Head Wound

by Judith Cutler

  By now Joy and I were on the fourth place, and I was beginning to think almost longingly of the preparation I should have been doing for the Monday evening meeting about fundraising. Even helping the police with their enquiries might have been more fun. Clearly none of the properties was in any way comparable with Joy’s own home, but two were quite acceptable, in my eyes at least, given the fact that she needed a home to move Ken back into when he was discharged from hospital in a very few days’ time. A home, yes, but not mine. At the very least they must have a lot of closer friends to turn to – fellow Masons, for instance. Dare I suggest it?

  In fact, I didn’t need to. She pressed me to join her for lunch, which turned out to be at their golf club. I don’t think I’d ever been in a place so full of extraordinarily bright men’s clothes before. Joy put down her menu and closed her eyes wearily. She opened them when a waiter appeared with our wine. Just half a bottle, at my puritan suggestion. ‘Thank you: it’s fine. This is absurd, Jane. I can’t think how I came to involve you in all this. It must be bringing back all the wrong sort of memories for you. And when you offered me a bed for the night, trailing round the countryside with me looking at dire housing certainly wasn’t part of the deal.’ Before I could shake my head in a half-hearted attempt to deny the truth of what she was saying, she added, re-energised, ‘And now I’m going to be terribly rude and leave you on your own for a moment: there’s a man over there I know. Tony Carpenter. A member of Ken’s Masonic Lodge. He owes Ken a big favour. I’m going to call it in.’

  She toddled off to the table dominated by a tall man in his sixties, well-dressed in non-golfing gear and good-looking in a beaky way. Soon she was returning with a big smile. ‘Sorted, as you youngsters say. He does private lets. If the insurance company won’t meet all the rental, that’s between him and Ken. He and his wife – doesn’t she look horribly like Mrs Trump? – will take me over, if you’re happy to drive my car back to yours.’

  I nodded, as if being offered the keys of a Mercedes was an everyday event. ‘Will your insurance cover me?’

  She slumped. ‘Oh. Oh, I don’t know. It’s something Ken always deals with. Tell you what, we’ll call a taxi. Unless – oh, Jane, this would be so much fun – you’d come with me!’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I’m used to dealing with grim stuff on my own. But when I want to share a laugh I miss not having close friends living nearby. Texting Jo and Lloyd wasn’t quite the same as nipping round for a drink and a natter. And I did want to share Joy’s news. She’d really fallen on her well-shod feet – a wing of a Victorian vicarage big enough to house in comfort the family of the most philoprogenitive clergyman, decorated and furnished as if it was first cousin to a stately home. Better still, Ken’s affluent friends followed her back to my place, filling their Bentley with what she couldn’t get in the Merc and they all drove off with a serene disregard of the speed limits she’d signed up to enforcing. Despite his generosity to Joy and his undoubted charm, I didn’t take to Tony Carpenter, nor he, I suspect, to me. Too much of Brian Dawes’ assumption that the world turned for his exclusive benefit, perhaps. Mrs Tony – Alexia – was very quiet throughout, to the point, I thought, of being watchful.

  Joy and I exchanged warm hugs, with lots of promises to keep closely in touch, as if we weren’t due to be neighbours once all the building work was complete; I really hoped we would manage to continue as friends, though I suspected it might be harder when Ken was on the scene. Meanwhile I’d certainly miss her cooking and her conviction that drinking is a team sport.

  I must remember to tell Brian at the following evening’s meeting that my lodger had departed. But a late-night check of emails told me that he had to send his apologies – something important had cropped up. Then a veritable rash of other apologies pinged into my inbox: there seemed to be a local outbreak of something sounding horribly like norovirus. I doubted if the meeting would be quorate, but everyone, to do them justice, had attached a list of suggestions.

  A quick phone call to Hazel Roberts had the meeting postponed. There! I’d lost a lodger and gained an evening’s freedom, though I did have a staff meeting to precede it.

  The following morning, I found I’d lost half a school. Two half-schools, to be precise. That dreaded tummy bug. So, any follow-up work on Lulabelle would have to wait. As for the teachers, the protocol was for each one to draw up a schedule of work they meant to do each day, so if we had to bring in replacement staff, progress would be as seamless as possible. Our regular staff meetings would be simply exchanges of emails, to reduce cross-infection. As for cross-county initiatives, we would have to clear our attendance with the organisers first to see if they were prepared to take the risk. But viruses sneak up on even the best prepared, and on Thursday I had to quarantine myself at home for the last two days of the working week, a nuisance since there were plenty of ends to tie up before half-term. By Friday morning, I was actually fine. Bolstered by a call from Joy telling me that Ken was out of hospital and recovering well in his new surroundings, I decided to take to the increasingly spring-like lanes on my bike. Birds were beginning to sing; the sky was a clichéd but welcome blue; there was even some warmth in the sun. Of course, I wanted to feel guilty – but if we told the pupils to play outside and avoid other people, I was only doing a grown-up version of that.

  A cycling incident last summer had made me paranoid, so I now sported a camera on my helmet. I’d still not graduated to proper Lycra gear, however. I probably never would, come to think of it. After a lovely tootle round, I knew what called me: home and that pile of work I’d felt too ill to tackle the previous day. But I might venture out for another hour the next morning, especially when the next crop of emails told me that the Speed Watch team had managed to put together their first trio of members and would set up not far from the school at nine on Saturday morning. It would be nice to reciprocate this gracious gesture with one of my own, so I cycled over with the last of Joy’s biscuits and made them fresh coffee with the school machine.

  They looked remarkably official: hi-vis jackets; someone with a clipboard and pen, ready to jot down the numbers of vehicles driven at least ten per cent over the speed limit; the speed gun held a bit more ostentatiously than Eoin had recommended; a camera – he’d insisted that this was only to be used to record the details of offending vehicles, which were then to be wiped immediately.

  It was all very jolly; Joy’s biscuits got a lot of compliments. But they snapped into immediate action each time a vehicle approached, and noted with gusto anyone doing more than thirty-three. Some topped forty, including a woman with two kids in the back, an unsecured dog and a mug of coffee on the dash – and a mobile in her hand. All the law-abiding drivers else got a cheery wave, often giving one back. It was a pity that some of those didn’t involve all the fingers of the hand, just one or two – but perhaps when your bonnet was dipping sharply because you’d just noticed the speed limit you couldn’t spare the rest of them.

  There was more village activity in the evening – a fundraiser for the village hall, the hub of so many activities. Usually the committee asked for bring-and-share plates and made money from admission charges, a raffle (I’d donated a couple of bottles of bubbly) and a bar. This one, however, was being organised by another newcomer to the village, Xanthe Boot, who had decided that the late-lamented village shop was ripe for conversion to a tearoom. Everyone wanted to support her – even if the building work had to go to outsiders, the venture would eventually bring work for villagers. There was no sign of her when I arrived, but interesting smells emerging from the kitchen.

  The first person I ran into was Brian, wrinkling his nose over a glass.

  ‘It’s all very well this stuff being complimentary, but I’d rather have paid for a decent wine, not this Greek stuff.’ He interrupted his complaint to kiss me on the cheek in a belated greeting. ‘You know she’s paying for all the food herself? A bit of a taster for her new venture.’

  ‘I wish her
every success,’ I toasted the air with my own free wine and sipped. Brian’s judgement was spot on. ‘Sun and sea and sand make your tastebuds a bit more forgiving, don’t they?’ I added as quietly as I could in the general hubbub.

  ‘They do indeed. If only Diane could have catered for this event. I hope the tearoom won’t damage her trade, incidentally.’

  ‘She’s never wanted to take on that end of the market, has she? Cupcakes are diabetes in a paper case, according to her.’

  ‘I certainly prefer her savoury dishes any day of the week. What a shame so many people have been struck down by the norovirus – there are far fewer people here than I expected.’

  ‘Plenty of time yet – I’m congenitally early.’

  He smiled. ‘I prefer the term “punctual”, myself – since I’m afflicted with the same inability. I hear you had the virus – are you fully recovered?’

  ‘You should have backed away hexing me before you even spoke to me,’ I said with a laugh he didn’t join in. ‘I’m fine, thanks, and have been since Thursday afternoon – or I promise you I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Did your lodger prove a good nurse?’

  ‘Joy? Oh, I lost her last weekend. And she’s now ensconced with her husband in an amazing let, big enough for a family of six. They’ll rattle round in it like peas in a colander. Cosy it is not. Nor convenient. And I should imagine their heating bills will be higher than their ceilings.’

  ‘You don’t sound impressed.’ Brian didn’t want to feel that I was criticising his properties – any of them.

  ‘I’m impressed, but by no means envious. Do you know their landlord – Tony Carpenter?’

  Brian always seemed to pride himself on being suavely unshockable, but he responded as if I’d trodden on his well-shod toe. ‘Not personally. Though I gather he’s a leading light in the Masons.’

  ‘Do I gather you’re not a fan of his?’ Of course I did, or I wouldn’t have asked the question.

  There was a moment’s hesitation before he asked, ‘Impressed by the Croesus of Kent?’

  ‘You don’t sound as if you approve of him at all.’

  He asked a question that really took me aback: ‘How many really rich people have you met that you’d whole-heartedly admire?’

  Clearly, he didn’t number himself in the ranks, which surprised me.

  ‘Oh dear: I don’t seem to know any rich men. Simon’s family was loaded, but never thought of themselves as rich, and as you know the words “admire” and “Simon” really don’t fit into the same sentence. Lady Preston …’ I tailed off quickly before I could insult his former friend, whom I deemed to be both bad and mad.

  ‘Cassandra? I dare say she’d be rolling in cash if she ever found those mythical paintings of hers! Assuming they’re masterpieces, as she seems to. I’d never have had her down as appreciating fine art, however, unless she happened to be looking at a Stubbs.’ He snorted, then asked, ‘Is she still making a nuisance of herself?’

  ‘Her lawyer is, and seems intent on pinning the blame for losing them on me. Whatever they are; whoever they’re by; how many of them there are – I’ve not a clue.’

  ‘All this extra pressure when you should be giving all your attention to running – indeed saving – the school!’

  But it was time to adjourn to the tables to which we’d been allocated and that ended any meaningful conversation that evening.

  Sunday lunch brought the welcome return to my life of two friends: Lloyd Davies had recovered from his flu enough to fancy a roast, and Jo’s appetite too had returned after her brush with the norovirus. If it had been an evening meal, having eaten and drunk my fill, I would spend the night in their spare room. This time, instead of too much wine, I took along organic chocolates and some single estate Cornish tea.

  Lloyd, who probably knew as much about my past as anyone from his police colleagues, had instituted himself as my minder-in-chief, and I wasn’t surprised when over an old-fashioned upside-down pudding he turned the conversation to any adventure that might have befallen me in the past week.

  ‘Stomach bug apart? Well, I suppose the most exciting thing was becoming a fully signed-up member of the village Speed Watch team.’

  ‘Heavens, Jane,’ Jo chipped in, ‘you do know how to live, don’t you? When are we going to see a handsome young man waltz into your life?’

  ‘Have you got a spare one in your ballroom dancing classes? Well, then. Oh, actually, I did have one in my life in the form of PC Eoin Connor, who positively exudes charm.’

  ‘A man from Traffic? Jesus, you do pick them, Jane,’ Lloyd sighed, gathering up the dishes. ‘One-track minds, cops in Traffic.’

  With an expressively raised eyebrow Jo took them from him and headed for the kitchen to make tea.

  ‘He seemed quite interested in something I had to tell him. That stuff about unmarked vans zooming round Wrayford – remember, I texted you when you were ill? And some other oddities on the estate.’ I told him about the blacked-out room with ill-fitting blinds. ‘But then he seemed to lose interest – I dare say he’s as busy as the rest of you. Didn’t I hear there’s another Operation Stack in progress?’ This was the euphemism for apparently all the lorries in the UK having to be parked on the M20 whenever there was a problem with crossing the Channel. It must have been dire if you were travelling, but it wasn’t much fun for locals either. ‘But I would have liked to explore the woods a bit further. Two reasons: one of my pupils swears he heard screams from someone speaking Romanian. OK, this could be a kid’s fantasy, but he’s bright and reliable. Secondly, because the man who owned them was so keen we left without doing so. A man called Rufus Petrie, who happens to be the father of another of my pupils.’

  Returning with a tray of mugs, Jo frowned. ‘That name rings a bell, you know. Something – I’m sure he was in the news five or six years ago – maybe longer. Lloyd – any ideas?’

  He scratched his head. ‘Maybe longer. But this flu’s fogged my brain: I’ll Google him—’ He half got up.

  ‘You know the rules, Lloyd: no electronics till we’ve completely finished our meal. And that includes tea. I didn’t know they grew it in Cornwall, Jane. It’s delicious.’

  ‘Green tea delicious? That’s going a bit far! It always reminds me of compost heaps. Sorry, Jane.’

  I waved away his apologies. ‘It’s supposed to mop up free radicals.’

  ‘Always assuming the Home Secretary’s left any out of detention,’ he countered.

  Jo made a winding gesture. ‘Always makes that joke, doesn’t he? And I’ve an idea he got it from you in the first place. This here Rufus Petrie, Jane, and his woods.’

  ‘It turned out that he’s the father of one of our Episcopi pupils. Weirdly, I’d not met him before, not even on parents’ nights. Weird, that.’

  ‘Lulabelle! What sort of parent lumbers their kid with a name like that?’ Lloyd asked.

  ‘It’s coming back now,’ Jo said. ‘Petrie … Remember that woman who died under the influence of God knows how many drugs? One of some girl band? Left behind a baby daughter and a husband? Could he be the widower?’

  ‘It might just be. Any ideas, Jane? Six or seven years ago? Maybe eight?’

  I shook my head. ‘That wasn’t a good time for me. You know what it’s like when … you lose sight of the larger world. Google’s the answer,’ I added more positively.

  And, when Lloyd had stowed the last plate in the dishwasher, Google provided the answer. Lulabelle’s mother had died in a freak accident involving enough ketamine to kill a horse. Ironically it was the horse that killed her. It stumbled, fell, and rolled on her – but it, unlike its rider, was not under the influence.

  ‘So, I’d guess he was right to be frantic about his daughter hurtling round the countryside on horseback,’ I said. ‘And maybe losing her mother may explain her weird behaviour – half unpleasant princess and half child afraid to fail. Anyway, no more school talk, or Jo and I will bore your ears off with our budget problems.
’

  ‘I could recite them in my sleep,’ Lloyd said. ‘But then, she knows the police service shortages by heart too. So, how are you proposing to spend this coming week of indolence? You know we’re off to Cornwall for a couple of days tomorrow?’

  ‘So, I’d better not do any Miss Marpling?’

  ‘I’ll go further: I’d like to extract a promise that you won’t.’

  Jo chimed in: ‘You really need to take it easy, like I do – that bug was nasty.’

  I grinned. ‘So just a bit of gentle cycling?’

  ‘And end up in some hedge in the middle of nowhere like you did last summer? That’s a really good idea – I don’t think. Now, tell us all about this ex-lodger of yours and her new abode …’

  I waxed lyrical – I might even have exaggerated the height of the rooms, the depth of the carpet, the breadth of the vistas. ‘Why can’t women be Masons too?’ I ended. ‘I’d love a middle-aged Prince Charming to turn up in his Bentley at the golf club and provide me with a palace.’

  ‘A couple of snags there, Jane,’ Lloyd observed. ‘You don’t play golf and you’d say you were rattling round the rooms – just as you did when you moved into your current place.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t cast Brian as my Prince Charming, at least.’

  ‘Would I dare? Who’s Joy’s prince, anyway?’

  ‘A sleek guy with a wife who could double for Melania Trump – all sharp cheekbones and sharper clothes. Tony Carpenter.’

  Lloyd’s eyes headed briskly for his hairline, but he mimed zipping his mouth.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘instead of a rich man, you’d be better off with a cat.’