His eyes scanned her face, but she knew very well the lazy disinterest was faked. He was very aware she might have seen him with Pam and was considering how to find out.
“I’ve brought a copy of tomorrow’s script for you.” Keep everything on a business footing. Don’t give him a chance to play the charmer.
He ushered her through the hall into a well-proportioned drawing room and indicated a winged armchair drawn up by the wood fire crackling in the grate. He dropped down into the matching chair opposite and leafed through the information in her folder.
His attention seemed caught by the seating plan, and he looked into the fire, tapping his fingers on the paper that showed the layout of the dining room with a section allocated as a stage.
“Who’s in this play, then?” he asked abruptly. “Not that drunk that killed my housekeeper. You knew that? My car was a write-off.”
She did. How could she forget her horror when Emma had broken the news.
Lord Donnal was glaring into the fire, thoughts distant.
“She was very important to you—?”
“Guilty. I still feel guilty.” The words choked out of him, and he leaned his elbows on the coffee table, his hands clasped over his eyes. “If Nora hadn’t insisted on working late, if I hadn’t insisted on her taking my car to drive home…”
“You can’t think like that. You mustn’t. Accidents happen, people in the right place at the wrong time…”
And no one knew more about that than she did. She was coming to terms with it now, but for the past two years she had suffered from all the same anxieties and regrets. If she and Mark had been a minute earlier, a minute later, they would not have been in collision with the farm truck. Mark would still be alive. She waited for the usual pang of regret, but her new life, her new aspirations, muffled the expected response.
“Well”—he reverted to an impatient self she had not seen before—“I’m not paying you to rehabilitate a killer. You’re new. Don’t know the whole story. Got Pam keeping an eye on him too. No time for bleeding hearts.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” It might ease his anxieties to talk about the accident. It had certainly helped her to offload the nightmares to a sympathetic ear.
He ignored the opportunity. “Knew we did the right thing choosing you. Press on side—radio, TV, all that sort of thing?”
“I’ve sent the press releases out weekly, and checked invitations on Tuesday—most people are either coming or asked us to supply write-ups and pix. Tickets for the Halloween Ball are sold out.”
“Make this a success, and it’s just the start—there’s the Christmas Fair, and we’re planning a Winter Carnival. Anything you can think of to bring the punters in, tell us, and we’ll consider it.”
“You and Kyle?”
“More like the royal we. Halloween was his idea, so we’re stuck with him, but he’s not the sharpest knife on the block, don’tcha agree?”
“He’s worked tirelessly to get the pageant right.”
“Bit of a mess-up last night. That shouldn’t have happened. It needed someone decisive to put it right. That’s not Kyle. But the pageant looks good.”
“We’re using a few main characters from it for Saturday’s murder mystery at the ball.” She handed over the promotional flyer.
“Emma?” he asked.
“Helping with makeup and costumes, hiring the children’s entertainer, and doing the prompt if needed.”
“Good, good.” He nodded his head with obvious satisfaction. “Terrible thing for her, seeing the vicar like that. Losing her job and her home. Must see what I can do.”
She reflected on Emma’s situation as she cycled home. How could she not have realized her friend was facing what she herself considered her worst nightmare? Wonderful that Lord Donnal picked up on it and wanted to help. No wonder the village thought so much of him. He did it with money—after all, he was bankrolling the pageant and paying her a living wage—she had no illusions there. But his insight into the needs of the people of Creektown went way beyond that.
****
On the way home, she stopped at the police station on the square. She had meant to check up on the donations to police funds, but only Pam was on duty. So instead Maggie asked about Bram’s conviction. “What happened? Do we know?”
Pam gave the police version. “Bram was playing for a birthday bash in Chale.”
Maggie visualized the village on a map—almost diagonally opposite Creektown—as far as it was possible to travel on the Island.
“He drove home along the middle road, cut down through Dodpits, then out through Wellow and Thorley to Manor Hill Lane. Suspicious, taking such a wiggly route. Obviously he’d been drinking and was trying to dodge police cars on the way home.”
“It doesn’t mean he was over the limit or that he caused Nora’s accident. It was a head-on collision and his car was on the correct side of the road, according to Emma. So why was he the one found guilty?” Maggie wondered why she was finding it so important to believe him innocent.
“The police proved the cars had spun out of place in the collision. Bram was drunk and alive. Nora was a teetotaller and dead.”
“What did Bram say?”
“Rubbish, mostly,” said Pam. “He’d banged his head on the steering wheel and couldn’t remember a thing. What he did remember made no sense. We booked him—no choice.”
“You were there?” The scenario suddenly turned from grey to black. Pam had been on the spot. She had the inside track on the vicar, too, and never considered the death unnatural. Had he not died in hospital, would it have passed as simply a heart attack?
“Could Nora have caused the accident?”
“Hardly. If she was waiting to turn from the manor drive, she’d have been stationary.” Pam fidgeted, rifling through papers on the counter in front of her.
“You measured skid marks?”
“What are you? A policeman all of a sudden?” Pam’s patience snapped. “Everything was done that could be done. Lord D spoke up for him, pleaded mitigating circumstances. Good of him, when Bram as much as accused him of driving and running away—a hallucination caused by the bump on his head, the court decided.”
Maggie filed away that new piece of information. Yet another bonus point for the ShriekWeek sponsor.
“Excuses or no excuses, the man was guilty. He caused death by dangerous driving. He pleaded guilty. Case closed.” Pam was positively hostile.
“But he’s done his time. No reason to suspect him now of killing the vicar or annoying Lord Donnal. He has no reason to, especially if the man tried to defend him.”
“He certainly pointed out how upset Bram was with his ex-wife and that probably he wasn’t totally concentrated on driving, pressed the accelerator pedal instead of the brake…”
With friends like that to speak up for you, who needs enemies?
Chapter Five
She’d planned to take the afternoon off before the Ghost Walk. The vicar’s cosy mystery was top on her relaxation to-do list. But she hadn’t reckoned on Jimmy Tolliver trick-or-treating. He jumped out of the minibus parked by her gate and scampered up the path behind her.
“Trick or treat?”
“Treat.” She didn’t dare choose trick. “And what’re you doing here?”
The back doors of the minibus slid open and a large brown box with legs climbed out. She recognized the legs just as Jimmy said, “I’m here with my dad.”
For a startled moment, she could not speak.
“And I’m not his dad.” Bram lowered the box onto her front doorstep. “Treats are on top. Least I could do. And Emma wants a favour. Will you scan these papers for her?”
She opened the door and gestured for him to put the box in the hall. “Why? What am I looking for?”
“She says proof to nail the killer. We’ve each got a box to go through.”
“Treat,” Jimmy reminded them. “Then I’ve to meet my dad. He’s doing the garden next door
.” The gardener. Of course.
Bram handed over a bag filled with sweets. “Off you go, monster.”
Maggie watched the child saunter into her neighbour’s yard and hoped he was telling the truth. “I thought you brought him.”
“Simply acquired him by dint of coming here. Shall we start on the boxes inside? Or lunch first? I brought a picnic.”
With a guilty start, Maggie remembered her murder investigation lists still in full view on the kitchen table. “Picnic,” she said decisively and shooed him back out. “But first I need a quick word with Jimmy’s dad.”
She found him clearing the late autumn leaves and tidying her elderly neighbour’s flowerbeds. “Jimmy in trouble again?” he said but hardly looked concerned.
“Not at all. I just wanted to ask why you visited the vicar the other day. Did he seem ill to you?”
“He asked me to come—wanted to know about Lady Eleanor’s plants in the deathly garden and who was looking after them. Some were really rare, you know, imported under licence. But I’d no answers. His lordship sacked me when she went.”
“The deathly garden?”
“Lady Eleanor had ideas of a special garden devoted to deadly plants—like they have up north to bring in the tourists—but she disappeared before we could get it finished. Sad. Then Nora died, and everything went to pot.”
“I wondered if Lord Donnal and she were, well, involved, and that was why Lady Eleanor left.”
“Nora hated him, if you want to know, for what he did to Lady Eleanor. Cheated her out of the manor, she said. She only stayed to try to find proof. She texted me to say ‘Last Day.’ I thought she’d done it. Now we’ll never know.”
“Did the vicar ask anything else?”
“No. Just nodded. And looked disappointed.”
Bram had waited for her by the gate. He collected the wicker hamper from the minibus, and they strolled to the viewpoint on the cliff top. A slight breeze ruffled the clouds, but the sky and the sea were Mediterranean blue. They settled on a wooden bench with the hamper between, and Bram popped the catches.
“I thought it would take longer for you to make up your mind.” He eyed her quizzically over his smoked salmon sandwich. “You didn’t even ask what I’d brought to eat. What’s up?”
“It’s all such a mess,” she burst out. “It was you playing the ghost at tech rehearsal last night, wasn’t it? And where did you get the goblet?”
“Guilty as charged.” He bit into his sandwich and did not look the least repentant. “Had some idea of finding the killer through acting out the play. A Hamlet-and-his-ghost idea.”
“And his goblet.”
“Funny thing. I found it there, and it’s just ordinary glass. The vicar wanted to be sure of drinking from his own cup, I suppose.”
“I don’t know who you are, who anyone is, anymore.”
“And you thought you did? In a few short weeks?” His laugh was more of a bark. “I know Emma told you about the…accident.”
“Accidents happen.”
“I wasn’t drinking, if that’s what you think. But I can’t remember a thing after turning into Manor Hill Lane and hitting that car. I thought a man slid out of the driving seat and ran away. But I can’t be sure of anything…”
She stared at him, incredulous that his account differed from what she’d heard from Lord Donnal and Pam. Doubly incredulous that she longed to believe him.
“Once a teacher, always a teacher. You don’t approve of me. You have me labelled as the class troublemaker. And teachers are always right.”
The accusation was unfair. Her parents were both teachers. They had guided her into teaching, introduced her to her future husband—also a teacher. Only lately had she begun to question their values. Their innate sense of moral superiority allied to their social climbing would ensure their approval of Lord Donnal. They would not approve of a penniless guitarist at all. And not so long ago, she would have agreed. But crossing to the Island, having to make her own way on the strength of who she was rather than what she was, had changed her. Knowing Bram had changed her.
She was making heavy work of explaining her feelings until he took the wind out of her sails. “Would it help,” he said, “if I told you I’m Lady Eleanor’s son?”
The implication was she was only interested in his social standing. And she resented it. They parted politely but stiffly, the easy camaraderie lost.
****
When he’d gone, she found herself too restless to lie about and read. She took out her bicycle and, without conscious decision, followed the final stages of the route Pam had described Bram driving. Flying downhill on Manor Hill Lane, she took the steep bend more or less cautiously. The bicycle brakes squealed as she slowed her descent. Then she was freewheeling down past the manor.
And nothing made sense. If this was the route Bram had taken, he could never have hit a car waiting to turn or coming uphill after turning from the manor. For a collision to take place, someone had to have been on the wrong side of the road. Had Nora pulled into the centre of the narrow lane as she turned from the manor gates? Had Bram come wide through the sharp corner and also crossed the centre line? She understood how a head-on collision was possible. The bump on his head had disoriented him, planted false memories.
She pedalled home subdued and unexpectedly sad. She had so wanted to believe him.
****
The pageant went off without incident. Crowds poured in from across the Island, attracted by a new event and the clear starry night. Kyle excelled himself in the vicar’s role, and the children epitomized the collective noun—a real “fright” of ghosts.
But Bram was notable by his absence. And despite all the praise and congratulations, Maggie felt curiously flat. She’d always lived for her job, but suddenly now that felt sadly empty.
Chapter Six
Saturday
She’d forgotten how much she loved baking until she laid out the ingredients to make Halloween cupcakes for the children’s party.
The kids had been the stars of the pageant. The reward was their own party in the castle—live music from The Screaming Skulls, The Wailing Witches, and The Grumbling Ghosts. That bright idea had come from Emma, planted by Bram, no doubt. Don’t go there, don’t think about him. She ran a final scan over her party list, although she knew in her heart everything was in order.
For some reason her lists failed to soothe. A knot of anxiety tied itself in her stomach and reminded her how unpredictable life had suddenly become.
As she measured ingredients and laid them out on the kitchen table with bowls, plates, and jugs, she wondered if she should have involved Emma quite so much. Last time they’d worked together, the vicar collapsed. Yet Emma seemed totally unaffected by all the gossip around town. It was hard to tell what she was thinking.
It was clear she had not been involved. Or was it? Maggie poured flour into a bowl and cut butter into small knobs to cream it in more easily. She must not take her lists so seriously. The list concluded Emma hadn’t killed the vicar, but why not? Because she was a friend? Because she was always willing to help?
She added the sugar and vanilla, reached across for the beater, and whisked as if her life depended on it. Probably it did. If she were in one of the mystery books she loved, she’d have guessed the murderer with far fewer clues.
As she loaded the last tray of cupcakes into the oven, an ominous four-beat rap on the door echoed the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. A blast of cold air and Emma whooshed into the kitchen together.
“Time for a winter warmer,” she said and unwound her metres-long lacy scarf from her neck.
“Coffee do? Or are you looking for something stronger?”
“Frothy coffee and a first taste of whatever’s in the oven.” Emma wrinkled her nose in pleasure as she sniffed the warm baking smell. “Oooh, chocolate.”
“And not for you.” Maggie poured warm milk from the pan into the coffee.
“Lifesaver.” Emma’s
smile extended as she warmed her hands round the steaming mug. “What are we doing then, as we wait?”
Maggie handed over the printouts of Halloween cupcakes. “Get ready for the decorating.”
“Dibs on icing the spiders.” Emma flipped through more images of icing cats, ghastly ghosts, and creepy insects. “What’s this?”
She waved another sheet in Maggie’s face, then whisked it back and started to read. When she looked up again, her face was tight-lined with disappointment. “Well? Cat got your tongue?”
“It was just…was ju—” The timer pinged, and Maggie grabbed the oven gloves, glad of the excuse to turn away. She hoped Emma would think her red face was caused by the oven heat rather than the embarrassed flush hotly working its way up from her neck.
“I’m on this list. And Bram. You thought we had something to do with what’s going on?”
“I’m there too,” Maggie protested. “I was timetabling everyone and trying to track opportunity and motivation. I only had opportunity. You and Bram had both.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this—treating it like a thirties detective story. This is real life, and life has moved on, even here on an Island you consider to be some mythical Pollyanna retreat. Life isn’t all cosiness and cupcakes.”
“I want to find the murderer who killed the vic.”
“Why?”
“Why…well…because it’s wrong. And everyone blames me because I’m not local.”
“Nonsense. There are far more overners than Islanders here now. They run the place. The kids are all drama queens who talk like celebrities from Manchester or Essex. When do you ever hear an Island accent nowadays?”
“Bram,” she said confidently.
“A dinosaur,” said Emma. “Just wants to be left in peace to do his own thing.”
“I think he might have been innocent, like you said, and I don’t like the way things seem to be stacking up against him again, and he doesn’t seem to be doing anything about it.”
Hauntings in the Garden, Volume Two Page 14