by Lily Ashton
“This is lovely cake. Eleanor told me about the snacks you used to make for her and Nick when they were children.”
“I’d always pop something in for them when I was packing Jeremy’s lunch. I don’t think they had much in the way of treats in the big house.”
“Oh, I got the impression that their parents were generous.”
“The Carberrys were nice people, don’t get me wrong, but Mrs Carberry was a bit of a puritan. Scottish you know.” Sarah raised an eyebrow over tired, grey eyes. “She didn’t allow eating between meals and she made those poor children wait until six o’clock for their tea. I mean, they were starving by then, so I just gave them something to keep them going.”
Alice smiled, remembering that when she was a child, her mother would not allow sweets in the house. Christian would sneak chocolate bars into his sports bag and offer to wash his football kit himself. Their mother was only too happy for one less job to do and Alice and her brother would stand beside the washing machine, gorging themselves.
“The apricots in the cake, are they from the tree in the front garden?”
“Oh yes, we had a lovely crop this year, I’ll be making apricot slices for weeks.” Sarah glanced in her lap. “Though who’ll eat them all I don’t know.”
Alice touched Sarah’s knee. “Do you have any family nearby?”
“I have two daughters who live in Coldbrook, so they’re only ten minutes away. I look after the grandchildren during the holidays.” Sarah’s face brightened a little. “I used to take them up to Renton Hall to play in the woods.”
“I know that Jeremy looked after the grounds there, but what did that mean exactly? I don’t know anything about gardening.”
“Well it was Mr Carberry, Eleanor’s father, who brought Jeremy to the Hall. Jeremy was working in a garden centre, the Bolder’s Farm place around the corner on the main road. Mr Carberry went in there one day wanting advice on remodelling his garden. Jeremy went to the Hall to see what needed to be done and Mr Carberry offered him a job overseeing the work. That was forty-one years ago now.”
Alice felt pressure on her calf, as a black cat rubbed his neck on her trousers. “Was that when they got rid of the cattle?”
“It was. Jeremy worked on the gardens around the house, especially the vegetable plot. They planned to expand it, grow different varieties. Mrs Carberry wanted the family to be self-sufficient. They even brought in chickens. But they kept wandering off and laying eggs all over the place, so Mr Carberry got rid of them.”
“So, Jeremy would have been there when the decking around the lake was installed?”
“That was Jeremy’s design.” Sarah cocked her head to one side, the sunlight catching the bags beneath her eyes. “The old Mr Carberry, Eleanor’s grandfather, had the conservatory put on the back of the house. But you walked straight onto the grass, which only brought clippings into the house. Jeremy said the decking would be neater and cleaner.”
“He was right. That lake area is fabulous. I guess Jeremy designed the little bridge over the stream too?”
“Save you wobbling on those planks, he said. Jeremy had a real talent for landscape design.”
The cat jumped onto the bench beside Sarah and peered at Alice over the cakes.
“Sarah, please say if it’s too much, but I wanted to ask you about Nick Carberry. I don’t suppose Jeremy knew who might have wanted to harm him?”
Sarah pursed her lips. “If he did know, he didn’t say anything to me. But Jeremy wasn’t there that night, so it’s not as if he saw anything.”
“He didn’t mention whether Nick had any enemies? Anybody who held a grudge against him?”
“Nick had his own company and as I see it, when you make a success of your business, you’re always going to make somebody unhappy.”
Alice pictured Harry Horton. His envy must have made him unhappy. Now that she thought about it, she could not remember ever seeing Harry really happy. He smiled and socialised, went through the motions. But the smiles didn’t reach his eyes and his shoulders looked as if they carried a kitbag of troubles. Harry would go to the top of the suspects list.
“Such a lovely boy Nick was. Always chirpy and so grateful for everything you did for him. He used to send me little notes to thank me for the snacks. I’ve kept them all. I’ll show you.”
Sarah fetched a shoebox from the house and picked out a crumpled sheet of pale blue paper. Using different coloured pencils, a young Nick had thanked Sarah for the ‘smashing’ jam tarts. He had drawn a picture of a red-centred pastry in the corner of the page.
“It’s adorable! What a sweet thing to do. And you kept so many of them.”
“I’ve kept them all. Eleanor’s too.”
On impulse, Alice asked: “What do you think of Harry Horton, Sarah?”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Dearie me, what a sulk that boy was. Trotted after Nick the whole time and always looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.” Sarah leant forward as if afraid of being overheard. “Mind you, being an only child and dumped at the Hall all through the holidays must have been upsetting. I expect at times he would rather have been in his own room at home.”
Sarah rummaged through the box picking out random notes and passing them to Alice. With her free hand, she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah. One more question. Do you think it possible that Harry could have killed Nick?”
Sarah clutched the box. “It’s possible I suppose. But I don’t think the man has the gumption.”
“How about Simon Newgate, Nick’s business partner? Is he a likely suspect?”
“Perhaps, though I don’t know him that well.”
“I think it must have been one of those two, though I’m not sure about their motives.”
Sarah put the shoebox on the table. She took both Alice’s hands in her own.
“Heavens, child, there’s only one motive. Nick Carberry was killed because of the dog.”
Chapter 12
Alice turned the Defender onto Narebridge Road, inching along behind a tractor until it veered off into a field. She picked up speed, two jars of Sarah Evans’ chutney knocking together on the front seat as she drove over a hole in the tarmac.
Sarah had finished their meeting with a tour of her allotment. She told Alice about her interest in propagating vegetables and herbs. Squashes were her speciality. Orange ones, yellow, curly and striped specimens. But Alice was not thinking about vegetables. She conjured up an image of Wilson, Eleanor’s Yorkshire terrier. Was this dog the motive for Nick Carberry’s death?
The little animal had been Eleanor’s pet for the past two years, after she brought it home from an animal rescue centre. Now that her teenage children spent more time away from home, Eleanor had begun to feel lonely. The dog had become a big part of her life, accompanying her from home to Renton Hall, belted into his own seat in the back of her car. Wilson had the run of the Hall and its grounds, although he was rarely more than a few feet away from his mistress or, more recently, the new garden sculpture Nick had shown off at Saturday’s party. For a reason that nobody could fathom, Wilson had found a spot he liked at the front of the statue’s plinth, snuggling himself beside the marble instead of his usual place by Eleanor’s feet, when she sat on the decking.
Someone killed Nick Carberry because of this little animal? It must be some special dog! But Alice had not wished to press Sarah Evans on the matter, so she drove down Renton Hall’s driveway none the wiser.
Two coats of paint had lightened the reception area. One of the decorators, on his knees glossing the skirting board, shouted a cheery greeting. Alice could hear Gina Salvini’s voice coming from the dining room, so she peered around the door. Gina was speaking bullet-speed Italian into her mobile, as she watched two men unhooking a glass chandelier from the ceiling. An ornate af
fair, with curly candle holders and strings of crystal balls like pearl necklaces, the chandelier was an eccentric feature of the room.
“So old-fashioned,” said Gina.
It was not until Alice turned to leave that she realised Gina was talking to her. “The light fitting. So old-fashioned.”
“I suppose it is. It must have been here for years. Are you replacing it?”
“Certainly. Still with glass, as Eleanor wants, but something less fussy. A striking piece all the same.”
Gina beckoned Alice and showed her two green squares painted on the wall. “I can’t decide which colour for this room. As it looks over the lake and the wood, I think a pale green. This one is called willow tree. And this one, apple white, is lighter. Which do you prefer?”
There was little to distinguish between the two squares, but Alice plumped for the fractionally paler shade.
“Hmm.” Gina swung the gold chain around her neck. “The darker one, I think.”
Alice retreated to the attic. A plan chest in the back corner was calling to her. Wilfred Carberry had stuffed the drawers with bits and pieces, according to Eleanor, but as nobody had been near it for years, she had no idea what was inside.
At first, Alice had been excited at the prospect of rummaging through the old and neglected chest. She imagined finding a rare piece that would stun the Carberrys and the art world. But then reality bit. She thought it more likely she would find unfinished sketches and unpaid bills, along with bits of orange peel and mice droppings.
She decided, instead, to try a tall mahogany display cupboard with half-glazed doors. She turned the key in the lock and opened both doors wide. Rows of glass shelves from top to bottom housed a collection of antique hand guns, pill boxes and silver spoons.
Guns with milky bone handles and delicate silver filigree. Petite oval and round boxes; silver, wood, some with painted lids. And the spoons. Each with a different scene painted on square ends.
Alice traced a finger around a pill box, enamelled flowers covering its sides. As she went to pick it up, she accidently knocked the shelf above. Before Alice could do anything to stop it, the shelf crashed down. Precious items tumbled to the floor, settling amongst shards of glass.
Alice ran down to the kitchen to find something to clear up the mess. She spent the best part of an hour picking up splinters of glass and polishing off antiques. Fortunately, none of the items were damaged, but Alice had to rearrange the whole cabinet in order to fit all the items onto one less shelf.
The waist-high plan chest, wide and deep, suddenly looked more attractive. Alice pulled out the first drawer and laid it on the top of the unit. Just-begun sketches, watercolours on curling paper, notepads full of numbers, balls of string, tins of pencils. It was, indeed, stuffed with stuff.
Alice turned on the radio, opened up a new spreadsheet and logged the contents. Tucked at the back of the drawer she found some sketchbooks, Wilfred Carberry’s name written on the front. Alice opened one of them, and the distinctive heart-shaped white face and small beak of a barn owl glowered at her.
There were pheasants in another book. Proud red and blue faces, topped with brilliant copper plumage and speckled tails. Grey females led lines of chicks across the page. In another were insects: spotty ladybirds, leggy grasshoppers, snappy beetles. The drawings would make an amazing exhibition on their own. If they were framed properly they would look good in the new dining room. But could she get them past Gina? Could she get anything past Gina?
Wilson raced across the floor and jumped on the chaise longue. Eleanor was close behind him. “We came to see how you were getting on.” Eleanor stroked the sketchbook in Alice’s hand. “I see you’ve found some of Wilfred’s drawings. He was mad about animals, so you’ll find lots of books like that.”
“They’re beautiful drawings. He was a talented artist.”
“Wilfred was talented in many areas and that made him a hard act to follow. Though my father tried to please him, he always felt that he was a disappointment to Wilfred. The only talent Dad had was making money.”
Alice closed the sketchbook and put it with the others on the desk. “If you could only choose one talent, that’s a good one to have.”
“I suppose so. And because of it, I got to live in this lovely house.”
Eleanor rummaged through the drawer. She took out a piece of brittle paper, a watercolour painting of a heron wading through a lake. “This was painted at my Auntie Ann’s property in the Scottish Borders, she’s my mother’s sister. That’s the lake at the front of the house. Wilfred used to wander over the estate, filling those books with sketches of hares, stags, birds, anything he encountered. Then later, he’d work them up into paintings.”
“Do you have any of his paintings here?”
“Not the Scottish ones. He gave them to Auntie Ann and she hung them in her house. There’s a fabulous oil painting of a kestrel in flight, at the top of her staircase.”
Alice took the paper from Eleanor and uncurled the corner. “It sounds the perfect place for an artist. Do you visit there much?”
“Mum used to take us every Easter and again in September. The grounds are wonderful. Nick and I would cycle off in the morning with a packed lunch and stay out until it got dark. We’d build hideaways in the woods and swim in the lake. Though …” – Eleanor whispered behind her hand – “we weren’t supposed to.” Eleanor smiled. “Let’s see what else is in those drawers.” She scooped out an armful of papers. “Just old invoices by the look of it. I’ll sort them out at home.”
Wilson paced along the wall sniffing at the skirting board, his tail fanning the air.
“Goodness me, here are the plans for the estate.” Eleanor lifted out a large sheet and carried it over to the desk. “That black line is Renton Hall’s boundary and here’s the house right in the corner. The land goes over to the west and north.”
“How much land is there altogether?”
“One hundred and ten acres. It was originally only eighty, but Dad added more. The Jacksons, our neighbours on the north side, divided their land up before they sold it and offered Dad first dibs. We should frame this and put it in the porch.”
Alice put a hand on Eleanor’s shoulder. “Will you tell Gina, or shall I?”
Daisy’s saloon was tidied and hoovered. There were no clothes slung over chairs in the cabin. There was no evidence of Christian at all. He had gone without saying goodbye. Alice felt as if Patches had kicked her in the stomach. Alice sat on the bed, hands over her face, and dropped onto the duvet. She should never have stuck her nose into his relationship with Devi. And now he was so mad at her, he had left.
Alice’s relationship with Christian was complicated. As children, they had rarely fought, but they had not been particularly close either. As the older sibling, Christian grew tired of Alice trotting around after him. He was more outgoing than his sister and with his growing army of friends, he was out a lot. Spending ever more time on her own, Alice grew resentful and by the time Christian went to university, they hardly saw each other. It was only when Alice had gone away to art college that the siblings messaged each other more frequently and arranged regular get-togethers.
She had loved having her brother back again. But learning the lesson of her childhood, she had kept communication minimal but regular, figuring that Christian would up the amount of contact when he was ready. She had thought it was all going so well. And now she had blown it.
There was only one thing for it. Alice took out the special CD she kept for these occasions. She turned up the volume and danced around the saloon to ‘Spice Up Your Life’. When she felt her life had been spiced enough, she combed through the kitchen cupboards and found a bottle of wine left over from Christian’s dinner. She poured a glass and took a large gulp.
Alice checked her bank account for Eleanor’s upfront fee. As a new business, she had little cashflow a
nd the advance was supposed to cover any expenses she incurred. But the money was not there. Alice tutted aloud. She drafted a chasing email, but she was loathe to pester her new client for money so soon, so she deleted it. Her business bank account was in the red. She checked her personal account. The same story there.
“Anyone home?”
“Come in, Roddy. There’s wine on the counter if you’d like a glass.”
“I most certainly would.” Roddy helped himself and eased into a seat. He gave a long sigh as he crossed one ankle over his knee, flip-flop dropping to the floor. “And what has the Alice Haydon curatorial service been up to today?”
“Making lists of all the crap in the Carberrys’ drawers,” Alice said glowering at her laptop.
“That doesn’t sound very glamorous.”
Alice looked up. “There’s just so much stuff. Eleanor’s grandfather was a prodigious collector of, well, you name it – guns, stones, dead insects with pins through them and much more.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Actually, yes. Wilfred was a decent artist and there are sketchbooks full of lovely drawings. Anyway, enough of me. What have you been up to?”
“Helping your brother move into The Bull.”
So, Christian really had left. Alice felt her eyes well and she clutched the coffee table. Christian gone already and he had only just arrived …
“Dear girl, are you alright?”
“Christian’s left.”
Roddy knelt beside her and put an arm across her shoulder. His touch brought tears to her cheeks and she sobbed into Roddy’s chest.
“I’m sure it’s only temporary.” Roddy stroked the back of Alice’s head. “He wants to be near Devi, so it’s understandable that he’d rather stay at the hotel.”
Alice wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “No, that’s not it. He moved out because I told him his relationship with Devi wouldn’t go anywhere. He was angry with me.”