The mindless task of typing them up for distribution would be good for her but would only shelve her problems and do nothing toward solving them. She
turned to a clean double page and tried to clear the jumble from her mind. Not columns she needed this time. Too many questions, too many imponderables. A mind map was the answer.
The central question was easy: Who killed the vicar? She’d worry about how and why later.
Who was around him when he collapsed? Herself, Emma, and Pam, with Kyle flapping about nearby.
She drew an oval for each name and started with herself. At least she was in the clear. She had not done it, but it might be useful to know why everyone else in Creektown thought she had.
First, she was an overner, a stranger in a community where babies were born with family ties that spanned generations.
Second, she’d suggested the vicar for the part, supplied the face paint and the directions for its use.
Which led her to Emma. She was his housekeeper. She’d made his costume and was supposed to do his makeup, look after his props, and see him safely through the performance. She was last to see him at home. Why hadn’t she been around when he needed her? What had they argued about?
Against that, with the vicar dead, she lost her job. Hardly credible she’d risk everything to kill him.
Pam was first on the scene, took control of the situation, and used artificial respiration. She’d diagnosed an allergic reaction, borrowed the Epi-Pen, and saved the man’s life. No one could have done more. This gave her a personal stake in catching his killer. But she’d visited the vicarage too that day—to request funds for the local police widows and orphans, she’d said. Who could corroborate that? Maggie made a note to check if the vicar was in the habit of donating annually. Past records, maybe?
She added a couple of ovals to the map. Bram was the dark horse. He’d visited the vicar earlier yesterday—but why? He had a criminal record, but Emma thought him innocent. Did the vicar know different? Was there some serious argument between the vicar and Emma that he’d chosen a final solution to resolve? She couldn’t see him covering the man with green paint, though. That smacked more of a feminine hand—like poison. Her mind made one of those sideways leaps, and her pencil traced another line of inquiry.
Had anyone considered poison? Slow-acting, perhaps. Something that could be ingested for days or weeks beforehand. If so, Emma certainly had opportunity. She cooked for him daily.
Around the central entries, Maggie added several questions she needed answers to.
1. Why had she been chosen as events organizer? Since arriving she had met several people, including Emma, who could have done the job as well if not better. Had she been set up as a scapegoat? In that case, the crime was long premeditated and suspicion rested on Kyle and Lord Donnal.
She added them to the map. Lord Donnal had visited the vicar and should be there anyway. Who else had Emma mentioned? She wished she could remember.
2. Why had Emma been arguing so fiercely with the vicar that people heard them? That put Emma and Bram in the picture. He was family. He would stand up for her.
3. Did someone always collect for the police fund at this time of year? Had Pam done this off her own bat, or had someone asked her to do it? This question at least gave her a concrete line of enquiry she could follow through records.
Then she added her notes.
Why did Bram visit the vicarage? Check it out.
Lord D had visited, as well—an awkward one to check, but Emma vouched for the fact the vicar was behaving oddly before he arrived and grew more distracted after he’d left. But if she was to do this properly, she had to talk to him too—ferret out his impressions of the vicar’s state of mind.
She returned to the map and added the vicar. After all, he was behaving so oddly it could have been suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed.
Chapter Four
Friday
No matter how sternly she told herself not to be impressed, she couldn’t help a tiny bubble of excitement fizzing up through her veins at the thought of visiting Druss Manor. Not even Kyle had been invited. But after the technical rehearsal Lord Donnal had sought her out in the melee in the hall and asked for her help.
Irresistible. She didn’t have to think twice to agree. Kyle treated her like some brainless gofer. Bram—she would not think about him today. Lord Donnal made her feel useful, special even.
“I need some expert help with Saturday’s ball,” he’d said. And when she looked disbelieving he’d added quickly, “We’re totally organized when it comes to the setup and catering, but a bit at sea where it concerns the murder mystery you lot are presenting.”
He’d raised a hand when she opened her mouth to explain. “Not a good time now. You’re busy. I’m late for a council meeting. Come tomorrow. Better to discuss this in situ. Ten o’clock fine? Not too early?”
And in a couple of hours, she would be there, seeing the manor for herself. She hoped Lord D would approve her mystery scenario—maybe even offer to fund its presentation later as a stand-alone play. This was her chance to discuss the staging and check that her ideas would work.
Breakfasted, showered but not dressed, she pondered what to wear. She piled her bed with possibles and discarded them all. A denim shirtwaist dress was old-fashioned but safe. But the day was suspiciously bright, and that meant cold. So the pink proofed jacket would be ideal. Then it was easy—the navy cable knit sweater and her best jeans. Her walking shoes needed a polish. They were still covered with clay from pushing her bike up the slappy cliff path home the night before. Slappy was the Island word she’d recently adopted, useful for “wet and dirty underfoot.”
She collected her index cards, colour-coded to represent characters, scenes, and clues, her printout of the general synopsis and ideas for the evening, her cast list, her map of the venue, and crammed them into an appliquéd bag from the charity shop.
With its bright blues, golds, oranges, and reds, it brought back the best of her times in Spain and should have cheered her up. But in Spain now it was el día de los muertos—the day of the dead—and she had a sudden memory of the vicar, lying there panting for breath, his face that terrible spooky green. She hadn’t done anything wrong. No way she needed to feel guilty. Unlike Bram. Terrible to have a death on your conscience.
She wheeled her bike out of the garage and headed up the lane toward the main road. She’d never been to the manor but, like everyone locally, knew exactly where it was. Lord Donnal and his wife were Island celebrities. It was rumoured he’d be the next Lord Lieutenant. They’d always hosted a grand Christmas party, in Lady Eleanor’s day, but this was the first time for Halloween.
If this came off, it would bring much-needed tourist income for Creektown—poor now with the reduction in its fishing fleet, yet she was under no illusions. Kyle was not doing this for the town but to promote his own spinoff ventures. Lord Donnal was more philanthropic and maybe had an eye on the Honours List.
And her own future depended on success. If she could pull this off, the publicity and marketing meant thousands in Creektown’s coffers. Lord Donnal had his fingers in many varied business pies. If he liked her proposals, he could bring in more work than she could handle. It would assure her a place in the community and allow her stability at last.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the police car until it passed alongside. Behind the glass, Pam’s face looked taut and strained. Her eyes showed no recognition but burned with a passion Maggie found frightening. For the first time Maggie felt afraid the policewoman was not in control.
Riding a bicycle had distinct advantages. It gave her time to study the heavy studded gates firmly shut in front of the manor. She looked around for a bell or intercom—nothing. Was there another way in? She wheeled her bike into the secluded lane alongside the house, but the footing was slappy, grey with mud—a bridleway used by horses, not guests.
She was backing out when the police car came speeding back and drew in from the opposite direction. The driver reached out to press a button Maggie had not noticed on a wooden post. The gates slowly swung open, and at the last minut
e she pedalled in after the car, then immediately turned off the main drive, praying she had not been seen. No way she wanted to face more questions from Pamela. Fortunately she had given herself so much time for the journey she was still ten minutes early.
The offshoot path she took led up to a stable yard which appeared quiet and deserted. She looked round for somewhere to sit and found a bench just inside the barn. She leaned her bike against the stone wall and, out of habit, threaded through the safety chain and padlocked it. She cleared a space in the jumble of bridles and grooming equipment on the bench, sat, and wiped the clay from her shoes for the second time that morning.
Satisfied she was presentable enough to visit the manor house, she was about to move out when she heard voices in the yard.
Pam—she’d know the whine in her vowels anywhere—and, judging by the plummy pronunciation of Southern England, Lord Donnal.
“What’s in hand for Saturday?” Pam asked. Presumably she’d been checking arrangements for the police presence at the Halloween Ball.
“Better you don’t know.” The footsteps moved on. “But perhaps you could drop this off for me?”
Pam laughed. “Delighted.” Her voice softened to syrup. “Anytime.”
There was a soft scuffling noise. Then the footsteps resumed their rhythm, and Maggie heard the roar of the car revving up and the crunch of the tyres on gravel.
Only then did she slip away from the stable block and cut across the lawn to the front entrance of the manor. A brisk handshake with her assumed start of surprise covered the fact that she knew Lord Donnal would be strolling up the main drive toward her.
His classic elegance made her very conscious that her casual clothes were barely up to standard.
“Thought you might need help to negotiate the gates,” he said. No mention of Pam or the police car he had seen off the premises. Should she mention them? She decided against it.
“Came by—” He mightn’t have seen the padlocked bike in the barn. “I managed the gates but stupidly took the wrong path and ended up at the stables. So I tried to find a short cut through to the manor and only just arrived.”
Hauntings in the Garden, Volume Two Page 13