Chapter Four
Bessie took a very long walk the next morning, trying to clear her head. For the first time in a very long time, she’d actually overslept. The shock of seeing her clock showing seven instead of her usual six stayed with her in the shower and as she dressed. She only began to feel like herself again as she patted on the rose-scented dusting powder that reminded her of Matthew Saunders. After a quick breakfast, she took herself for a long walk on the beach, not turning back until she was well past Thie yn Traie.
As she passed the holiday cottages on her way back, she waved to Thomas, who was just arriving as she was heading home. He returned the gesture. Bessie’s heart sank a bit when she realised that his wife was with him. She kept walking, pretending she hadn’t noticed Maggie, but she knew her efforts were futile.
“Bessie, there you are,” Maggie shouted across the beach.
Sighing, Bessie stopped and turned to face the woman who was rapidly approaching. “Good morning, Maggie. How are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine, but I’m ever so worried about you again,” Maggie said. “What’s happened now?”
“I’m sure you know as much as I do,” Bessie replied.
“Oh, no, you were there, on the scene. It must have been terrifying, like something out of a horror film. I can just picture it. Hidden for decades behind broken furniture in the dark and dusty barn, a skeletal hand reaches desperately out of its shallow grave, imploring someone to find him and bring the evil soul who put him there to justice.”
Bessie rolled her eyes. “It was nothing like that,” she told Maggie. “The barn is well-lit and the furniture they store in it is in good condition. The hand wasn’t reaching anywhere, it was just lying on the ground, and it wasn’t the least bit scary, just somewhat sad.”
“But who could it be?” Maggie asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Bessie told her.
“But you must know,” Maggie said emphatically. “I’m much younger than Fenella, of course, but you knew Marion Clague. I heard that the body was under her things that Niall put there when she died.”
Bessie knew that Maggie was less than ten years younger than Fenella, but she let the remark go. “I don’t believe the police have established a date for the remains yet,” Bessie said. “They could have been there since the barn was first built, or they could have been put there rather more recently. Until they can get an idea on the date, it’s rather pointless to try to guess who they’ve found.”
“I wondered about Eoin’s brother,” Maggie said in a whisper.
Bessie glanced around the beach. There was no one else in sight. “Fenella tells me that he’s happily settled in Derbyshire with a family.”
“Ah, but has anyone seen him lately?” Maggie asked. “If Eoin killed him and hid the body, they’d probably tell everyone that he was across, right?”
“Why would Eoin kill his brother?” Bessie had to ask.
Maggie shrugged. “Why does anyone kill anyone?” she replied “I’m sure he had a reason at the time.”
“I really don’t think the body is Nicholas,” Bessie said. “But I’m sure the police will be investigating every possibility.”
“I did think it might be Harvey Snow,” Maggie said.
Bessie stared at her for a moment, trying to think. “Harvey Snow?” she said eventually. “I don’t think I know who you mean.”
Maggie nodded. “I’m probably the only person who remembers him,” she said. “He and his father moved to the island when I was sixteen. He was a year older and he went to school with me for a little while. Then he decided to move back to live with his mum instead. He promised he’d write, but I never heard from him. I told my mum at the time that something terrible must have happened to him, because otherwise I know he would have written to me.”
“Well, you should definitely let the police know about him,” Bessie said. “You should let the police know about anyone you think of that might be a possibility.”
“I just hate talking to them,” Maggie told her. “That Inspector Rockwell is quite intimidating, really.”
“You should ask to speak to Anna Lambert,” Bessie said. “I’m sure it would easier, talking to a female inspector, wouldn’t it?”
Maggie nodded. “Harvey and I had a little romance,” she told Bessie. “Another woman would understand why I’m so sure something awful happened to him. He really cared about me, you know.”
“I’m sure he did,” Bessie replied. “Whatever happened to him, I’m sure Anna can find out, assuming they haven’t identified the body yet, that is.”
“I’ll go and see her now,” Maggie said with determination. “Before I change my mind.”
“I hope it isn’t him,” Bessie said. “I’m sure you’d be sad, even after all these years.”
Maggie shook her head. “At least, if it is him, I’ll know why he never wrote,” she told Bessie. “I quite fancy the idea that he would have written if he could have.”
Bessie nodded uncertainly and then continued on her way home. She was almost feeling sorry for Anna Lambert by the time she reached her cottage. No doubt Maggie wouldn’t be the only person visiting the police with a suggestion about the identity of the body. It was likely that Harvey Snow would be able to be quickly eliminated, though. Bessie was pretty sure the man had simply never bothered to write.
Back at home, Bessie checked for phone messages. There were a great many, and they were all concerned with the remains on the Clague farm. Bessie listed the callers and then crossed out several that she simply couldn’t be bothered to ring back. Although she hadn’t rung and left a message, Bessie decided to ring Doona first.
With a cup of tea on the table, Bessie sat down and rang the front desk at the Laxey police station.
“Laxey Neighbourhood Policing, this is Joan. How can I help you?”
Bessie was so surprised that she nearly didn’t reply. “Oh, I was expecting Doona Moore to answer,” she said after a moment.
“Doona’s on another line. Is there something I can help you with?” Joan asked in a cheery voice.
“No, I really just wanted to have a quick word with Doona,” Bessie replied. “Can you let her know that Elizabeth Cubbon rang, please?”
“I’ll tell her, but I wouldn’t expect her to get back to you any time soon,” the woman said. “We’re quite busy at the moment.”
“There’s no rush,” Bessie told the woman, even though she didn’t really mean it. She wanted to speak to Doona as soon as possible, but it seemed like it might be a while before that happened.
Bessie hung up and frowned at her tea. “I’m sure there are lots of people ringing in with ideas about the remains,” she said to the cup. “But who is Joan and why is she answering the phone?”
When the tea didn’t reply, Bessie sighed and then picked up the phone again.
“Good morning, Breesha,” she greeted her advocate’s secretary when her call was answered. “It’s Bessie Cubbon. Is there any chance Doncan has a minute?”
“I’ll just put you through after I thank you for the kind invitation to Thanksgiving dinner,” Breesha replied. “It’s one of the highlights of my social calendar every year, you know.”
Bessie laughed. “It’s kind of you to say so,” she replied. “Would you like to bring a guest?”
“Ah, no, but thank you for asking,” Breesha replied. “I’m quite happy on my own. Now let me put you through to Doncan.”
“Ah, Bessie, how are you, my dear?” Doncan Quayle, Bessie’s advocate, asked when they were connected.
“I’m fine,” Bessie said. “Thank you for ringing to check on me, though.”
“I do hope yesterday’s events weren’t too traumatic for you,” Doncan said. “I know you’re a strong woman, but I do worry about you.”
“I’d hate to think that I’m getting used to finding dead bodies, but yesterday wasn’t nearly as awful as some of the things I’ve gone through lately,” Bessie replied.
&nbs
p; “Yes, well, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask,” he told her.
Bessie smiled. The man had handled her legal and financial affairs for many years and in that time she liked to think that they’d become friends. “You and Jane are coming for Thanksgiving dinner, right?” she asked now.
“We’re planning on it,” the man replied. “It was kind of you to include young Doncan as well. He said you suggested that he might bring a guest as well.”
Bessie laughed. “I’m sure there are plenty of young women who would love to accompany him for the occasion,” she said. “And I’m sure he’ll enjoy it more with a friend than on his own.”
“Well, we’re all looking forward to it,” Doncan replied.
“I don’t suppose you have any ideas on the identity of the dead man?” Bessie asked.
There was a long pause before the man spoke again. “Really, I don’t,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it since yesterday. There seem to be almost too many possibilities, but none of them seem likely, really. People do come and go from the island a great deal, but it seems odd that no one missed this man.”
Bessie nodded and then caught herself. “Yes, that’s exactly it,” she replied. “I don’t envy the police their job.”
“I never do,” Doncan told her. “I understand that the watch they found with the body is quite distinctive. I heard that the Chief Constable has agreed to put it on the front page of the local paper today to see if anyone recognises it.”
“I hope they find out who he is soon,” Bessie said. “And what happened to him.”
After fixing herself another cup of tea, she picked up the phone again and read down the list of people she needed to ring back. She didn’t really feel like talking to any of them. The sun was shining outside the window and Bessie thought seriously about taking another walk. A glance at her calendar reminded her that there was a lecture at the Manx Museum that afternoon that she had been thinking about attending.
William Corlett, a young researcher who was one of the driving forces behind the creation of a new Manx History Institute, was speaking about fifteenth-century pottery finds on the island. Her own fascination with the island’s history tended to focus on the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, but she enjoyed learning everything she could about the island she called home.
More to avoid returning any more phone calls than anything else, Bessie rang and requested a taxi. The driver took her into Douglas and left her in front of one of her favourite restaurants. She ate lunch with a book for company and then headed up to the Manx Museum to hear what William had to say.
Some parts of the lecture were fairly incomprehensible to Bessie, who knew very little about pottery, but she enjoyed hearing where the various pieces that had been found around the island came from. When the talk was over, she found herself having tea and biscuits with a large group of friends from Manx National Heritage, the organisation responsible for preserving, protecting and promoting the island’s unique history and culture.
“Bessie, thank you for coming,” William said when they came face-to-face in the crowd.
“I enjoyed it very much,” Bessie told him. “Although some of it went over my head, of course.”
“I tried to make it as clear as possible,” William said with a frown. “Perhaps, if you have a few minutes, we could go through the talk together and you could point out what you didn’t understand. I’m hoping to get this talk published and I would like it to be interesting and enjoyable for readers of all backgrounds.”
Bessie nodded. “Why don’t you give me a printed copy and I’ll make some notes for you,” she suggested.
“I’ll do that,” he agreed. “And thank you very much.”
“It’s no problem,” Bessie assured him.
“If it isn’t a bother, I’ll bring the copy to Thanksgiving dinner,” he said. “And thank you so much for inviting me, by the way.”
“It’s no bother at all,” Bessie replied. “As long as you don’t expect me to read it during the meal.”
William laughed. “I’d be hugely grateful if you could get your comments to me early in the new year,” he said. “And I feel rather demanding asking for that.”
“I should be able to have it back to you before Christmas,” Bessie said. “I’ve very little else going on right now.”
“Except Thanksgiving,” William replied.
“Except that,” Bessie agreed. “Are you bringing a guest? I can’t remember what you said when you replied.”
“I probably said that I was bringing a guest,” he told her. “But now I’m not so sure.”
Bessie waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “One person either way won’t make a difference.”
William didn’t get a chance to reply before someone shouted his name. He gave Bessie a quick hug and headed off to talk to the man. Bessie picked up another biscuit and turned to see who else she knew.
“Marjorie, what a great turnout,” she said to the Museum’s librarian and archivist. Marjorie Stevens was a wonderful resource for Bessie’s research. The woman also taught the Manx language classes that Bessie had taken several times.
“I’m pleasantly surprised at how many people are here,” Marjorie replied. “It is a Tuesday afternoon in November. I thought we’d be lucky to have a dozen people turn up.”
“I suppose William is very popular,” Bessie said.
“He’s a very talented researcher and the Manx History Institute is going to be a wonderful resource once it gets up and running properly,” Marjorie told her.
“How are things in the library?” Bessie asked.
“Fine, although I’m missing you,” Marjorie told her. “It was so nice, when you were living in Douglas, having you around so regularly. Now that you’re back in Laxey, no one is indexing my boxes.”
“I’m sorry,” Bessie said. “I have really been neglecting my research, haven’t I? I’ll try to do better after Thanksgiving.”
Bessie had left school at seventeen, content with her American high school diploma, but she’d learned a great deal about historical research after years of working at the museum library on various projects. She worked mostly with old wills and Marjorie was always grateful when Bessie was willing to go through one of the old boxes of papers that the museum had received over the years. Bessie indexed the contents and enjoyed the excitement of finding old and interesting documents that had been long forgotten.
“Thanksgiving,” Marjorie exclaimed. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for inviting me to your dinner,” she said. “I’d love to come, if it isn’t too late to let you know.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Bessie replied. “And I’m delighted you can make it. Did you want to bring a guest?”
Marjorie shook her head. “I’ll be quite happy on my own,” she assured Bessie. “Kyst t’ou?”
Bessie laughed. Marjorie never let her get away without at least saying a few words in Manx. “Ta mee braew,” Bessie answered her.
Marjorie patted her arm. “You’ll be fluent in no time,” she told Bessie.
Bessie just laughed again and then headed for the stairs. She’d spoken to just about everyone she knew. Mark Blake, the director of special projects, caught her just before she reached the first step.
“Bessie, thank you for the invitation. I’d love to come to your dinner,” he told her.
“Excellent,” Bessie said with a broad smile. “Will you be bringing a guest?”
Mark shrugged. “My brother might be visiting that weekend,” he said. “I may have to bring him so that he doesn’t complain about being abandoned when he went to all the trouble to come across. If that’s okay, that is.”
“It’s fine,” Bessie said with a laugh. “I’d hate for him to feel left out, especially after coming such a long way.”
At the entrance to the museum, Bessie stopped to chat with Henry Costain, who’d worked for Manx National Heritage since he’d left school. That had been a great many years ago
, and Bessie knew he had built up an extensive knowledge of the various sites on the island in those years.
“Bessie, that’s a terrible business out at the old Clague farm, isn’t it?” Henry asked.
“It is, yes,” Bessie agreed.
“I was starting to worry a while back that I was bad luck, you know,” he told her. “I was finding dead bodies all around the place, but it turns out it isn’t me. I don’t seem to find any when I’m not with you.”
Bessie forced herself to smile at the words, knowing Henry didn’t mean to upset her. “This one has been dead for a very long time,” she said.
“Aye, I’ve been trying to work out who it might be,” Henry replied. “I can probably list half a dozen old school mates of mine who disappeared at one time or another over the years. I expect their families will know where they are though, won’t they?”
Bessie shrugged. “I would hope so,” she said. “I’m hoping the police sort it all out quickly. I understand he was found with a distinctive watch. It’s going to be in the paper this afternoon, I gather.”
Henry nodded. “Aye, ours was just delivered and it’s right on the front page.”
He held out the paper and Bessie quickly spread it out on the desk. The photograph of the watch took up a quarter of the page, with an appeal underneath it for information. Bessie studied it for a long time.
“Do you recognise it?” Henry asked.
“There’s something familiar about it,” Bessie said slowly. “I’m sure I’ve seen it before, but I can’t think where.”
“Well, let’s hope someone else can remember more than you can,” Henry said. “And speaking of remembering, I’d love to come to the Thanksgiving party. Thank you for asking.” He stopped and looked down at the desk, his face turning red. “I’ll be, that is, you said in the invitation, I mean, if it’s okay, I’ll be bringing a friend.”
Aunt Bessie Invites (An Isle of Man Cozy Mystery Book 9) Page 6