Bunburry--Murder at the Mousetrap

by Helena Marchmont

  “Wildshaw Woods. Okay.”

  He fell into step beside Betty. She had a long easy stride and they were soon out of the village on to a rough track.

  “You know why I’m in Bunburry,” said Alfie. “But what’s brought you here?”

  “I was born and raised in Washington DC, majored in politics, came over to Oxford to take a masters degree. That’s when I fell in love with the Cotswolds.”

  “And you’ve been here ever since?”

  “No – once I got my masters, I went back to DC and became an environmental lobbyist. But I couldn’t stand the atmosphere.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard Washington is very humid,” said Alfie.

  “No, that’s not – oh. Funny. Cute, impractical, sensitive and funny. Going to have to remember all that.”

  “And that’s when you came back here.”

  “Who’s telling this story? No, then I became executive director of an environmental non-profit.”

  She had been running a charity, Alfie translated to himself. As Oscar Wilde had put it, “We have really everything in common with America nowadays except, of course, language.”

  “But eventually I’d had enough,” said Betty. “The humidity really does get to you. I celebrated my thirty-second birthday by coming back here and joining the Green Party. Been here eight years now – I run the Bunburry branch, I do some writing, I do some teaching, and so far body and soul are still together.”

  “How many members does the branch have?” asked Alfie.

  “The Bunburry Green Party?” She appeared to be calculating. “That would be me.”

  “Just you? One member?”

  “That’s about the size of it. Although I have a membership form right here if you’re interested.” She made a show of fumbling in her pocket and then erupted into laughter. “Look at you, trying to work out how to say no in a nice way. I bet with just a tad more pressure I could get you to join.”

  “You’d have more luck getting me to wear a deerstalker and plus-fours,” said Alfie. “I like to keep my political options open.”

  “A man of no fixed views – good for you,” she said, and he couldn’t tell if she was making fun of him or not.

  They were climbing up towards the woods now, a steep incline. Betty wasn’t reducing her pace and Alfie was determined not to appear out of breath before she did. Thirty-four years ago, he had run up here without even thinking about it: the heavy new boots must be weighing him down. He was relieved to note she had stopped talking.

  They reached the woods and she leaned forward, her hands on her thighs. “Time to admire the view,” she said with a slight wheeze.

  The village was laid out below them, honey-pale in the winter sun, dark clouds gathering behind. The tapering church spire surmounted the mass of narrow streets, the eccentric architecture of the Drunken Horse looking like a child’s wonky drawing. Alfie suddenly remembered how he and the other kids had even made up a game in its honour, which involved pretending to canter round a field and then suddenly lurching into a fellow “horse”. The person lurched into was out of the game, and the last one standing won the title of Drunken Horse. There were occasional disputes about who had lurched into whom, but they largely played by the rules. Life was so very much simpler when there were rules.

  He peered down at the village and, amidst the green of trees and gardens, managed to identify the long outline of Windermere Cottage, the more solid structure of Jasmine Cottage, and the village hall-theatre. He almost persuaded himself he could see the tattered banner flapping.

  “How well did you know James Fry?” he asked, conscious of how badly Amelia had reacted when asked the same question.

  But Betty didn’t react at all. She straightened up and, as though she hadn’t heard him, said: “The rain’s coming over. Better shelter in the woods.”

  The woods were as dark as he remembered, but no longer fearsome.

  “What kind of trees are these?” he asked.

  “You don’t know? You’re kidding me.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not good on vegetation.”

  “Vegetation,” she repeated. “Right. Lesson one. This is what we call a deciduous tree because it loses its leaves every year.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “But I’m aware of the difference between deciduous trees and evergreens.”

  “Great. Not a complete novice, then. Look at the bark, see how smooth it is? See all the colours?”

  He looked at the bark. So this was what passed for smooth and colourful in a tree.

  “Which means this is a – ?” she prompted. “Yes, that’s right, it’s a beech tree.”

  “A beech tree,” he repeated.

  “Learn to love trees. They are your friends. They give you energy. Hug one.”

  She put her arms round the trunk of the nearest tree and leaned her cheek against it, her eyes closed. Alfie had heard the expression “tree-hugger” but he had always thought of it as metaphorical. It hadn’t crossed his mind that there were people who actually hugged trees. And now he was with an actual tree-hugger in a wood. If she insisted on hugging every single one, they would be here for hours.

  “I’m serious,” she said.

  Reluctantly, Alfie approached the neighbouring tree and embraced it.

  “Get in close. Really absorb that tree life-force.”

  He could see insects. Insects that could invade his new waxed jacket. He tried to look as though he was leaning into the tree while maintaining a cautious distance from it.

  “You know what I love about the English?” she said. “They’re so polite. You tell them to hug a tree and they just do it. Back home, they would say: ‘You crazy? Hell, no!’”

  Alfie let go of the tree. “Devious, manipulative, practical joker. Going to have to remember all that.”

  She turned round and leaned her back against the trunk, wriggling to give herself a massage. “You really do get energy from trees. I don’t hug them, but I lean on them. Usually I bring a book to read so folks don’t think I’m totally nuts. You want to try it?”

  “I haven’t brought a book.” But to be companionable, he leaned against the trunk, which was reassuringly solid.

  “Tell me, Al, what do you make of Bunburry?”

  She had chosen to live here. He had better not describe it as a boring backwater. “It’s very picturesque. Small. Quiet. Peaceful.”

  “Don’t you believe it.”

  She wasn’t teasing him now. She gestured in the direction of the village. “All of that, it’s just a façade. I thought the same as you when I came here. Then I found there’s all sorts going on inside those quaint little cottages. It all seems so charming and polite, but underneath, you wouldn’t believe the seething passion. The jealousies. Sometimes the hatred.”

  “So who do you hate?” asked Alfie jokingly.

  There was no response. Light rain was beginning to fall, and although they were sheltered by the branches, she put up her hood. Her face was in shadow.

  “You asked how well I knew James Fry,” she said. “Not as well as he would have liked. He was a womaniser of the worst sort.”

  Alfie wondered if she was giving him an answer to his question.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I’m no prude. I’m happy for folks to do as they please so long as they don’t frighten the horses. And I’m sure there were bored housewives who didn’t mind the best-looking guy in town paying them some attention.”

  “I’m guessing he paid you some attention as well?”

  “Oh yes. Came on to me as soon as I arrived in Bunburry. Didn’t reckon on me being a streetwise metropolitan who could see right through him. I told him to take a hike.”

  The rain was getting heavier and Alfie put up his own hood. “How did he react?”

  “He couldn’t believe I had turned him
down. Him, the best-looking guy in town. The problem couldn’t possibly be him, so it had to be me. You can imagine the fun he had with my name.”

  “Betty?” Alfie didn’t understand.

  “Not my given name, my family name. Thorndike. Dyke, get it?”

  Alfie gave an unamused grunt.

  “Told everyone I wasn’t into guys. A lot of them still believe it. Fine by me. James Fry was a bully. He really enjoyed picking on people. You know Anthony Ross?”

  Alfie nodded.

  “Sweetest guy you could meet, right? James’s own cousin, but James always acted camp round him, putting on a stupid high-pitched voice, mincing about all limp-wristed. He was a complete Neanderthal.”

  Anthony disparaging his own skills as less than macho – Alfie would bet money that had come straight from James.

  “And Philip? The vicar? You’ve met him?” asked Betty.

  “Yes, I’ve met him too. I’ve met the whole of the AA.”

  “Oh my lord, you poor thing, you didn’t get out in time? Tell me they didn’t sign you up.”

  “I’m their new director.”

  “If I had known you were such a push-over, I would have made you join the Green Party for sure,” she said.

  “Sorry, you’ve missed your chance on that. What were you saying about the vicar?”

  “James went out of his way to bait Philip about religion, asking him stupid questions and making fun of the replies, making out Philip was an idiot. How that man kept his temper I don’t know – he must have turned the other cheek the requisite number of times for sure.”

  “I hear Fry was very good to Rose,” said Alfie.

  “And I can guess where you heard it, too. So you’re in with Marge and Liz?”

  “I seem to be,” said Alfie. “I hope so.”

  “They’re adorable. But Marge has this total blind spot about James, won’t hear a word against him.”

  “Marge is far from naive,” Alfie heard himself say. “Isn’t it possible she’s right about him?”

  “If you ask me, Marge is too susceptible to a pretty face,” said Betty acidly. “You know that expression, handsome is as handsome does? Sure, James went to visit Rose all the time, but that was just to get cash off her.”

  “You know that?”

  “No.” Her voice was flat, and she bowed her head slightly so that he couldn’t see her face under the hood. “I’ll tell you what I do know. But this goes no further. You don’t tell Marge and Liz, especially not Liz, okay?”

  Alfie hesitated. This could be relevant to their investigation. If he and the ladies were a team, they needed to share information. But he wasn’t going to lie to Betty. Maybe it wouldn’t be relevant, and if it was, he would have to find some way of using it without breaking his promise.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “I had a friend,” she said. “My closest friend in Bunburry. Laura Hollis.”

  “Any relation to Emma Hollis?”

  “Her older sister. Liz’s great-niece. James made a play for her, fooled her completely. I tried to warn her, but she just wouldn’t listen, he’d convinced her he was in love with her. Laura and I were still friends on the surface, but the closeness went. She wouldn’t talk to me about him, wouldn’t let me talk about him.”

  Alfie felt as though he was intruding simply by listening to her. He looked away, up at the pattern of dark branches against the grey sky.

  “Then one night she came round to my cottage, damn near hysterical. She’d just found out she was pregnant. I still don’t know if it was intentional or not, but hey, the guy was single, he was in love with her, no problem, right? But when she told him, he dumped her. Said how did he know the baby was his.”

  Betty kicked through a pile of damp leaves with the heel of her boot. “She had a miscarriage not long after. One minute, she’s all set to play happy families, the next she’s lost everything. I never – hey, Al, you okay? What’s the matter?”

  Alfie bent down and began to adjust his laces. “No, nothing, just a blister.”

  “Oh.” She changed to a brisk, matter-of-fact tone. “Long story short, she’s relocated to Birmingham and I don’t know if she’ll come back even now. Liz and Marge have no clue about the baby or James. And I think the world’s a far better place without him.”

  She thrust her hands in the pockets of her parka and pulled it round her. “I’m getting cold. Guess I’ll head home. You go on if you want to.”

  “Betty,” he said quietly, “Liz and Marge won’t hear anything from me.”

  He didn’t even have to make an effort to say it. What he was now thinking could scarcely be shared.

  They were halfway down the track back to the village when he said: “How much does Emma know?”

  Betty shrugged. “Couldn’t say. I’ve never spoken to her about it. Laura was my friend, Emma was just her kid sister.”

  They walked on in silence until Alfie asked: “Do you think James Fry had an affair with Amelia Fairchild?”

  “I’m impressed. You’ve only been here two minutes, and you’re up with all the gossip.”

  “So you think he did?”

  “Sure of it. That was exactly his style, Pick a vulnerable woman and mess with her head. Amelia and Henry’s relationship is going down the tubes, so James was straight in there. I think he did it to rile Henry as much as anything.”

  “Henry knew about it?”

  “He didn’t know, but he couldn’t help but suspect, James coming into the shop the whole time, flirting with Amelia, Amelia looking at James with those big puppy-dog eyes.”

  “Does Henry – ” Alfie hesitated. “Do you think he’s abusive?”

  “I really don’t know what goes on there. They were childhood sweethearts, totally loved up, the perfect couple, and then everything went to pieces when they took over the supermarket. If you ask me, one’s as bad as the other. Every time I go in, I think I’ll find one of them chopping the other up and stashing them in the freezer. Thank God I’m vegetarian.”

  Alfie didn’t even pretend to laugh. “James Fry’s accident must have been a real shock in the village. Where were you when you found out about it?”

  “You make it sound like Bunburry’s JFK moment.” Her bantering tone had a definite edge to it. “I knew James Fry, and I can tell you he was no Jack Kennedy. Apart from the constant womanising.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Alfie. “I just wondered.”

  “No, listen, it’s me who should apologise.” She sounded weary. “This has stirred up all sorts. Not your fault, it was me who brought it up. I guess I was the last person to find out about James’s accident. I’d been giving a talk in Cheltenham and stayed over with some friends. I didn’t hear anything till the next day. Which is a shame. I missed out on about twelve hours of celebrating.”

  They had reached the outskirts of the village. “I go along here,” she said, making it clear that it was a parting of the ways.

  “I’ll see you at seven o’clock tomorrow evening in the snug,” said Alfie.

  “You’re still coming?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Certainly. But don’t bother bringing a membership form.”

  “We’ll see – maybe I can fix those unfixed political views of yours.” With a brief wave, she headed down a narrow street.

  Alfie went back to Windermere Cottage and sat with a coffee at the big kitchen table. Betty blamed James Fry for destroying her friendship with Laura Hollis, and for wrecking Laura’s life. Did she hate him enough to kill him? Alfie had had no sense of her lying when she said she had been in Cheltenham that night. But someone capable of murder might well be capable of a plausible lie. She hadn’t answered him immediately; she had turned his question into a wry joke. That might have given her the time to adopt an innocent tone.

  And then there were the Fairchilds.
Amelia, seeing an escape from a disappointing marriage and then suddenly being rejected – she wouldn’t be the first woman to wreak a terrible revenge. Or what about Henry – had he found proof of Amelia’s affair, or even if he only suspected, was that reason enough for him to get rid of his rival?

  And then there was … Alfie’s phone buzzed, announcing a text. “Drunken Horse, half an hour. Emma.”

  She was already there when he arrived, and insisted on getting him a pint of Brew. Definitely not a date. Especially not given what he was about to do. He had been weighing up the options ever since parting company with Betty. And he had concluded that there was no point in trying to outwit her or outmanoeuvre her. She was too experienced to be caught out.

  So when she came back with his pint and took the seat opposite him, he asked without preamble: “Did you have anything to do with James Fry’s death?”

  Her eyebrows lifted but that was her only visible reaction as she said: “No.”

  She was telling the truth; he was sure of it.

  “Do you have any reason for asking me that?”

  “You’re a member of the AA,” he said. “It seems more than likely that if Fry’s death wasn’t an accident, then someone in the AA was responsible.”

  “Of course. So you’ve asked Marge and Aunt Liz the same question?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Then why have you asked me?”

  He had been intent on watching for any sign of unease or discomfort when he asked her the leading question. Now he was the one feeling ill at ease. They might be sitting in the snug in the Drunken Horse, but he felt as though he was in an interview room in the police station.

  “Just to … officially eliminate you from the list of suspects.” He was floundering.

  “Let me help you.” She hadn’t raised her voice, or changed her tone, but Alfie knew he wasn’t going to like what she had to say. “I remember you were planning to check motive, opportunity, that sort of thing.”