by Jenny Harper
‘Martyne strode along the beach with Syme at his heels. The wind had risen and a storm would come. He could feel it in his bones. If he was to kill Ethelinda, tonight would be the perfect night to carry out the deed.’
Kate glanced up. ‘He’s planning murder?’
This time Sophie wailed in earnest.
‘He had thought the whole thing through. Tonight, Ethelinda would be travelling along the cliff path to her uncle’s house in the next village, with only her maid for company. There was a place where the trail became treacherous and recent rains had made it more so. The earth had slid to the sea so that the way was narrow. A nervous pony might lose its footing. There would be no need to touch her, or the horse, only to startle it. A small stone lobbed from behind the bush just past the point would be all that was needed – and if that failed, he could let loose the two birds he had caught and caged. The sudden flapping of wings right in front of the pony would cause it to rear and throw his pregnant mistress. She was not a good rider and the bulk she carried made her even less assured. The maid would be walking. If she chanced to see him after her mistress had fallen, one push would be all it required to send her down the cliffs to certain death. If she ran the other way, back to her own village, which was the more likely, he could make his escape through the darkness and be back with Ellyn before the alarm was raised.’
‘What,’ Kate asked, ‘does Andrew say about this?’
‘I haven’t asked him. I was too scared.’
‘Scared? You surely don’t think—’
She should have chosen waterproof mascara, Kate thought heartlessly as she handed the girl a handkerchief. Small wonder that Andrew had wanted to come home. Sophie McAteer was no maneater, as Ninian had liked to characterise her. On the contrary, she seemed young for her age. She had no sophisticated wiles, she was just needy. Once the novelty had worn off, Andrew would hate the claustrophobia of being needed – he liked on-demand attention all to come his way.
‘Andrew’s no monster, Sophie. At least, not in that sense. You must know that.’
The girl dabbed at her eyes and sniffed. ‘I do know. It’s metaphorical though, don’t you see? He wants to kill off our relationship.’
‘It’s just a novel,’ Kate said, using Andrew’s argument.
‘Is it though? Is that what you think?’
Kate said, exasperated, ‘What are you expecting me to do?’
‘I want you to help me. Please?’
Kate laughed out loud. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I know it’s a cheek. I’m sorry. I didn’t know who to turn to.’
What do you say to a young girl who has seduced your husband and who comes to you for advice? Kate thought of the misery she had been put through in the past months because of Sophie MacAteer and her first instinct was to tell her to go to hell. Then she thought of Andrew, systematically working his way through a procession of young women across the years and of her own realisation – far too late – that she should have talked to Val.
‘If I tell you my views,’ she said, ‘you’ll think my advice is biased.’
‘I know he’s not really going to kill me. He’s just got tired of me already,’ Sophie said, her eyes brimming with tears. As Kate watched, a couple escaped and rolled down marble-white cheeks.
Kate picked up another sheet of Andrew’s draft.
‘Martyne could see Ethelinda and her maid now, perhaps a mile away. Darkness had fallen, but the night was clear. He knew now that he wanted Ellyn more than he ever had, that his passion for the younger girl had been nought but a mad dream. Was it too late to set things right? Was killing the gypsy girl the way out of his troubles? He had solved many a murder case, he knew how to cover his tracks, he would never be caught. The way before him was clear.’
She said, ‘Haven’t you got any friends, Sophie? Surely there are other people you can talk this over with?’
Sophie blew her nose noisily. ‘I need you to tell me the truth.’
‘About Andrew?’
She nodded.
Kate said, ‘I think you know the truth, don’t you?’
‘He’s done this before, hasn’t he? And he’ll do it again.’
So she might be immature, but she was not stupid. ‘Well, I’ve got to admire your courage.’
‘You think I’m brave?’
‘You know the truth, don’t you? And you’ve decided to face it. I think that’s brave, yes.’
Sophie shuddered, but pinched her lips together and lifted her chin. ‘What should I do?’
Kate shrugged. ‘You’re young. Just make your decision and stick with it, then get on with the rest of your life.’
‘You think I should throw him out.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You do, though’ Sophie insisted.
But Kate had grown weary of her. ‘Do what you want, Sophie,’ she said tiredly. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that I don’t really care one way or the other.’
She watched Sophie turn the car and drive off. She could not pretend that the visit had been a welcome, or even a pleasant one, but it had served one important purpose – it had reinforced the fact that her time for being in love with Andrew Courtenay was well and truly over.
Chapter Thirty-two
In the middle of the eighteenth century a young girl called Miss Louisa Chalmers, who lived in Lily Cottage in Forgie High Street, kept a diary. This diary, beautifully illustrated with tiny, jewel-like watercolours, was discovered a hundred years later in a tin box that had been buried under an ash tree at the bottom of the garden. What Miss Louisa’s motives had been in burying it could only be guessed at, but the diary excited interest, found a publisher, and became a small but steady seller for the next hundred years.
Miss Louisa’s enchanting entry for Advent Sunday read, ‘ And so to the Hall, where the first Advent candle was lighted and hot wine was taken. Mother brought sweet bread with raisins, Aunt Julia a sponge cake with last season’s raspberry jam. Much fun was had by all. ’
The tradition, which had apparently lapsed by the middle of the nineteenth century, had been revived around the Millennium, and the ceremony of putting up the village Christmas tree and the Hall decorations, now took place every Advent Sunday, with ‘hot wine taken’. It was a good tradition, Kate thought as she leafed through a recipe book trying to decide on what to take to the party. She had always hated the dark days of winter.
Kate pulled a hardback from the shelf where Andrew kept his cookery books. Maybe Sophie did the cooking now, because he had not come to collect them. She flicked through the pages. Dundee Cake: too rich. Madeira Cake: too plain. Victoria Sandwich: too ordinary. Jumble Cake. Her hand hovered over the page and held the book open. It seemed to be basically a sponge cake with chunks of chocolate, lumps of sugar, and dried fruit.
Kate had discovered a passion for baking during the weeks of her suspension. She found it therapeutic, and although the scones she’d made for Nicola Arnott had been heavy and hard, she was beginning to be quite good at it, so long as she followed the recipe to the letter. This approach suited her training and inclination. Cooking dishes where the chef’s instructions read ‘add a handful of this’ or ‘throw in some of whatever’ left her apprehensive and uncertain.
Jumble Cake it was then. Ideal.
Two hours and a slightly messy kitchen later, she took the cake out of the oven and placed it on a wire tray to cool. Make sure, she read, that the centre bounces back when pressed. She smiled. ‘Bounces back when pressed.’ How apt. She’d been under considerable pressure herself recently and was rather proud of how she was bouncing back.
As she dressed for her outing, though, Kate realised that a mask of confidence was harder to assemble than the ingredients for a cake. For someone who had never been seen to lack conviction, she found that facing the inhabitants of Forgie took a considerable amount of courage. To many she was still the ogre who was inflicting an unwanted wind farm on them, to others she was the bitch
who had driven away their most famous resident. Either way, she knew she was far from popular.
Her apprehension was borne out when she arrived at the village hall. The place seemed busier than ever this year and no-one made way for her as she struggled to reach the cake table. There were no friendly platitudes and very few smiles. She squeezed past May Nesbitt from Forgie House with the cake almost above her head. It was nearly sent flying by Myra Carr from the tennis club.
‘Oops, sorry,’ Kate muttered, though it was Myra who hadn’t been looking.
She spied Charlotte, trying to find space for her own cake on an overflowing table. ‘Here,’ Charlotte said with a grin, ‘let’s dump Myra’s ghastly pancakes onto this plate of rubbish brownies. They’re all obviously shop-bought and don’t deserve to be displayed.’
Kate began to feel better as they giggled conspiratorially.
Talking at this end of the hall was nigh on impossible. By mutual consent they edged through the crowds and towards the door. There was a large poster pinned up in the front porch. Kate hadn’t spotted it when she came in, she must have been concentrating on protecting her cake.
‘“Village Hall Refurbishment Plans.” What’s this?’
Charlotte chortled. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, Kate, but Dad’s fairly changed his tune. He says he’s still against the wind farm, but now that they know they’re likely to get a load of money by way of compensation, he’s adopted the refurbishment scheme like a new child. What do you think of the drawings?’
Kate studied the artist’s impression. This was more than renovation, it was a full-scale extension, featuring a glass atrium to the rear of the old Victorian building that housed a large hall, with what looked like a number of meeting rooms and possible offices round the northern side. It was very contemporary, but stylish.
‘Ambitious, but I like it. Do you think they’ll get permission? This is a conservation village.’
Charlotte grinned. ‘Dad’s a man on a mission.’
Kate groaned. ‘Thank God I’m not on the Council Planning Committee.’
‘I know. They’re no sooner rid of him camping out on their doorstep about the wind farm than he’s back, campaigning for this.’
‘This time,’ Kate smiled, ‘I’ll be on his side.’
‘He’ll be delighted about that. Genuinely.’ Her voice changed. ‘Look, there’s Mike, talking to Ian Grant.’
‘Ian—?’
‘You remember me telling you, he’s Ibsen Brown’s brother-in-law. He works with Mike on the rigs.’
At the mention of Ibsen’s name, Kate caught her breath. ‘Ah yes, there’s Cassie now, with the baby,’ she said with a lightness constructed to mask her churning emotions. She surged forward to greet them, praying that Ibsen and Melanie weren’t here too.
Cassie was carrying Daisy Rose in a sling. ‘It’s easier than a buggy in crowds,’ she explained. ‘I’m so pleased to see you. Ian insisted that we come but I didn’t think I’d know anyone.’
‘Is this the famous Daisy?’ Charlotte had always been gooey-eyed about babies.
Daisy Rose kicked pink bootees delightedly and a conversation followed that Charlotte and the baby seemed to enjoy, but which was completely unintelligible to Cassie and Kate. Daisy seized Charlotte’s hair and started winding it round her tiny fingers with glee. Above her head, Cassie said, ‘Ibsen’s leaving today. Did you know?’
Kate said, ‘Leaving?’
‘He applied for a job as head gardener at one of the big country estates in Northamptonshire and they’ve called him down for a final interview. They’ve pretty much told him the job’s his.’
‘Ibsen’s leaving?’ Kate repeated for a second time, stupidly. ‘But why? What about Daisy Rose? What about his cottage? What about the garden?’
‘I know. We’re devastated, all of us. Nicola Arnott doesn’t know what she’ll do.’
Ibsen Brown was leaving, and the smidgen of hope Kate had not even known she was nurturing was extinguished in a blink. ‘I can’t believe he’d do that. Everything was going so well for him.’
‘He’s never got over Violet. You know what he’s like, he won’t talk about it, but we think – all of us – that that may be why he’s going.’
What about Melanie? ‘You’ll miss him terribly.’
‘Yes.’
‘When did he go?’ To hell with Melanie. What about me?
‘He left this morning. Trouble is, he’s exactly right for the job.’
Daisy Rose abandoned Charlotte’s hair and started to grunt. Her face grew red and a small frown of concentration appeared between her eyebrows. ‘I think she’s— Oh. She has,’ Charlotte said, laughing and stepping back as a pungent aroma spilled from Daisy’s vicinity.
‘Oh, Lord, I’ll have to find somewhere to change her.’
‘There’s a loo at the back of the hall.’
‘Right. Thanks. I’ll be back soon.’
As Cassie disappeared into the crowd, Charlotte looked at Kate and said, ‘So tell me about Ibsen Brown, Kate.’
‘What about him?’ Kate couldn’t bring herself to meet her friend’s gaze.
‘I thought he was madly irritating, an obtuse wind-farm protestor, a—’
‘He is.’
‘But?’
‘But what?’
‘Why are you so upset that he’s moving away?’
‘Did I say I was upset?’
‘Oh come on, Kate, I’ve known you for years, remember? You’re one unhappy woman right now. You should have seen the way your face changed when Cassie told you.’
‘It did not.’
‘It did.’
‘It did n— anyway, you were busy playing with Daisy, how would you know?’
‘I peeked.’
Kate looked away. Charlotte knew her too well.
Adapt or die was Kate’s new philosophy. Adaptation is a natural state in human beings and she’d been working hard at reshaping a life without Andrew, without AeGen, and without Mrs Gillies. She had become a housekeeper, a single parent, self employed. She put the rubbish out and she vacuumed. She dusted and ironed and cooked for Ninian and herself. She had turned her back on a career ladder and was focusing on survival in the freelance jungle. She thought she was adjusting to a life without love – but Cassie’s news pulled out a vital peg in the foundations of the edifice she had constructed and sent her spinning into a void.
‘Nothing good can come of lying to yourself,’ Charlotte said quietly. ‘You taught me that.’
Kate’s head whipped round. ‘I did?’ she asked, wide-eyed.
‘I lied to myself about Andy. I told myself it didn’t matter, that what you and Mike didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you blah, blah, blah – but it nearly destroyed our friendship, didn’t it? And it was eating away at me so much that it was getting in the way of my feelings for Mike too. Since I talked to him—’ She leaned towards Kate and gripped her arm, ‘—it wasn’t easy, actually it was hellish, but everything’s a hundred times better than it was. Honesty is the key. Believe me. If you have feelings for Ibsen, go tell him. Don’t let him just leave.’
Kate didn’t move. Uncertainty gripped her. ‘I think he’s started seeing Melanie again.’
‘Really? You sure about that? Why’s he going away, then?’
‘He’s – I don’t know. His private life is complicated.’
‘And empty?’ Charlotte studied Kate’s face. ‘I think I’m right, aren’t I? There has been something between you.’
‘There was,’ Kate admitted. ‘Once. But he doesn’t love me.’
‘Who’s talking about love? Not everyone falls in love at first sight, you know.’
‘Like me and Andrew, you mean?’ Kate grimaced wryly.
‘Love can take ages to develop. But don’t be frightened of showing you care, just because you’ve been hurt – because sometimes, just knowing that someone gives a damn can turn your life around.’
Kate pursed her lips. ‘You told me once that I didn’t
know anything about other people’s lives, Char. You said I never took much interest.’
‘So prove me wrong.’
Kate’s voice tightened with anxiety. ‘But he’s gone already.’
‘Maybe not. It’s only midday.’
‘But what if he has?’
‘Kate! Shoo!’
Kate turned and ran.
Behind her, she heard Myra Carr’s outraged voice complaining loudly, ‘Someone’s dumped my pancakes on top of a load of brownies!’
The gates into the Forgie House estate were never closed. Today, someone had shut them. She leapt out of the car and ran to slide back the bolts. They were heavy and unwieldy and half rusted, and her small hands struggled to shift them. The last one finally slid back, protesting, and she raced back to her car. She’d never realised how far Ibsen’s cottage was from the gates. At the final corner of the road, she skidded on black ice and wrestled with the wheel as the car threatened to spin out of control. Not now, damn you, not now.
Then the cottage was in front of her, its blank windows staring sightlessly into the distance. It looked abandoned and Kate’s heart sank. He obviously wasn’t there. She’d made a comprehensive mess of everything. She opened the car door and jumped out. The sound of her knock seemed to bounce backwards, skimming across the frozen grass to hit the cold stone walls of the estate, so that it reverberated back towards her as a spooky echo. There was no answer, to knock or to echo. Leaving the front door, she ran to the garden gate and barged in. The side door, he uses the side door, idiot.
She battered on the side door.
Silence.
She hammered again.
Nothing. Behind her, he had left neatness and order, but the small patch of garden was featureless and uncultivated. There would be no dahlias next summer to brighten the brown earth.
‘Ibsen’s gone.’
Kate whirled round.
‘I saw your car,’ Tam Brown said. ‘He’s gone. You’ve missed him.’
He was standing at the garden gate, looking heart-stoppingly like his son, with his sky-blue eyes that drilled into you, his weathered, kindly face, his stocky, strong build.