Poet's Cottage

by Josephine Pennicott

  Anger choked Sadie at the thought of Jackie with her gleaming white teeth that advertised her dental assistant position, and oversized shoe collection, helping her in any way. She was virtually a teenager. ‘Sorry, can’t do,’ she said. ‘You see, I had a visualisation board with the perfect man also. Good looking, money, well connected, single, perfect teeth. And guess what? I met a man who fits that description. The town dentist! Wouldn’t your little dental assistant find a perfect irony in that? The universe has a sense of humour. Oh, it must have, to put me with you in the first place. You had the affair, Jack, not me!’ She hung up the phone and then left it off the hook, determined Jack wouldn’t have the last word. Let him believe she had met someone she was interested in. She felt furious at herself for calling him.

  Betty, who had crept down the stairs to listen, heard the phone slam down and her mother swearing. She fled quickly upstairs again. It was so typical of her mother to hang up on her dad! She could be such an immature drama queen. Sadie would be going on about St Catherine’s until the day she dropped dead, blaming Zowie and her clique for everything wrong in Betty’s life. It wouldn’t occur to her to look closer to home. As far as her mother was concerned, everything was always somebody else’s fault. Betty loved her mother dearly, but it frustrated her that in their relationship, she felt like the mother. If only Nanna M hadn’t cosseted Sadie, perhaps she would have been more adept at coping with the practicalities of everyday life rather than always being so abstracted with her writing. Her mother did have a stronger side to her, but she was far happier curling up at home reading a book or working on some novel than dealing with the world outside her door. Betty knew her mother had longed for more children, and she herself wished she had siblings; if she had more children to fret over Sadie mightn’t be so preoccupied with Betty’s state of mind.

  Poor Dad. She knew how much he’d be missing her. Her father might cultivate a happy-go-lucky persona but Betty knew it masked a deeply caring nature. She had never had to doubt her father’s love. Even her mum was forced to concede he was a devoted father. Betty believed her mother wanted to punish her dad for his affair, but if Mum hadn’t been so busy fretting over Marguerite and Betty and closeting herself away writing, maybe her dad wouldn’t have felt the need to stray. Betty immediately felt guilty at this thought; her mum had done so much for her over the years. Everybody commented that they were more like sisters than mother and daughter. Betty sometimes felt it would be preferable to be a proper mother and daughter.

  Something else was bothering Betty tonight; as she looked around her room she felt a strange difference in the air, as if an alien presence had visited. There was nothing obviously out of place or missing. Surely Mum hadn’t been poking into her things? It wasn’t her style to interfere; she valued her own privacy too much to invade Betty’s.

  The differences were subtle, such as the way the quilt lay over the bed, a book lying askew on her dresser and a bra hanging from a drawer; there was also a faint unpleasant odour in the air. And in the bathroom she and Sadie shared, several items seemed out of place. Betty glanced around nervously. Had there been an intruder? What if the person was still in the house? Refusing to succumb to panic, she crossed to the large wardrobe that held her clothes and looked inside. Nothing. Nobody. Feeling foolish, but knowing if she didn’t do it she’d be unable to sleep that night – or she’d have another of the disturbing dreams she’d been having – she looked under her bed. There was nothing to be seen.

  She went to the window to look out at the darkened street with its lone streetlamp. All she could see of the ocean was a thicker ribbon of black, but she could hear the waves crashing in. For the first time since arriving at Poet’s, a feeling of isolation touched her. She and Sadie, two women in a very quiet street, locked away in a house that had already seen violent death, its stone walls thick enough to muffle any screams. The entire district only had two policemen. They were easy prey. She debated whether she should tell her mother about the nightmares she had been having, really creepy dreams which featured the cellar and the feeling someone stood near her, watching her sleep.

  Whoa, girl. In an effort to distract herself from her increasingly lurid imaginings, she turned on her laptop. Among all the usual spam, she was thrilled to see an email announcing that a comment had been left on her blog by Zowie. She read it eagerly.

  Hi there Spaz,

  Seriously miss you, darling. Who else do I get a good laugh from these days? Just joking! How’s life in the land of potatoes? It seriously sounds like a total shithole! LOL. I checked out that website. Your great-grandma is really hot, hey? No family resemblance there to you. LOL.

  All is crap here. Alison got suspended for some semi-nude photos of herself she posted on Facebook. Can you believe this Nazi camp? A crowd of us went out to the Red Door at Bondi. It was totally smoking. Brad Coulson was there. He’s sooo hot. I told him you had emigrated to the isle of apples. I gave him plenty of consolation, if you get my drift. I don’t think that guy’s had some action in a looooong time. Didn’t he used to go out with you? Only kidding, lovey.

  Hey! Visit me on my blog and leave a comment. It’s pretty dead on your space.

  Ciao xxxxxxxx

  Betty took a deep breath. Brad and Zowie? He had always claimed he couldn’t stand her with her dyed blonde hair, designer bags and sarcastic tongue. Was it true? Even if it wasn’t, Brad had never emailed or texted her as he had promised when she left Sydney. She deleted Zowie’s comment. Bitch. Why was Zowie always so antagonistic towards her? Sadie said it was jealousy, but then Sadie had always been convinced that Betty was the most perfect thing on earth. Zowie was the one who had everything. She was planning her gap year in Florence, and her huge network of friends included soap stars and band members. She’d had several boyfriends – and now Brad had fallen for her too. If only Sadie hadn’t brought her down here to bloody Tasmania! If she was back in Sydney they would still be together.

  On an impulse she opened up a new email and typed quickly:

  Dear Dad,

  How are you? I miss you soooo much. It’s so hard here as it’s all so different. It would be lovely to see you – is there any way you could come down? If Mum saw you she might decide to move back to Sydney. There’s not much here for me, is there, Dad? I can’t talk to Mum. You know what she’s like. Since Nannabella M died she’s got obsessed over some old murder. And now she’s chasing after the local dentist. Between you and me, Dad, I think she’s in a vulnerable state. Any man could take advantage. She’s not thinking of me and my future. I should be at St Catherine’s, not stuck in the middle of nowhere!

  Please help, Dad. Give me your good advice and don’t tell Mum I wrote to you. Pinky promise!

  Your loving daughter,

  Betty xxx

  She felt a rush of guilty excitement as she sent the email. She hated to go behind her mother’s back, but there was no denying that the situation called for urgent action. She needed to return to Sydney and Brad as soon as possible.

  The devil’s collar

  ‘Picture yourself as an extension of the sun – as one of its rays. Yes, that’s it, ladies! Lift your arms up, stretch as far as you can. Draw strength and healing energy from your father, the sun. That’s good, Sadie. Gracie, keep focused! Take deep breaths, ladies. Don’t forget to breathe! Yes, excellent!’

  Sadie stretched into an imaginary sun, visualising golden rays of vitality illuminating her every cell. She tried not to laugh at the sight of Gracie, resplendent in hot-pink leggings and red t-shirt with yellow ribbons in her hair, stretching as high as she could go. Beside her, Maria, chic as always – even in workout clothes – was stifling giggles.

  After class the three women walked the short distance to the locals’ favourite café, the Silver Seahorse.

  ‘After all that exertion, I deserve something creamy and calorie-laden!’ Gracie announced, clapping her hands in glee and ordering a pain au chocolat. She frowned in disapproval as Maria and Sadie sc
anned the blackboard menu for healthier options. ‘I’m paying,’ she insisted. ‘Come on, I want everybody to be happy!’

  ‘We could split a Devonshire,’ Maria whispered. ‘Gracie will never let up unless we have something horrifically fattening.’

  A table of elderly ladies dressed in bowling clothes directed curious glances at Sadie as the three women sat down.

  ‘They know a Tatlow has returned,’ murmured Maria. She feigned horror as she chirped, ‘Jane, there’s a stranger in town and it’s her, Jane, the Tatlow girl!’

  ‘I imagine this is the sort of town where strangers stand out.’ Sadie watched, fascinated, as Gracie demolished her pain au chocolat in seconds.

  ‘Yes and no,’ Maria said. ‘There are so many tourists in town, some days I feel it’s more a case of spotting someone you do know.’

  ‘I wonder what it was like in my grandmother’s day. Is it possible she was murdered by a passing stranger?’

  ‘I suppose so. Pencubitt has always been popular with tourists,’ Maria said. ‘It was probably pretty much the same then as it is now. It mightn’t have been as easy to get around, cars were only for the well-heeled – but they did have the railway back then. People from the south could easily travel here by train.’ She studied Sadie’s face. ‘You’re not turning all Nancy Drew on me, are you?’

  ‘I love Nancy Drew. Shall I order another?’ Gracie looked around for the waitress. ‘And Donna Parker! Oh, and Trixie Belden – I love her as well. There’s nothing like a good mystery, is there? I say!’ Her face brightened and you could almost see a light bulb flash. ‘Why don’t we try to solve the mystery? Like the Famous Five?’

  ‘Except we’re three, dear.’ Maria looked at Sadie with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Of course we’re only three, silly! But we can still solve the mystery of Poet’s Cottage. Let’s see, three . . .’ She counted on her fingers. ‘We’ll be like Poirot, Hastings and Miss Lemon hot on the trail!’

  ‘How spiffing,’ Maria said caustically. ‘Pray tell us how you propose to go about solving a mystery that’s been cold for almost seventy years? Pearl Tatlow was killed in 1936, possibly by a passing stranger. Not to mention the trifling detail that most of the original cast are reposing at Pencubitt graveyard.’

  Gracie flagged down a passing waitress and ordered a second pain au chocolat. ‘What if she was killed by somebody she knew and trusted?’ she said when the waitress had left their table. ‘A friend or lover who had the run of the house? Then somebody’s got away with murder. Someone – who may still be alive – has blood on their hands.’

  Her words seemed to cling to the air around them.

  ‘In books it’s often the person you least suspect,’ Gracie continued. ‘Who would be the least likely suspect, would you say?’

  ‘In real life it’s often the husband,’ Maria said. ‘And isn’t it also often the most obvious person, the one with the most to gain from Pearl’s death? Maxwell was already well heeled and he owned Poet’s Cottage. Was it a crime of passion? Did she push him too far?’

  ‘Poor Maxwell. He must have tried to make a home for his girls after their return from Europe. But he was too sensitive to cope with living in the house where his wife was killed,’ Sadie said. ‘He moved into Seagull Cottage with Birdie. Nor did he sell Poet’s. He left it to his daughters, so it must have held some attachment for him. I seem to recall Marguerite saying he had stipulated in his will that the house remain in the family.’ Damn, why hadn’t she pressed harder for more information on her mother’s life? Marguerite had been so reticent on her background, and now Sadie’s chance to uncover information was gone.

  ‘The daughters!’ Gracie said, rousing herself. ‘It must have been the daughters!’

  Maria laughed. ‘You crack me up, Gracie,’ she said, wiping away tears of mirth. ‘How did your little grey cells arrive at that hypothesis, Poirot?’

  ‘Children do kill,’ Gracie persisted. ‘You read about it in the papers all the time.’

  ‘What papers do you read, Gracie?’ Maria asked. ‘And let’s bear in mind that we are talking about Sadie’s mother here.’ She shot Gracie a warning look.

  ‘No offence, I hope, Sadie?’ Gracie’s face filled with concern. ‘I do want us to be good friends and maybe solve the mystery. It’ll give me something to do!’

  ‘It’s alright,’ Sadie said, a bubble of laughter threatening to escape at the thought of Marguerite killing anyone – let alone her own beloved mother.

  ‘Well, anything to stop you buying houses, Gracie, and give the rest of us a chance,’ Maria said into her teacup. ‘But can’t you just take up chess or something? Or do good works?’

  Gracie waved her comments away. ‘Perhaps the children had provocation. Pearl could be quite cruel if you can believe Webweaver. They may have hatched a pact to do away with their tyrant mother. Who’s going to suspect two angelic little girls?’

  ‘We only have Birdie Pinkerton’s word that Pearl was like that,’ Maria reasoned. ‘How do you know her book is true? Pearl might have been the best mother in the world. Maybe it was Birdie who murdered her? She was in love with Maxwell, wasn’t she? Must have been racy times back then – there was Pearl having it off with all the men in town! No offence, Sadie.’

  Sadie pictured Birdie with her steely eyes that saw so much, and tried to imagine her stabbing Pearl in a fit of jealous rage. Yes, she could accept the scenario. It was obvious from Webweaver that Birdie had been jealous of her friend. It would be only too easy for Birdie to write a biography slandering Pearl’s reputation and promoting her own version of events.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ Maria said. ‘There she goes now, walking that yappy Dash.’

  The trio watched from the warmth of the café as Birdie strode past, a scarf around her head. She was so sprightly for her age, Sadie thought. Seventy years ago she would surely have been capable of overpowering Pearl in a struggle. Especially if she took the other woman by surprise in a darkened cellar . . .

  Then she remembered another aspect of the crime, and quickly dismissed her dark thoughts about the old lady. ‘My grandmother was also raped, don’t forget,’ she said. ‘That would tend to lead us to a man.’

  ‘Was she?’ Gracie said, sipping her hot chocolate. ‘Webweaver just says there was sexual abuse or some other gobbledegook phrase. Was there penetration? Do you know, I’m feeling rather greedy with all this excitement. I might have one of those scones.’

  So she’s sharper than she appears. Sadie watched Gracie devour a scone laden with butter, jam and cream.

  ‘Hello, ladies.’ Surprised, Sadie looked up to see Gary, in a black leather jacket, make his way to a table in the corner. He was accompanied by a young woman with long dark hair, dressed in a leopard-print miniskirt, black boots and a tight black t-shirt. His daughter? She hoped so. But who dressed like that in Pencubitt?

  Maria watched Sadie’s face with amusement. ‘He’s quite a dish, isn’t he? Knows it too, mind. He can have his pick of any woman on the island. That’s his latest conquest. Kristie, from the beauty salon.’ Her dry tone indicated her impression of the girl.

  A small sound came from Gracie. With shock, the other two women realised she was crying. ‘Gracie? What on earth!’ Maria looked horrified.

  ‘Oh, please don’t take any notice of me. I’m just a silly old woman. I had hoped. I thought . . . but I know it’s stupid. Stupid, stupid me. I thought he might . . . But not with her – all of eighteen and dressed like that.’ She pointed at Kristie and Sadie had to resist the impulse to hide under the table as Gary looked over at them, evidently curious about the unfolding drama. Gracie dabbed at her eyes with a serviette. ‘I’m old, fat and ugly!’ she wailed.

  ‘Gracie! Pull yourself together – he’s looking over here!’ Maria hissed. ‘For a start, you’re not old – and anyway, who cares if you are? Better to be old than dead! Birdie Pinkerton’s old and she’s got more energy than most young people in this town, who drive everywhere! You’re no
t ugly. You have a very pretty face and you have gorgeous skin. There’s barely a line on it. You’re . . . well, you’re not trim, it’s true, but you can tone up. Don’t worry about Mr Movie-Star Big-Shot Dentist!’

  ‘All I ever do is buy houses. I know I’m the butt of the town’s jokes!’ Gracie moaned. ‘Even my own children won’t come near me and I was such a wonderful mother!’ She began to sob loudly and concerned staff peered from behind the counter.

  ‘Don’t worry, Gracie,’ Sadie heard herself saying, moved by her friend’s cry of despair. Why on earth did her ungrateful children stay away? Gracie might be eccentric, but she was their mother. She thought too of Thomasina, shuffling around her tiny house, still brimming with resentful spite towards a woman so many years dead. Trying to distract Gracie, Sadie continued, ‘After we finish here, why don’t you both come home with me and investigate the cellar at Poet’s? You might find some clues!’

  The ruse worked. Gracie’s face brightened. ‘Oh Sadie, I’d love to! I always feel a friend isn’t a true friend until you’ve invited them into your own home, don’t you?’

  The three women clinked water glasses in a toast to their new friendship, and Sadie marvelled again at her luck in meeting two such interesting women in only a few weeks in Pencubitt.

  As they strolled back up the street to Poet’s Cottage, Sadie experienced her usual glow of pleasure upon seeing her home. She loved the large trees with their bare branches guarding the front of the house. The brown-shuttered windows, the roses growing along the stones, the perfect symmetry of the cottage and the dry stone wall encircling it never failed to lift her spirits.

  Maria let out a deep sigh, clearly sharing her thoughts. ‘They knew how to build a house back then, didn’t they? It’s so perfect.’