Aunt Bessie Remembers

by Diana Xarissa

  Bessie nearly dropped her umbrella as the man’s words registered in her brain. “Are you accusing me of murder?” she asked.

  “Oh, no, of course not,” the man replied quickly. “I was just putting the idea out there.”

  It was only after counting to ten and taking several deep breaths that Bessie was able to reply. “As I said, no comment.” She began to walk away, forcing herself to walk slowly and steadily, reminding herself that she had an umbrella and Dan Ross did not.

  “You’d be good at it, I reckon,” the man said as he kept pace with Bessie. “You could probably get into a locked room, kill a total stranger, and get back out again before anyone even realised you’d moved. After all the murder investigations you’ve been mixed up in, you could probably commit the perfect crime.”

  He’s just trying to get a reaction, Bessie told herself as she bit her tongue.

  “And it would be sensible to kill someone you didn’t know. That way you wouldn’t have a motive, so you’d look completely innocent,” Dan continued.

  Bessie had reached her cottage door. She turned and looked at the reporter. “Where were you last night?” she asked.

  “Me? Home alone, like always,” he replied.

  “Maybe the police should check on that,” Bessie suggested. “Maybe you got tired of not having headlines screaming about murder so you took it upon yourself to generate an interesting headline.”

  “That’s a crazy idea,” the man said hotly.

  Bessie just smiled and then slipped into her cottage, shaking her umbrella several times in the doorway before shutting the door in the man’s face. It took her several minutes of slow and steady breathing to calm down. She put her umbrella in the downstairs bathtub and then hung her rain jacket above it. What she needed was a cup of tea and a good book, she decided.

  An hour later she was feeling much better. The tea had warmed her from the inside out, and chocolate biscuits always improved her mood. Even better, she’d lost herself in one of her favourite mystery novels, choosing one where the first victim of the fictional killer was a nasty reporter from a small-town newspaper. She knew it was childish, but she still felt better when she read about the fictional man’s demise.

  After her buffet lunch, Bessie wasn’t particularly hungry for dinner, so she made herself some soup and toast and then finished her meal with a few more chocolate biscuits. As she did the washing-up she could hear children’s voices outside the cottage. Having been lost in her book, she hadn’t noticed that the sun had finally come out. An evening walk was just what she needed to finish her day.

  She packed a bag with a dozen custard creams for whatever police constable might be stationed behind Thie yn Traie now and headed out across the sand. The sun felt warm and Bessie breathed in deeply the sea air that she credited with keeping her alive and healthy for so many years.

  There were only a handful of people on the beach, mostly small children who were busily building sandcastles and digging holes in the sand. A few parents were scattered among them, watching their offspring, reading books, or simply staring off into the distance. Bessie kept to the water’s edge until she was behind Thie yn Traie.

  “Just a few biscuits to keep you going,” she told the uniformed constable on duty.

  “Ah, thanks, Aunt Bessie,” the young man replied. Bessie vaguely remembered him as having grown up in Laxey. No doubt he’d spent some time playing on the beach where he was now standing guard.

  Still feeling full of energy, Bessie kept going past the mansion steps along the beach. She walked as far as the new houses, waving to one or two of the residents there, before turning back towards home.

  The sun was starting to set and Bessie found herself walking more quickly as it grew darker. The police constable had switched on a powerful torch as Bessie walked past him.

  “I was just starting to worry about you,” he called.

  “I feel as if I could walk forever,” Bessie replied.

  The beach in front of the holiday cottages was deserted now and Bessie found herself picking up her pace as she walked. Nearly all of the cottages had their curtains drawn, as their occupants presumably were settled in for the night.

  Bessie was only a few paces from her door when she noticed the large rock behind her house. It was one of her favourite places to sit and enjoy the sea. Tonight, someone else was sitting on the rock, and as Bessie got closer to home, that person suddenly stood up and headed straight for her.

  Chapter 8

  As the person approached, Bessie recognised Clara Rhodes. “Hello,” she said softly.

  The other woman jumped. “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” she said. “I was lost in thought, I suppose.”

  “Are you okay?” Bessie asked.

  “No, not at all,” the woman sighed. “I just lost my husband, you see.”

  Bessie wondered if the woman remembered her from Thie yn Traie earlier in the day. It didn’t seem likely, really. “I’m very sorry,” she said, not sure if she should remind the woman of their earlier encounter or not.

  “Are you? That’s very kind of you to say. No one else seems to be the least bit sorry.”

  “Goodness, but that’s dreadful.”

  “It is rather, but I suppose the circumstances are rather odd. I was just sitting out here watching the sea and trying to think, but it wasn’t working.”

  “No doubt your emotions are all over the place right now,” Bessie said soothingly.

  “That’s for sure. I can’t even think straight, you know? And I’m feeling ever so alone right now. I was hoping that my stepdaughter and I could mourn together, but she’s not, well, she’s rather upset.”

  “Would you like to come in for a cuppa?” Bessie asked, knowing that John would disapprove, but feeling unable to resist the opportunity to speak to the victim’s wife.

  “Oh, that would be lovely. Is this your cottage? It’s adorable. I was wondering who lived here and whether they’d get cross that I was sitting on their rock.”

  “It isn’t my rock. The beach is public and anyone can come and sit on the rock.”

  “Really? I’m not sure I’d like having people behind my house all the time,” Clara said, frowning. “I quite like my privacy, and Jerry was the same way. He was worse than me, if I’m honest. He was almost obsessive about privacy.”

  “The beach is only busy in the summer months, and most people stay down near the holiday cottages rather than the beach behind my cottage, but I’m quite used to it anyway. I’ve lived here since I was eighteen.”

  While she’d been speaking, Bessie had continued walking towards her home. The other woman followed.

  “Oh, that’s a good long time, then, isn’t it?” she replied.

  Bessie frowned at the comment as she unlocked her door. “Have a seat,” she suggested, waving towards the kitchen table. She washed her hands and then filled the kettle before stacking some biscuits onto a plate. A few minutes later the women were sitting opposite one another with tea and biscuits.

  “I’d love a little cottage like this,” Clara sighed. “Are houses expensive on the island?”

  “Prices have gone up rather dramatically of late,” Bessie told her. “A great many banks and financial services companies have opened branches here, and they’ve been bringing a lot of staff with them. Greater demand for housing has driven up prices very quickly.”

  “So how much would a cottage like this cost?”

  Bessie shrugged. “I’ve no idea, really, but I suspect most of the value is in the land. When the cottage next door to me was sold, the new owners tore it down and built a row of holiday cottages in its place.”

  “I am expecting to come into some money soon,” Clara said. “Are you thinking of selling, by any chance?”

  “Absolutely not. This is my home and I intend to stay here for a good many years to come.”

  “But there must be other cottages like this one on the island, right?”

  “I can give you the name of a goo
d estate agent if you really want to consider buying property on the island,” Bessie said. “They’ll be able to answer all of your questions.”

  “Yes, I suppose that would be for the best. I will have to wait and see exactly how much I inherit, as well.”

  “I’m Elizabeth Cubbon, by the way,” Bessie said as she realised she hadn’t introduced herself.

  “I’m Clara, Clara Jennings, well, I was Clara Rhodes, really, but I kept my maiden name for the most part.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you. Your husband was Jerome Rhodes, then?”

  “Yes, how did you know that?”

  “I was at the party at Thie yn Traie last night,” Bessie admitted.

  “Oh, goodness, it is a small island, isn’t it?”

  “Mary Quayle, the owner of the house, is a friend of mine,” Bessie added.

  “It’s a beautiful house. I wish I were going to get enough money to be able to buy something like that, but I can’t see that happening. Still, any inheritance is better than nothing.”

  “Indeed. I didn’t realise that Mr. Rhodes was wealthy.”

  “Oh, he wasn’t exactly wealthy, but he did have some money put away for a rainy day. He was always talking about moving away to somewhere warm and sunny and he was doing what he could to save up for that.”

  “Had you been married long?”

  “About three years, but we split up and got back together about a dozen times over those years,” the woman said with a laugh. “We fought like cats and dogs, we did. But we always made up eventually.”

  “That must have been difficult,” Bessie suggested.

  “Oh, no, I was used to it, really. We’d get together and have some fun and then we’d fight over something stupid and I’d move back home with me mum for a month or two. When she started to drive me batty, I’d move back in with Jerry until our next fight. It wasn’t like a conventional marriage, but it worked for us.”

  Bessie took a sip of tea while she tried to think of how to reply.

  “Sadly, we were fighting again just before he died,” Clara continued. “We would have made up soon, but it was our worst fight ever.”

  “That must be difficult,” Bessie murmured.

  “He changed the locks on his flat,” Clara said angrily. “As soon as I heard what had happened, I headed over there to, well, check on things, and I found out he’d changed the locks. I hope he didn’t give his daughter a key. She’ll take everything for herself, she will.”

  “You don’t get along with his daughter?”

  “Jerry didn’t get along with his daughter. They fought like he and I did, really. One minute they wouldn’t be speaking to one another, and then they’d make up and she’d be over visiting for days on end. They were only together when he and I weren’t, though. That was one of the things that Jerry and I fought about.”

  “Oh, dear,” Bessie said softly.

  Clara nodded. “He never even told her about me,” she said, blinking rapidly and then wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “When I met her this afternoon, she didn’t even know I existed.”

  “How awful for you both.”

  “Ha, she’ll be sorry because now she won’t get the money, but it’s awful for me because I’d really like to get to know her. She’s the only connection I still have with Jerry, you know?”

  Bessie nodded. “Maybe she’ll come around, given time.”

  “Or maybe she’ll go to prison,” Clara snapped.

  “Prison?”

  “Oh, she must have been the one who killed Jerry, I reckon. She’s the only person on the island who knew him. No one else had any cause to kill the man. He was just a harmless drunk.”

  “Have you shared your theory with the police?”

  “Oh, yes, but they wouldn’t admit that she was their main suspect. I can’t imagine why anyone else would have killed him, though. I’m just lucky I wasn’t on the island when he died, otherwise I might be a suspect.”

  “Did you know he was going to be here?”

  “Oh, yes, I rang him a few days ago to talk about getting back together. Me mum is making me crazy again, but that’s nothing new. Anyway, he told me that he was thinking about filing for a divorce and that he’d let me know what he’d decided when he got back from a little trip he was taking with his daughter. He wouldn’t give me any details, he just said he was going to the Isle of Man and that the trip was going to be very lucrative for him.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  Clara flushed. “I don’t know, I suppose he meant that he was going to be getting paid for his time.”

  “Was he? I didn’t realise.”

  “I assume so. His daughter would have made sure of that, I reckon. She’s like her father, always looking for ways to make a bit of extra money.”

  “I understand she runs a party planning business.”

  “Does she, now? That’s interesting. I thought she just sponged off of her father and whatever desperate man she could ensnare.”

  “My goodness, I wonder how Elizabeth Quayle managed to get mixed up with the woman.”

  “No doubt Susan, that’s her name, by the way, in case you didn’t know. Anyway, no doubt Susan managed to convince Ms. Quayle that she was a professional party planner. She’s very good at pretending to be things she isn’t, or at least that’s what Jerry always told me. She took after her father in that regard.”

  “Did she?”

  “Jerry was very good at pretending to be something he wasn’t,” Clara confirmed. “I’m sure that’s why Susan had him come with her and pretend to be with the police. He’d spent his life trying to avoid the police. I’m sure he found the whole thing funny.”

  “I met Susan at the party. She seemed very nice,” Bessie protested.

  “Well she wasn’t very nice to me when we finally met. She refused to believe that her father and I were married, for one thing. I can’t believe Jerry never mentioned me, though we were married for three years and we were together for two years before that.”

  “What did Jerry do in London?”

  “Oh, a little of everything,” the woman shrugged. “He was never one for holding down a job for long, but he was very clever. He could turn his hand to just about anything, really.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Down at the pub, of course. How else would we have met? When he wasn’t working at some odd job or other, Jerry was pretty much always at the pub. He’d get out of bed around midday and head there for lunch. Most nights he’d still be there at closing time. I’m not much of a pub goer myself, but once in a while, when I’m between jobs or whatever, I’ll stop in my local for a drink or two.”

  “And your local was also his?”

  “No, not at all,” Clara said, sounding cross.

  Feeling as if she wasn’t following the conversation, Bessie took another sip of tea and waited to see if the other woman would continue. After a pause, Clara spoke again.

  “I was shopping with a friend one day, and just for fun we thought we’d drop in at a pub and have a drink. That’s where I met Jerry. He told me he was a solicitor with lots of important celebrity clients, and I was dumb enough to believe him, at least for a few days. By the time I found out the truth, I was crazy about him, regardless.”

  While Bessie couldn’t imagine falling for someone who had lied to her, she didn’t want say as much to Clara.

  “But that was Jerry, through and through. Why tell the truth when a lie will work and be more interesting? It made life more fun and exciting.”

  “And complicated, surely?”

  “Oh, yes, it was complicated,” Clara laughed. “The more he drank, the more elaborate his lies became, but then he’d forget what he’d said and have to tell more lies to try to get himself out of trouble. It was all very funny, really, and mostly harmless.”

  “Mostly?”

  Clara frowned. “It was harmless. He didn’t mean anything by it, really. He just felt like a boring person leading an or
dinary life, so whenever he had the chance, he’d invent a new life for himself. Most people didn’t mind at all when they found out the truth.”

  “He should have tried writing fiction,” Bessie suggested.

  “He didn’t have any qualifications,” Clara told her. “He could talk eloquently, but he couldn’t write stuff down very well.”

  “I wonder if someone at the party last night had met him before, then,” Bessie said thoughtfully. “If someone had, goodness only knows what he might have told that person.”

  “That’s true. I hadn’t thought of that, but I can’t imagine any of the people at that fancy house ever spent time in the pub in Jerry’s neighbourhood.”

  “Maybe they crossed paths elsewhere.”

  “Jerry didn’t go anywhere else. Maybe to the corner shop to buy some food, but he usually just ate at the pub. Anyway, he certainly didn’t often go outside of the area, and it wasn’t the sort of neighbourhood that posh people visit.”

  “Where does his daughter live?”

  “I suspect she was living with Jerry lately, but before that she had a flat with some guy she was seeing. It wasn’t anywhere fancy, though.”

  Bessie thought about Elizabeth’s friends. What might any of them have been doing in the part of London that Jerry inhabited?

  “Anyway, Susan must have killed him; that’s the only thing that makes sense,” Clara said. “Since she didn’t know about me, she probably thought she was going to inherit her father’s fortune. Too bad she killed him for no reason, isn’t it?”

  Bessie got up and refilled the teacups and the plate. Clara was munching her way through another biscuit when Bessie sat back down.

  “Surely there can’t be much money,” she suggested.

  “Oh, there’s more than you’d expect,” Clara said smugly. “Jerry had a way of making money. He was very observant, you might say, even when he was drinking heavily.”

  “Observant?”