The Green Remains (The Nora Tierney Mysteries Book 2)

by Marni Graff

  “Yes, miss?” He looked pointedly at her bulge of pregnancy.

  “I don’t want a drink,” Nora hastened to assure him. “I wondered if anyone turned in a hoop earring like this?” She held out one of her braided gold hoops.

  “Let me ask the missus.” He turned toward the kitchen and bellowed, “Daisy.”

  Nora perched on the edge of the stool. The barman wandered back to watch the darts, checking the fill of the glasses he passed. A minute later, the kitchen door knocked open and a cheery-looking woman backed out, holding a tray in front of her. While she unloaded fish and chips in front of two patrons, the barman paused to speak to her and flicked his glance to Nora, who gave the woman a little wave. She nodded and, wiping her hands on a towel, came down the length of bar to where Nora waited.

  “Sorry luv, no one’s turned in anything tonight. But I’ll keep my eyes open when we sweep up at closing.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Nora gushed. “I’m Nora.” She held out her hand. “I’m staying at Ramsey Lodge for a while.”

  The woman looked uncertainly at Nora’s hand and finally gave it a vapid shake. “Daisy.” Then she tilted her head to one side and took in Nora’s full stomach. “You the lass found the Clarendon boy?”

  Nora encouraged her with a mournful smile. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  The woman grimaced. “How about a ginger ale? I’m having one myself.”

  “Maybe a small one,” Nora agreed. She watched Daisy pour their drinks.

  The woman put them both in front of Nora and crouched down to slide out from under the bar. “Move along down, John. Let me set a bit.” She hit the man sitting next to Nora on the shoulder, and he obligingly moved off down the bar.

  “Thank you,” Nora said, sipping her soda. She didn’t have much room for more but wanted to be polite. More importantly, she wanted to mine Daisy for information.

  Daisy, it turned out, spent most of her time in the kitchen. Yes, she knew Daniel Rowley, Jack Halsey and a few of their cohorts liked to talk down Keith Clarendon’s expansion plans, but Daisy suspected that was just to make noise at the town meetings. Half the town hadn’t taken Keith seriously, to her mind, and the other half would have had a long wait before any of Keith’s plans were finalized and approved.

  When Nora brought up Simon’s name in connection with their work, Daisy beamed.

  “Such a nice lad and a good eater, too.”

  Nora nodded. That wasn’t quite the kind of information she needed. She put her head to one side. “Someone told me Simon and Keith had a fight here?”

  Daisy brushed the idea aside. “A small dustup, to be sure. I’ve seen worse in my years here. Now if you were talking about Edmunde Clarendon, that man could swing his fists at the slightest provocation once he’d had a drink in him.” The woman shook her head. “I kind of miss him. Quite a swagger he had. I hear there’s not much left of him now.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Nora admitted.

  Five minutes later, soda finished, she thanked Daisy and left the pub, her frustration level ratcheted up. That was a waste of time. She tried to shrug it off and headed toward Ramsey Lodge.

  Nora needed periods of time alone, intervals of not having to think hard or to carry on a conversation. She thought of it as rest time for her brain. Stepping carefully over the uneven pavement, looking in shop windows along the way, she admired the gay profusion of souvenirs: Kendal Mint Cakes, caps and tweed hats, china and crafts. Some of the shops were housed in buildings that still bore the mullioned windows and beamed exteriors of past centuries. She took a few deep breaths and emptied her mind. Window-shopping therapy.

  She was warm now, the bulk of pregnancy a thermal heater. She stopped to appreciate the display of soft leather jackets and coats at one shop and unbuttoned her sweater. A mewing sound caught her ear, and Nora cocked her head. It sounded like a lost kitten meowing for its mother.

  For the moment, she was alone on this part of the street. Nora listened intently. The crying was accompanied by sniffling, definitely of the human species. Following the noise up the narrow alley that ran beside Lakeland Leather, she came upon its source. A young boy with unruly brown hair sat on the loading dock, leaning disconsolately against a pole. His small face was streaked with tears. His sniffles stopped when he spied Nora, and he shoved a thumb into his mouth.

  “You poor thing,” she said, keeping her distance to avoid frightening him. “Are you lost?”

  The child frowned and considered this as he sucked harder. Nora noted he was shivering. She took off her cardigan and, stepping closer, held it out within the boy’s reach. “My name’s Nora. What’s yours? Would you like to borrow my sweater?”

  The boy hesitated, then grabbed the sweater and stood up. He found his voice as he wrapped himself in it. “It’s a jumper, and m’name’s Andrew but I’m called Andy ‘cus Daddy is Andrew, too. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, ‘specially one wot talks funny like you.” He looked at the jumper and frowned again.

  Nora sidled closer. “I think your mum would want you to be warm, Andy.” He allowed her to roll up the sleeves until his fists poked through. “How old are you?”

  “This many.” Andy thrust three stubby fingers into the air.

  Nora nodded solemnly. “And you’re really not lost?” She looked around the empty lot for signs of adult supervision.

  Andy’s eyes filled up again. “See, Grampa Jack told me to wait right here, and I did. I’m not lost, I’m here. An’ I been waitin’, but he’s not come back—” Andy’s coherence deteriorated into a full rush of tears.

  Nora felt in her pocket for her mobile. “I think we should call a nice constable to take you home—”

  Andy leaned toward her. “I gotta pee, I want Mummy, I wanna go home!”

  She hugged him and helped him off the platform. “First things first, then.” She helped Andy unzip his tiny jeans and held the ends of her sweater back, then turned pointedly away as his stream of urine hit the pavement. The last thing she needed was to be seen anywhere near a child’s genitals in a dark alley. She heard him closing the zipper and turned back.

  “Right then,” she said brightly, adjusting the sweater, which fell to his ankles like a topcoat. “Let’s go to the road and see if your home is near here. We’ll call a policeman under a light where I can see my phone better.” She held out her hand, and the boy took it. Walking him back to the road, she paused under a streetlight.

  “Look around, Andy. Do you know where we are?” Nora asked.

  “Town,” he answered proudly.

  “Very good, yes. Let’s try this, shall we?” She punched in 999, the United Kingdom’s emergency number, as another angle occurred to her. “Andy, what’s your family name?”

  “Halsey,” the boy answered.

  Nora had a sinking feeling “Grampa Jack” was Daniel Rowley’s drinking pal. One call, and a few minutes later, a patrol car pulled up to Nora and Andy, waiting under the streetlight as instructed.

  “Andy Halsey, your mum is worried sick,” the young constable said through his open window. A woman with wet hair and wearing jeans and a “Full Monty” T-shirt jumped out before the car was fully stopped.

  “Mummy!” Andy cried, running from Nora’s side and leaping into his mother’s arms.

  “Thank God.” His mother buried her face in Andy’s hair, then raised it to meet Nora’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  Nora nodded.

  The constable was the same one who had answered Simon’s call when Nora found Keith. “You seem to have a knack for finding lost people, Miss Tierney,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his notebook.

  Nora launched into another statement to the police. “He said his grandfather left him earlier this evening at the loading dock behind the l
eather store and never came back.”

  “I’ve had years of experience with Jack,” the constable said. He spoke briefly to Andy’s mother, sitting in the back of the patrol car with the boy on her lap. Then he radioed in to have The Scarlet Wench checked out by a colleague. “Let’s see where you found the boy,” he said to Nora and followed her up the alley to the loading dock, his flashlight sweeping from side to side.

  “He was sitting right here,” she said and pointed.

  The constable continued his sweep, picking out a large commercial rubbish bin. He walked over to it, with Nora a few steps behind. Icy sweat broke out between her shoulder blades. The constable lifted the metal lid and played his light over the contents.

  It must have been emptied earlier in the day; little remained except for a few slimy carrier bags stuck to the bottom and the heavy scent of decay. He led the lid drop, and the resounding thunk startled Nora, calling the policeman’s attention to her presence.

  “Please don’t follow me, Miss Tierney.” He pointed his flashlight back at the loading dock and played the beam underneath it.

  Nora walked away, her eyes getting used to the darkness. Hulking shapes appeared, casting menacing shadows. She looked toward the end of the alley and saw a gate in a fence for delivery lorries and bin removal that let out onto a back road running behind the shops.

  Nora watched the constable search the fence’s perimeter. She heard another patrol car pull up out front on the main road to help in the search, radio squawking its arrival. Before she was ordered back to the main road, she walked hastily toward the gate, letting herself out onto the back road.

  The air seemed fresher here, and she leaned back against the gate, postponing Simon’s inevitable grilling, her own fault because she’d stopped to help a little boy—but she knew Simon would say it was because she couldn’t keep her nose out of other people’s business.

  A sign on the guesthouse across this back road identified it as the Rose Cottage B&B for the rose vines that wrapped lazily up and over an arbor at the entrance to its tiny front garden, Nora assumed. The vines were now past blooming except for a few browned tips. Her eyes swept admiringly over the pretty trellis as she pictured it in full bloom but stopped abruptly on a dirty white trainer.

  Someone had lost a sneaker. She started to cross the road toward the arbor when she heard the gate opening behind her, then stopped midway when she saw the sneaker was still firmly attached to its owner’s leg.

  The smell of vomit and alcohol reached her. Surely this was the irresponsible Jack Halsey, lying slumped on the garden bench in an alcoholic stupor. Nora felt a surge of anger at the grandparent who’d abandoned his little grandson.

  Looking back toward the fence, Nora recognized the female constable from Saturday who’d guarded Simon’s door. Fervently hoping Jack was stinking drunk, Nora pointed wordlessly to the extended foot.

  The constable’s beam swept the inside of the trellis, revealing the ghostly face of a small man slumped into the corner, ignorant of the heavy thorns that pierced his scalp and neck. A crushed wafer cone in a paper sleeve lay by his knees. Leaving a trail down into his lap, dried vomit stood out against his denim shirt, arriving in a white pool of melted ice cream.

  Nora held her breath as the constable moved closer, directing the beam of light onto his face. Jack Halsey’s eyes stared back at them, filmed in a milky coating of death. The peace of the evening was shattered when the constable hit the emergency button on her radio.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “‘You’ve got to get him, boys—get him or bust!’ said a tired police chief, pounding a heavy fist on a table.”

  — Mary Roberts Rinehart, The Bat

  11:55 PM

  It was near midnight when Ian swept up the back steps to Simon’s kitchen door. His stop at the station had taken longer than he’d planned due to Jack Halsey’s death. There was still no sign of Anne Reed, the missing girl, and he’d had a mountain of paperwork to wade through. When he’d finished reading Milo Foreman’s formal report, he’d realized what he had to do, and the knowledge made his heart heavy.

  On the ride over, he’d worried Ramsey Lodge would be shut for the night, but the lights were still on in Simon’s rooms, and he could see Nora slumped in a chair by the fireplace. Across from her, Simon spoke earnestly. In pantomime, he appeared to be reassuring her. Darby lay by her feet, sleeping. He noticed Kate’s head was barely visible on the arm of the sofa, but she leapt up at his knock, smoothing her ruffled hair as she opened the door.

  “Back from beating the bushes in Oxford?” She ushered him into the room. He leaned forward for a kiss, but Kate stepped pointedly back, leaving him to stand awkwardly outside the warmth of their circle. She sat back down.

  Ian pretended not to notice and plopped beside her. “I’ve been going over the initial reports on Jack Halsey’s death. Sorry you had to find him, Nora. Can’t have been fun,” Ian said.

  “Not how I expected to end the weekend, after Agnes’ assault,” Nora agreed, sitting forward on her chair.

  “At least Halsey’s grandson was returned to his mother before he saw his granddad like that,” Simon said.

  Ian balled his fists and girded himself. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come back down to the station, Simon,” he said, bracing for the reaction.

  “Whatever for?” Kate’s eyes narrowed, her anger palpable.

  “Keith’s tox reports confirmed the Tanghinia poisoning,” he explained. “I need a list of anyone you can think of who had access to your studio while the plant was in there.”

  Simon’s face darkened. “That could be almost anyone, Ian, even you.”

  “Then you’ll just have to make a long list, won’t you, Simon? Or would you rather I just arrest you?” the weary detective replied.

  Kate exploded. “You’re carrying this too far, Ian!”

  “No, Kate, I’m actually being considerate of Simon because he’s your brother, and by rights I should be putting him in handcuffs.”

  “If that’s what you call consideration, I have some considering of my own to do,” she said coldly, twisting her left ring finger. She threw her engagement ring at Ian and stomped out, banging the sliding door to the hall behind her as Nora stood up and rushed after her.

  Chapter Forty-two

  “It is no time for mirth and laughter,

  The cold, grey dawn of the morning after.”

  — George Ade, The Sultan of Sulu

  Monday, 25th October

  7:10 AM

  Antonia Clarendon stood on the small balcony outside her bedroom. The early morning haze had yet to burn off. She could see the peaks of the nearest fells through a layer of lavender mist, and she shivered, wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her thin frame.

  She had slipped out of Sommer’s bed before he woke and before Gillian came to do his morning routine.

  So many wasted years, she thought, watching the haze swirl and waver in the weak light. So very many years of the same routine, the same dull chores to be attended to if Sommer’s life was to be preserved. But she couldn’t imagine her life without him in it. At least he had his mind and his speech. If she had been Edmunde’s wife—she shuddered at the thought.

  Antonia rubbed her temples to ease the tightness that hadn’t left her since absorbing Keith’s death. She knew from the expression on DCI Clarke’s face when he came to the house that he carried devastating news. That sober man had the gravest task of all, having to tell families their loved ones had perished.

  After she’d run up to Keith’s room and seen the undisturbed bed, a cold fear had gripped her head and had tightened over the next hours. Shock, she’d imagined. What could she be afraid of now that the worst had happened? Those pills Doc Lattimore had given her lessened the tautness a bit
but left her feeling like a sleepwalker. Even so, they did lighten the heavy feeling of dread, a hollowness surrounding the knowledge that she had nothing left in her life to look forward to, no purpose to sustain her.

  No, she decided, it was better to face the facts instead of dulling the pain; better to steel herself for the phone calls and flowers and gestures of sympathy she’d pretended not to notice all weekend. She’d save the pills for the next day’s funeral service, which she knew she’d have trouble getting through, and then she’d hoard them for a day down the road when she couldn’t face getting up anymore.

  Antonia remembered another funeral she had wept through steadily but quietly, supported by her mother and father, her body weak and in pain to match that in her heart. Her husband lay in critical condition, his future uncertain. Her brother-in-law remained locked in his rooms, refusing to leave for the service as though he could delay facing the death of his wife if he stayed away from the chapel and from those coffins, one miniature and white next to the large one of oak.

  She thought of the baby who’d waited for her that day, the lone impetus that allowed her to make it through that day and the next and the next, the sole reason she’d retained her lucidity while her world collapsed around her.

  Now that child was gone, and no other would ever take his place. And she wondered if this time she would be able to hold onto her sanity.

  *

  8:45 AM

  Kate rose late after crying herself into a fitful sleep. Had she overreacted last night? She had sat with Nora for more than an hour, hashing out the entire situation. The only thing she’d decided firmly was that if Ian wanted to go after Simon, he’d have to do it without her help. She’d sent Nora to bed and fallen into her own, exhausted.