Scarborough Fair (Scarborough Fair series Book 1)

by Margarita Morris

  There was a tap on Rose’s door and her mother came in, pale and trembling.

  Rose dropped the letter she was holding and jumped to her feet. “What is it Mum?”

  “That…that was the hospital on the phone,” said her mother, her voice cracking.

  Rose’s stomach turned over. “Is it Gran?”

  Her mother nodded. “She passed away peacefully ten minutes ago.”

  Rose felt her knees go weak. She fell into her mother’s arms and they stood there hugging each other tight, letting the tears fall.

  ~~~

  The boy I love is up in the gallery,

  The boy I love is looking now at me,

  There he is, can't you see, waving his handkerchief,

  As merry as a robin that sings on a tree.

  Except he wasn’t in the gallery anymore. And neither was he at his lodging house. Kitty knew because she had called round there earlier in the afternoon and the landlady had told her, whilst looking down her nose at the frills on Kitty’s dress, that Mr Jackson had left. Then she had shut the door in Kitty’s face.

  The audience burst into rapturous applause as they did every night and Kitty bowed and blew kisses out into the auditorium, all the while smiling graciously. But her heart wasn’t in it. She was a good actress so she hoped it wouldn’t show, but underneath the rouge and the lipstick, her heart was breaking.

  She picked up the roses tossed onto the stage, pretending to sniff them, then she bowed once more and made her exit, running back to her dressing room. She closed the door and sank down on the chair in front of the mirror. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep up this life of singing and acting. It was taking its toll on her and that was why she’d gone to St Mary’s Church a few days ago. To think things through somewhere quiet. She had hoped God might tell her clearly and plainly whether or not Jackson was Mr Right and whether she should leave the stage and marry him. Not that he’d asked her yet, but she was confident she could wangle a proposal out of him. He just needed a little encouragement, but the question was, was he worth it?

  She had chosen a quiet spot in the church, on the far right hand side, behind a pillar, because she didn’t want to be disturbed. She wasn’t a regular churchgoer and she felt a little guilty entering the building, as if she didn’t have as much right to be there as other people. The last thing she wanted was to be accosted by some matronly do-gooder who would look at the bows and flounces on her dress and judge her badly for it.

  So she’d sat there on her own, thinking over her life from blacksmith’s daughter to star of the Scarborough stage, when she’d heard the door opening and footsteps coming down the aisle. Dainty footsteps. Peering out from behind the pillar, she had been surprised to see the lady Jackson had been keeping an eye on. Miss Alice Hawthorne. Kitty had thought it rather a funny business to be monitoring the activities of a lady on holiday, but Jackson had assured her that he meant Alice no harm and he was only doing this job at the behest of his employer, Sir Henry Blackwood. Kitty had seen for herself that Jackson kept his distance from Alice and so she had trusted him. On her strolls around Scarborough with Jackson, Kitty had become familiar with Alice and her maid, Mary. They did everything together and were more like companions than mistress and maid. But now here was Alice all alone. And it looked to Kitty as if Alice was wearing Mary’s plain black dress instead of her own fancier, white one. Why was she on her own? Was Jackson about to appear too? Or had Alice given him the slip?

  All these questions were spinning around Kitty’s head when the door had opened a second time and she heard a man’s footstep on the stone floor. Heavy and resolute. Naturally, she had thought it must be Jackson, but Alice had thought it was someone called George and had called out his name. Not wishing to disturb a love tryst, Kitty had remained hidden from view.

  But then it had turned out not to be George, the painter, or Jackson for that matter, but another man entirely. Someone that Alice was clearly afraid of. He had followed Alice to the front of the altar and grabbed her by the arm. In a fit of female solidarity Kitty had jumped to her feet, but then she had glimpsed the blade of the knife in the man’s hand. He lashed out at Alice, wounding her on the arm. Alice had pleaded with him not to kill her and he had dragged her outside, muttering something about Highcliff House.

  It had all happened so quickly that Kitty had been too shocked to react. When she had finally pulled herself together and run outside, Alice and the man were nowhere to be seen.

  Now she was in a dilemma.

  She had tried to find Jackson to tell him what had happened but he too had vanished. She should have gone to the police straight away, but was now worried that she had left it too late and they would charge her with dereliction of duty if such a crime existed. Her only hope was to find Mary and tell her what she had seen.

  ~~~

  The next day at the hospital, Dr Wilson talked to Dan and his mother about the cognitive tests he would be carrying out on Ryan.

  “There may be some short term memory loss,” he explained, “and with severe cases of concussion like this I would expect spells of dizziness and tiredness, but he should make a full recovery in the long run.”

  Dan wondered how much, if anything, Ryan would remember about what Dan had been telling him just before he woke up. Remembering how he’d opened his heart up about Rose made him cringe with embarrassment. A bit of short term memory loss would be no bad thing as far as Dan was concerned.

  Dan and his mother sat outside in the corridor whilst Dr Wilson carried out the first round of tests.

  “What were you talking to him about when he woke up?” asked Fiona.

  “Oh, just stuff,” said Dan. Talking to an unconscious person was one thing but he wasn’t about to reveal his deepest thoughts to his mother of all people.

  “Well it did the trick,” she said, taking hold of his hand and giving it a squeeze.

  Dan checked his phone to see if Rose had got in touch, but there was nothing. He’d give her a call later, see how she was doing.

  There was a sound of men’s voices down the corridor. Dan looked up to see two men, an older one with thinning grey hair, broad shoulders and a square jaw; and a younger one with a ginger beard. They were talking to a nurse who nodded and pointed towards Dan and his mother. The men both wore dark suits and had an official-looking air about them. Dan was reminded of detective shows on the television: the Detective Inspector and his Sergeant. The older man nodded his thanks to the nurse and then both men strode towards Dan and his mother. Something was going on, but what? Dan shifted in his seat, feeling uncomfortable. Fiona was oblivious, too busy checking her mobile to pay any attention to the arrival of the two men.

  They stopped in front of Dan and his mother. “Mrs Grigson?” said the older of the two.

  “Yes?” said Fiona, stuffing her mobile phone back into her handbag.

  “Detective Inspector Crawford.” He flashed an ID card in front of their faces. “And this is Sergeant Peterson.” He indicated his colleague. “We’d like a few words with your husband if that’s possible.”

  Fiona jumped to her feet. “What about? My husband is very ill. He’s only just woken up from a coma.”

  “We understand the situation, Ma’am,” said the Inspector. “But this relates to the car accident that put him in here in the first place.”

  “What about it? Look, if the tractor driver wants to press charges then I think we’re all agreed that Ryan was probably driving too fast. I never did like him driving that bloody Ferrari. Good riddance to it is what I say.”

  “Ma’am,” said Inspector Crawford in a tone that made Fiona shut up immediately. Dan felt a tightening in his chest. He thought he could guess what the Inspector was going to say next. “This is not directly about the accident. It relates to another matter that has come to light since we impounded the car.”

  At that moment the door to Ryan’s room opened and Dr Wilson stepped out into the corridor. The Inspector introduced himself
and asked if he was the doctor in charge of Ryan Grigson’s medical care.

  “I am,” said Dr Wilson. “How can I help you?”

  “We need to speak to your patient,” said the Inspector. “Is he in a fit state for us to see him?”

  “Well, he’s quite tired, but yes, he’s awake at the moment,” said Dr Wilson, looking warily from the Inspector to Fiona and back to the Inspector.

  “What’s going on?” asked Fiona in a shaky voice.

  “If I may…” said Inspector Crawford, moving towards the door which was blocked by the doctor.

  Dr Wilson stepped to one side. The Inspector and his Sergeant went into the room, followed closely by Dan and his mother.

  “Mr Grigson?” said Inspector Crawford, looking down at the prone figure of Dan’s father and flashing his ID card at him.

  “Yes?” croaked Ryan.

  “Mr Grigson, I am arresting you on charges of drug trafficking. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  Fiona let out a strangled scream and fell against Dan who only just managed to catch her in his arms.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  For the next few days Rose and her mother were busy preparing for the funeral. Andrea, in particular, threw herself into activities, such as contacting everyone in her mother’s address book, with her usual vigour, but once or twice Rose caught her mother just staring vaguely into empty space, a tear trickling down her cheek. Rose did her best to stay cheerful for her mother’s sake and made them both endless cups of tea, but most of those were left to go cold. Inside, Rose felt numb with shock. She woke every morning expecting to see her grandmother downstairs and then remembered that she was gone forever and the sadness would hit her afresh.

  Rose accompanied her mother to the undertaker’s funeral parlour where a sympathetic lady called Cynthia took them into her office, served them tea and biscuits, offered her condolences, and asked whether they were looking for a cremation or a burial, what sort of music they would like and whether or not there should be flowers? Rose had no idea there would be so much to arrange. All this talk of music and flowers made it sound more like a wedding than a funeral.

  “Mum wanted to be cremated,” said Andrea. Rose wondered how her mother knew such a thing. Had they discussed it whilst Rose was out at the fair? Cynthia nodded encouragingly as if this was the correct answer, although Rose suspected she responded like that whatever bizarre requests grieving relatives put to her. In the end they settled on a simple service at the crematorium chapel with, at Cynthia’s suggestion, some quiet but uplifting organ music whilst the coffin was carried in, and just one hymn during the service, The Lord’s My Shepherd, which Andrea thought was her mother’s favourite.

  On the way back from the undertaker’s they called in at The Fisherman’s Arms, a modern flat-roofed pub not far from the crematorium, which had a private function room, a large car park and no atmosphere whatsoever. Andrea spoke to the manager about booking the private room for the wake. Rose thought it a dreary place but Andrea said no one would come if there wasn’t anywhere to park.

  “Just a simple buffet,” said Andrea to the manager. “Nothing too fancy.”

  The manager nodded and noted down her request. Gran would have liked a bit of a bash, thought Rose, but didn’t say anything. She wondered about inviting Dan, but then decided not to. She’d texted him to let him know what had happened and he’d texted back to say how sorry he was but he hadn’t been in touch since. He’s probably got better things to do, thought Rose, and I guess we’ll be going home once the funeral is sorted out. A knot tightened in her stomach at the thought of leaving Dan and going back home to…what? Joe? That relationship was well and truly over and Rose knew in her heart of hearts that it had been for a long time, even before coming to Scarborough.

  Neither Rose nor her mother had brought clothes suitable for a funeral, thinking they were coming to Scarborough for a holiday, so the day after their visit to the funeral parlour they walked into town and went shopping together. Shopping for clothes was not an activity they normally shared and Rose was doubtful it would be an experience she’d want to repeat.

  “How does this look?” asked Andrea, emerging from a changing room at Marks and Spencer wearing the only black dress available in the shop. The summer sales were in full swing and the racks were bulging with T-shirts and strappy tops. Trying to find a black dress was almost impossible.

  “It’s fine, Mum.”

  “It’s not too low-cut?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I suppose I could always wear it with a scarf.”

  “It would look better without.”

  “I don’t want people to think I haven’t dressed appropriately.”

  “Mu-um! No one’s going to think that.”

  “Well, if you’re sure…” Andrea disappeared back into the changing room. When she re-emerged Rose marched her to the check-out before she had time to change her mind about the dress.

  Rose found a cute little black dress in one of the more fashionable chains.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit short for a funeral?” asked Andrea.

  “It’s only just above my knee.” Rose looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The dress had short sleeves, a square neckline, fitted bodice, a swinging skirt and showed off her figure without being too revealing. Gran would have liked this dress, she thought, and a lump came to her throat. But Gran’s not here to stick up for me anymore. It’s just Mum and me now.

  The day of the funeral dawned grey and foggy. Rose put on her new dress and a pair of black ballet pumps that she’d bought in the same shop. She checked her appearance in the mirror, wanting to look her best for her grandmother’s sake. Her mother was already downstairs, tugging at the neckline on her new dress and fussing with her hair in the living room mirror.

  “You look lovely, Mum,” said Rose. “That dress really suits you.” At forty-eight, her mother still had a figure to be proud of.

  “Are you sure it’s all right? Wouldn’t it be better with a scarf?”

  “No. It’s perfect just as it is.” Then they were in each other’s arms, hugging each other tightly. “I miss Gran,” said Rose.

  “I know, sweetheart. I miss her too.”

  There was the throb of an engine in the street, a car door opened, and then a measured knock on the front door.

  Rose glanced out of the window and her stomach contracted. A black, shiny hearse was outside, bearing a coffin. Behind the hearse was another black car, a limousine. The funeral cortège would start from here. Gran was leaving Tollergate for the last time.

  “Ready, Mum?”

  Andrea nodded. They linked arms and stepped outside.

  The little chapel at the Crematorium was packed. Rose was astonished to see so many people, but it seemed her Gran had a good many friends from having lived her whole life in Scarborough.

  The minister, a young woman with a smiley face, spoke warmly about her grandmother’s life, how she had worked as a chamber maid then as a receptionist at the Grand Hotel and in her retirement had worked as a volunteer at the charity shop attached to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution.

  “And now,” said the minister, giving Rose an encouraging smile, “Janice’s granddaughter will read a poem by Christina Rossetti.”

  Rose stood up and walked to the front of the chapel, clutching the book of poems she had found in her grandmother’s bedroom. Dozens of pairs of eyes were on her. She took a deep breath and looked down at the book in her hands. Then she started to read.

  Remember me when I am gone away,

  Gone far away into the silent land;

  When you can no more hold me by the hand,

  Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

  Remember me when no more day by day

  You tell me of our future that you plann'd:

  Only
remember me; you understand

  It will be late to counsel then or pray.

  Yet if you should forget me for a while

  And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

  For if the darkness and corruption leave

  A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

  Better by far you should forget and smile

  Than that you should remember and be sad.

  ~~~

  Fiona had wasted no time in hiring the best lawyer she could find. Charles Baker-Howard was a senior partner at the law firm Baker-Howard & Carmichael despite being only in his early forties. She had extolled his credentials to Dan at great length the previous evening over take-away pizza which was the only food they ate at home these days. Dan didn’t think there was much any lawyer could do for his dad whatever his or her credentials. If the police had found a stash of cocaine on the passenger seat of the Ferrari then Ryan was up shit creek without a paddle and that was that.

  “That’ll be him,” cried Fiona as the doorbell chimed. “Can you let him in? I just need to check the morning room.” So that’s what a morning room is for, thought Dan. Impressing lawyers so that they’ll get your husband off in court.

  Dan opened the door. A tall, dark-haired gentleman who looked like he might be auditioning to be the next James Bond was standing on the doorstep. He carried a slim, leather briefcase in one hand. Dan speculated for a moment whether or not it would explode if you opened it the wrong way.

  “Good evening. I hope I’m not late.” Baker-Howard glanced at his watch. A Rolex, noted Dan. This is obviously the business to be in.

  “Please come in,” said Dan. “We’re just in here.” He led the lawyer through to the morning room where Fiona had set a tray with filtered coffee and wafer-thin chocolate biscuits on the coffee table. She was sitting on the sofa, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. She jumped up to greet their guest.