The Twisted Way

by Jean Hill

  Felicity took a step towards him. ‘Keep back!’ he uttered in a warning tone and lifted an arm as if to strike her.

  Felicity smiled with a feral look upon her face that reminded him of a wild mountain cat.

  The next moment Matthew’s feet slipped on a patch of the thick oozing mud that coated the surface of the fisherman’s platform and he slid backwards into the swift and swollen river. It was almost freezing and he cried out in fear.

  ‘Help ... help me.’ Long arms flailed wildly. He was a poor swimmer and his thick woollen coat soaked up the water like blotting paper and the dirty river water trickled with surprising speed into his strong leather boots, threatening to force him with alarming swiftness into its murky depths. The only sound he could hear was the roaring of the water in his ears. Gasping for air he flung his arms upwards once again in a desperate bid for help. Help was not forthcoming. The water was deep, and drowning – his worst dread since he had been forced to endure swimming lessons when he was a schoolboy – threatened to become reality. As he gasped for air his mouth filled with foul dirty liquid, gritty spiteful stuff that scratched and made its way down the back of his throat. He tried to speak but could make no sound. There was no doubt now in his mind that he was going to drown and a feeling of sheer panic engulfed him.

  Felicity laughed like a banshee and ran along the bank waving her stick. This was fun and in her view Matthew deserved a cold ducking. He was a nasty arrogant man.

  ‘Grab this,’ she shrieked holding out her stick but he could not reach it. She did not think he could and that suited her. If they had been observed she could always say she had tried to save him. She knew that she should report the accident but did not want to become involved in any rescue attempts or be asked any awkward questions.

  Matthew’s body was flung by the force of the water towards the nearest bank as the river curved slightly downstream. His muscles flexed and he stretched out to clutch a long spindly branch of a willow tree but the current swung him round viciously and he felt a sharp pain which travelled down his arms as his fingers slid off the slippery wet branch. Vicious cold wind whipped the surface of the water which sprayed like coarse sand on to his face. Almost immediately another much thicker tree trunk collided with his head. As Matthew slipped into unconsciousness his last thought was that the evil and ugly Felicity had won.

  Felicity’s only concern was that she had lost her chance to find out the information she wanted about the will but didn’t think that she could do anything to save Matthew even if she wanted to. She could no longer see any sign of him, or anybody else. She glanced round furtively, all clear, not a soul in sight. She turned away from the river and returned to Primrose House with a spring in her step. She looked forward to smoked salmon sandwiches and chocolate cake. It was nearly time for afternoon tea and that thought took precedence. If Matthew was rescued, and that was a big if, she was sure he would not want her to tell anyone about their meeting. There was no point in worrying about him, after all she could do nothing to help the man and his drowning was not going to trouble her conscience.

  At the time of the accident Timothy had vaguely heard some voices as he made his way along the path and ducked under the branches of another willow tree surrounded by hawthorns for a few moments. His heart started to beat fiercely. He prayed that they had not been seen. A strong gust of wind whistled swiftly through the branches above his head for a few minutes then everything seemed eerily quiet until the wind rose again. His face blanched as he thought about the possibility that that someone had seen them kissing. A woman appeared and stopped in front of him. She too was strolling along the path towards Enderly and Primrose House from the other end of the village where he was heading.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Fine,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m just catching my breath, this wind is vicious.’

  The woman, though not convinced, turned away to continue her walk along the path that would eventually take her back to the village past Primrose House. ‘It’s busy today,’ she muttered. ‘I thought I saw a woman ahead of me just now in a green Barbour but I must have imagined it. There is nobody around now.’ She turned once again to Timothy. ‘Did you see her?’

  Timothy replied, ‘No, I haven’t seen anyone else today.’ His voice sounded strained and threatened to spiral upwards and end almost in a shriek. That was a close shave, he thought. We must be more careful. A drop of sweat trickled down his back despite the cold and the muscles in his shoulders knotted.

  Felicity felt smug. I wonder if Matthew got out of that icy water, she thought whilst sitting in Janet’s warm lounge and tucking into a large piece of chocolate cake. She smiled and struggled to stop herself laughing out loud. The Mace family had now been nicely diminished. She had been pleased to note that Jeremy was still drinking heavily and although he called at Primrose House some afternoons to see Janet, as his father had done before him, Felicity was satisfied that he would not live too long which would save her the trouble of pushing him down any steps or having to think up any other way to get rid of him. Jeremy’s face was now an overall beetroot red and purple veins stood out with startling clarity at the base of his temples whilst small puffy bags hung in a revolting manner from beneath his watery blue flecked eyes and odd arched eyebrows. He was suffering from vague chest pains and, although he had been warned by his doctor to take care, he liked his wine and cigars and he would not give those up in a hurry even if they did lessen his expectation of living to a ripe old age. There could soon be another funeral, or perhaps two, to attend, Felicity ruminated with interest. What a pity the Mace family offer such poor quality wine at their wakes!

  An elderly resident from the village found Matthew’s corpse the next morning when she took her small Yorkie dog for its constitutional. The body had been washed to the Enderly village side of the river and was wedged between two drooping willow branches. She felt her stomach turn over and almost fainted with shock. ‘My angina,’ she croaked in a low husky voice, shaky and full of fear that the familiar chest pains would rear up and overcome her. ‘I could do without this,’ she moaned. The pain did not come and after a few seconds she managed to reach into her handbag for her mobile phone. Steeling herself she raised the alarm.

  The local police were soon at the scene. Matthew was stiff and cold, streaky brown river weeds clung to his once attractive pale yellow hair and a purple bruise showed clearly on one side of his forehead. His face was ashen but mud had splattered across his high cheekbones and clung to the edges of his once attractive mouth. His body was removed to the local morgue after careful inspection at the scene by DI Peter Holmes and his assistants who combed the river bank for clues without success.

  DI Holmes was convinced that Matthew’s death was not the result of a simple accident but there was no proof of foul play. He thought that Timothy and Felicity knew more about the incident than they had admitted. The autopsy too indicated that there were no injuries to the body other than those that could be inflicted following drowning and bruising as a result of being buffeted by trees and other obstacles encountered in a swiftly flowing river.

  Matthew, like his grandfather, was buried in Enderly churchyard. Janet did not feel well enough to attend the funeral so Felicity acted as her representative. It was a quiet affair compared to Peter’s. Hardly anybody had been invited. Jeremy had mumbled a few words about his son in the church, between deep sobs. She had labelled Timothy Carter ‘the fairy boy’ and was interested to note that he attended the funeral service but to her amusement crouched at the back of the church like a frightened animal. The meal that had been arranged in the Maces’ cottage later Felicity thought was dreadful, and the wine was in her opinion even worse than the rubbish she had tasted at Peter Mace’s wake. She made an excuse to leave early. Jeremy consumed at least three bottles of the putrid wine and had to retire to bed before all the guests had left.

  After Matthew’s accident the Mace business was taken over by rival local f
irm Wilkins and Partners and Janet’s will was stored in their vault. Felicity was interested to discover that the Mace business had, until Matthew took over, not been in a healthy financial state. She learned too through listening to local gossip that Jeremy had drunk and gambled away the profits over many years, but had already guessed that might be the case.

  A young woman from the new firm appeared one day to have a chat with Janet but became concerned about her mental condition and to Felicity’s relief decided to leave things as they were.

  ‘Mrs Lacey’s last will, though slightly old, was adequate,’ she said. ‘There is no point in worrying her about making any changes.’ Felicity was now convinced that she had seen the latest will and her spirits rose.

  Felicity decided to turn her attention to Tom Hands. She would make some enquiries about him now. She was pleased to have something like that to do.

  Chapter 16

  Enderly Bridge Club

  Robbie enjoyed his game of bridge each week in the Green Man. He had been unwell recently, though so far he had kept it to himself, and he needed a change. A good duplicate club could perhaps offer a chance to take his mind off things. It was a good game and he hoped it would help him to keep his mind active; at least that was a theory he had read somewhere –it was beneficial for the elderly. He gave some thought to joining Little Brinton Bridge Club which was only about four miles away where his old friend Pat Field and another villager, John Elk, were already members. Pat was feeling his age and did not really enjoy club bridge so much as he had in the past.

  ‘Robbie,’ he urged, ‘you would be doing me a big favour if you would partner John Elk. I’m getting too tired at the end of an evening’s bridge. John is a shy chap and would not like to play with a stranger. He would play with you, he knows you well and has played with you in the pub. You’d enjoy Little Brinton Club and the standard of play is quite high.’

  ‘I would like to Pat, but are you sure? You’ve been a member there since the club started in 1995.’

  ‘Quite sure.’ John Elk was pleased too. ‘I’ll look forward to playing with you Robbie, we know each other’s game.’

  Pat was getting forgetful and their results were not so good as they had been in the past. Pat found it difficult to learn any new conventions and John was anxious to improve.

  Robbie phoned the Secretary, Patsy Croft.

  ‘You would be welcome to come as a guest next week,’ she told him in a brisk tone. ‘We can probably find you a partner if you do not have one.’

  ‘I have arranged to play with John Elk,’ Robbie said in a tentative voice.

  Patsy’s tone changed on hearing the name John Elk; her reply was soft and almost pleasant.

  ‘Oh that’s good. Well then, we’ll look forward to meeting you on Thursday. Play begins promptly at seven. You know where we are, in any case I expect you could get a lift with John.’

  Robbie was intrigued when he met Patsy. She was skinny, angular and almost anorexic in appearance, with a sharp commanding voice. He had pictured her in his mind after his telephone conversation as being older and even more shrew-like than she was. Her straight hair was a dull mousy colour which she twisted into a small bun on the top of her head giving her a stern matron-like appearance. Tiny blue eyes sheltered behind thick metal-framed glasses that balanced on the bridge of a small straight nose. She pressed her wide but well sculptured and full-lipped mouth together in a stiff and rather unnatural way but if she had relaxed, rather than assuming the role of a martinet, Robbie thought that she would be quite pretty and underneath that stiff exterior he guessed that she was quite soft hearted. He thought she could only be at most in her early forties though he was not very good at guessing the ages of women. Patsy greeted him with a thin and slightly waspish smile on her narrow face but introduced him to several of the other members and made him welcome, or as welcome as she could manage. She was an odd young woman, efficient but somewhat antagonistic towards the male sex. The vibes reached him.

  Robbie shrugged. It would not worry him. He was too old to care and he looked forward to playing duplicate bridge in a well-established club. Robbie found the majority of the members helpful and he began to enjoy himself. Many of the players were his age or about ten years younger but there were a few bright and eager young people who had recently joined who had previously been members of a much larger club in Everton but enjoyed the friendlier atmosphere found in the club in Little Brinton. They thought the standard could have been better but they might have a reasonable game. One or two were in Robbie’s opinion quite competitive but it would not hurt to play against them, indeed he might even improve his own game.

  ‘Have you played much bridge?’ one conceited young man asked him, looking Robbie over as though he was something the cat had brought in.

  ‘Quite a lot,’ Robbie answered swiftly and was rewarded by the man’s face dropping an inch or two. Silly young puppy, a good smack on the bottom would not be amiss. He, without doubt, thought he was God’s gift to bridge. Robbie looked forward to the challenge he presented. Yes, he was going to have a rewarding time in this club.

  The chairman, Ned, was an odd fellow. He had an East End London accent which he tried to hide. Ned Windsor was quite a regal name, Robbie thought with interest.

  Ned stepped forward to greet the newcomer. ‘Welcome,’ he said, and gave Robbie a lopsided smile that at best made Robbie feel ill at ease. There was something he did not trust about the man but he was, as far as he could tell, running the club well. He could be an ex-con Robbie thought. He certainly looks like one. He wondered how he came to be chairman of the club.

  A few of the members had dubbed Ned appropriately ‘King of the Bridge Club’. He had been the club chairman now for a year and, although efficient, he was considered by many of the members to be a rather a rough diamond. He had a mocking look in his watery eyes as though he found the whole bridge scene amusing. He was, a member was pleased to tell Robbie later, an excellent card player and had played for many years when he was in the Merchant Navy.

  ‘Our first chairman, Jack Headley, you know,’ one elderly lady insisted on telling Robbie, ‘was framed for murder by his brotherin-law George Berry. It was a dreadful business. He was sent to prison for a while but his name was cleared and he is now living in Scotland near his sister.’

  ‘Really,’ Robbie replied feigning interest.

  ‘Oh yes,’ the woman continued with relentless determination, ‘Jack was a nice man, helpful to the old people in the village but he had an eye for the ladies. His wife was killed in a car accident in Germany where Jack had been working for a good number of years – they had been just about to buy a retirement bungalow in Little Brinton too. It was very sad.’

  Robbie vaguely remembered reading something about the Little Brinton murder in a newspaper. A well-known jockey from South Africa had been strangled in June 2000. It was obviously still a talking point in the club and had put Little Brinton on the map for a while.

  Tea and good quality chocolate biscuits were served in the interval by Emily, a pretty young girl from the village. The previous lady had given up the job, Robbie was told, after an altercation with the Ned who thought she was too nosy and a spy for the Village Hall Committee.

  ‘Nonsense, of course’, old Mrs Noakes told Robbie, ‘she was a nice woman, very helpful and much better than young girls when it comes to making tea and coffee. Emily does nothing but listen to pop music with earphones strapped to her head and dream of boys. She spilt tea on Mrs Brooker’s feet a few weeks ago. Luckily they were not badly burned.’

  Robbie smiled. Old Ned was running a tight ship and enjoying himself.

  There were about twelve tables in the club and the overall atmosphere seemed quite pleasant. Robbie was relieved. He had heard some disturbing tales about competitive duplicate bridge players in the past that were not encouraging.

  John Elk was painfully shy. He had a mop of curly red hair about which he had been t
eased at school. His large slightly bulging grey-green eyes were heavily lidded and fringed with short stubby lashes though his face was strong and masculine. He was a keen, astute bridge player who was quite popular. He, like Patsy, was slim and angular with narrow shoulders and long gangly arms that were tipped with slim artistic fingers. He could not be described as a handsome and outgoing man but Robbie liked him. He found him intelligent and a good, if somewhat terse, conversationalist. He lived in a small terraced house in Enderly that he had recently purchased, in fact the same one that John Lacey had bought when he first moved into the village.

  That John Elk liked Patsy Croft was obvious to Robbie. They were approximately the same age. He must have been one of the few men in the club who did really like her, Robbie thought, and he found it difficult to know what the attraction was. Her slim face was shrew-like and she made little effort to improve her looks though she could be quite pretty with care. A number of the members made a point of telling him what he had already surmised about her dislike of the male sex. She had been secretary for a year when Robbie first played with John Elk and like John Elk Patsy was highly intelligent, he thought. He was soon informed by one of the chatty elderly members that she held a good managerial post in a firm in Everton after studying Economics and Mathematics in Everton Technical College and had a flair for organisation, which was appreciated by her employers. He was told too that she was one of the founder members and a much-respected local girl and, despite her uncharitable attitude towards the opposite sex, she had quite a few friends. He detected admiration and pride by a number of the members for the prowess of their somewhat prickly secretary.

  ‘Patsy,’ John ventured one evening shortly after Robbie had joined the club, ‘would you like to go to a classical concert with me in Everton next week? I belong to the music club there and the Jubilate quartet, a good local group, will be playing some Mozart.’