Chapter Eight
I can’t think about that now, though—not with Valerie’s sister-in-law standing before me, clearly needing to talk.
“How had Valerie been lately?” I ask. I knew her to say hello to, and we’d chat briefly if she came into the café, but that was about it. She was older than I, and we didn’t mix in the same circles.
Kianna watches as Arthur bends and takes the ball from Beauty as she returns with it, then throws it again. “Actually, she hadn’t been that well,” she admits.
“Oh, really?”
“DCI Hobbs asked if Valerie had been depressed, and Bradley had to say yes. She hadn’t been herself at all. She was usually so bright and bubbly, but lately she’d been feeling unwell, and I think that influenced her mood.”
“Unwell in what way?”
“She was having headaches and feeling dizzy. She had pains in her chest, and she felt confused a lot.”
I’m starting to get a prickle up my spine, and I note that when Merlin returns from his run, he stands listening to Kianna, his tongue lolling out as he regains his breath.
“So… do you think she was depressed enough to take her own life?” I ask.
“I don’t know. She was going to be forty next week. She joked about getting old, but maybe it had more of an impact than we all realized.” Kianna bends to pat Beauty as she runs up to her. “I loved Valerie, but I wasn’t as close to her as some of her friends. She met up with them a couple of days ago at the Lady of the Lake for lunch to plan her birthday party.”
“Oh, who were her friends?” I ask.
“Fenella Davies is the only one I know,” she admits. “She runs Dogs All Day out on The Roman Way.”
I’ve heard of the dog kennels. I’d planned to pay a trip there to check it out sometime in case I wanted to go on holiday and leave Merlin there for a few days. I don’t know Fenella, though.
She bends and puts Beauty’s leash back on. “Well, I’d better go.”
“Of course. Do you know when the funeral is?”
“No, not yet. Probably next week.” She straightens. “It’s going to be difficult. Obviously, all funerals are difficult, but you know Matthew…” Her lips twist.
“Yes, I know he and Valerie were estranged.” I’m loath to probe too deeply and upset her, but equally she was the one who brought it up, and I really want to know what he meant with his comment, You witches stir up all kinds of ungodly evil and then wonder why bad things happen to you. “I know Matthew is quite religious,” I say carefully. “Is that why he disapproved of Valerie?”
Kianna gives a short, harsh laugh. “He’s convinced she’s into devil worship or something equally as mad.”
“Really?” I make sure my expression mirrors her disbelief. “How odd.”
“He’s unhinged,” Kianna says. She tugs Beauty’s leash. “Come on then, poppet. I suppose we’d better get you back and see if there’s anything we can do at home.”
She walks away, her boots crushing the damp grass into dark prints.
I look at Arthur. “Interesting,” he says, as we turn and start walking toward the road.
“I wonder what made Matthew think that Valerie was into devil worship,” I say. “He said ‘You witches.’ Do you think he had proof that she was a practising witch other than what her tattoo implied?”
“Possibly,” Arthur replies.
“I wonder if Fenella Davies can tell us anything else.”
“Do you want to go and talk to her?”
I chew my bottom lip. “I suppose I should leave it up to Immi. I don’t want to interfere in the investigation.”
“I don’t see how you’d be interfering. You might uncover something useful for her.”
“I suppose so, especially with you and Merlin and your sixth senses.” I smile at him. “Would you come with me? To see Fenella, I mean? Or is that a little dull for your first day out on the town in the twenty-first century?”
He laughs. “I just want to be with you. I don’t mind what we do.”
“Okay then,” I say happily. “Let’s go and pretend to check out the kennels, and we’ll see what we can find out.”
We walk leisurely back to the house, enjoying the warmth of the spring afternoon. Arthur asks lots of questions as we go—eclectic questions, about the trees and flowers we pass, how a car works, what a lamppost is, how the banking system works… anything that jumps into his mind. I answer as best I can. My general knowledge is average, but I hope I can give him enough of a clue, and he can always look up more details later.
That makes me think of something, and when we get to the house, I ferret around in the bottom drawer in the kitchen and retrieve the item I was looking for.
“It’s a spare phone,” I tell him. “It works perfectly well. I got myself a new one a month ago as a treat.” After Mum died and I sorted out all her finances, I discovered she had a small rainy-day savings fund that I’m pretty sure she was keeping for me. I haven’t yet decided what to do with it, but I did give in to temptation and buy a new smartphone.
“I don’t think anyone will be calling me,” Arthur says, amused.
“It’s not only for making calls. You can take photos and record anything you see while you’re out and about. And it also connects to the internet, which means you can look up anything you want at any time. Well, providing the phone has a signal.” I power the phone up and discover it has a small amount of charge in it. “We can charge it in the car,” I tell him. I quickly make him an account, put my credit card on it, and set up a plan that gives him plenty of data, because I have a feeling Mr. Encyclopaedia is going to want to use it a lot.
Then I hand him the phone. I show him how to swipe the screen, and how to access the camera and take a photo. He takes one of me and Merlin, and I show him how to set it as his wallpaper, which he loves. Then I demonstrate how to use the internet.
“It’s like a huge library,” I explain. “You can type anything into the search engine, and it will give you information on it. Have a go.”
He stares at the tiny keyboard on the phone. “The letters are all over the place.”
“It’s called a QWERTY keyboard—the letters were originally arranged that way for old mechanical typewriters, so the keys didn’t jam. You’ll soon get used to it. Try typing something.”
I wait for him to Google himself or something to do with his past. Instead, his big fingers carefully pressing the letters, he types in ‘muffin’.
“Muffin?” I ask with a grin.
“It was the first thing that came to mind,” he declares.
“They say men only ever have one of three things on their minds,” I tell him. When he raises his eyebrows, I add, “Food, sport, or… something else.”
He gives me a mischievous smile. “I don’t know about sport, but the other two are probably right.”
Chuckling, I point to the phone. “What does it say about muffins?”
He reads the screen. “Apparently it refers to either a part-raised flatbread or a cupcake-like quickbread. That’s a bit of a mouthful.”
“You can see how it works, though.”
“Absolutely. It’s amazing.” He shakes his head in wonder. “Can I keep this for a while?”
“It’s yours,” I tell him. “Now come on. Let’s go and visit Fenella and see what she has to say.”
While I drive to Dogs All Day, Arthur spends his time either staring out of the window or Googling stuff.
“Can I learn to drive?” he asks, watching me navigate a roundabout.
“Of course.” I signal to take the second turnoff. “You’ll need to learn the Highway Code and have lessons in the car, but I can teach you for a while, when you get your provisional licence. Hmm. You’re going to need a birth certificate and a passport. That might be tricky. We’ll have to think about that.”
He studies the road signs. “The Roman Way. Why’s it called that?”
“It will probably be an old Roman road. There are lots of them
still.”
“I’m not surprised,” he says. “The Romans were incredibly innovative. Their knowledge far surpassed the Britons’.”
“It’s weird to think that for you, the Romans were a hundred or so years ago, like World War One is to us.”
“I suppose so.” He thinks about that. “We were adamant that we wouldn’t lose the technology and civilised way of life they brought us. But it crumbled quickly, didn’t it?”
I nod. “Within a couple of hundred years, the Roman cities were deserted. But there are lots of remains still standing. I’ll take you to some one day.”
I indicate as the sign for Dogs All Day appears to my left, and slow to turn onto the drive. Although houses line the road, behind them, fields dotted with trees lead to the River Brue that winds down to Pomparles Bridge. The drive leading to the kennels passes through two lines of beech trees and finishes at a large country manor house flanked by a series of smaller buildings which are obviously the kennels.
Arthur and I get out of the car, and I open the passenger door and bend down to talk to Merlin. “I’m really sorry about this,” I tell the Labradoodle, who eyes the leash in my hand suspiciously. “But we’re undercover. Either you go on the leash, or I have to leave you in the car.”
Merlin looks up at Arthur. “He’ll go on the leash,” Arthur translates. “But don’t expect him to be happy about it.”
“Don’t sulk,” I tell the dog, clipping it on. “I promise I’ll take it off as soon as we get back to the car.”
We walk along the flagstone path, and as we approach the kennels, a spate of barking draws out a tall man in his forties, dressed in corduroy trousers and a sweater that’s the same shade as his grey hair. He’s obviously been working with the dogs, but his Barbour wax jacket and Wellingtons give him the look of an English country gentleman out with the hounds.
“Hi,” he says. “Can I help you?”
“We came to have a look at the kennels,” I reply. “We’re thinking of putting our dog here when we go on holiday in August.”
It occurs to me that I’m talking as if Arthur and I are a couple, and I give him a sidelong glance. He just smiles. I suppose he didn’t have holidays in the sixth century. I can’t imagine a crowd of Romano-British warriors traipsing off to the beach for a paddle.
“Of course,” the man says. “I’m Dylan Davies, and I run the kennels with my wife, Fenella. She’s the one who does all the bookings. I’ll have to see if she’s available. She had some rather bad news this morning.”
“Oh…” I say, adopting a pained expression, “she wasn’t friends with Valerie Hopkins-Brown…”
His eyebrows rise. “Yes, that’s right. Did you know her?”
“Sort of… We’re the ones who found her this morning.”
His mouth forms an O, and he stares at us for a moment before saying, “Fenella is definitely going to want to talk to you. Let me see how she’s doing.”
We watch him walk away. Arthur looks down at Merlin. “Do you want to go and play with the other dogs?” Merlin barks, and Arthur laughs. “I’m not repeating that.”
“I thought you played quite nicely with Beauty this morning,” I scold.
“He’s embarrassed about that,” Arthur says. “He doesn’t like admitting he enjoys doing dog things.”
I smile, but I’m distracted by Dylan returning down the path with his wife. I feel a twinge of guilt. Fenella was a good friend of Valerie’s, and I’m intruding on her grief by being here. But if I manage to find out something that Imogen didn’t, surely it will have been worth it?
Chapter Nine
“You’re Gwen Young,” Fenella says as she reaches us. “I’ve seen you in the Avalon Café.”
She’s tall and well-built, what my mother would have called a horsey type, with brown hair in a ponytail, neutral-coloured makeup, black trousers, and a long-sleeved green sweatshirt. Her accent is refined, without the distinctive west-country burr.
Her face is kind, though, and I give her a smile as I reply, “Yes, that’s right. I’m so sorry to intrude; I didn’t realize you knew Valerie.”
I curl up inside a little with guilt at the lie, but Fenella just says, “Yes. We were… friends.” She leaves a fraction of a pause in the middle of the sentence, almost unnoticeable, but I see Arthur glance at me out of the corner of my eye.
“Dylan says that you found her,” Fenella continues.
“Yes,” I reply. “We were out walking. By the way, this is Arthur…” I realize he doesn’t have a surname and have to think on my feet. I can’t call him Pendragon… “Penn,” I finish, somewhat lamely.
Fenella nods at him. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you.” Arthur’s face is solemn, but I know him well enough now to see the glimmer of humour in his eyes as he glances at me at the announcement of his new surname.
“Please,” Fenella says, “come in and have a cup of tea or coffee.”
“Can I bring Merlin or would you prefer me to leave him in the car?” I ask.
“He can stay in the kennels,” Dylan says, taking his leash from me. “William, our son, will look after him.”
I open my mouth to protest, but I can’t think what to say, so I let Dylan leading the Labradoodle away. Merlin looks over his shoulder and glares at me. I pull an eek face at him and mouth, “Sorry!”
Arthur and I follow Fenella into the main house. For a moment I think I’ve entered a scene from Downton Abbey. The place is huge, with tiled floors and a real chandelier hanging from the ceiling beside a large curving staircase. I glance at Arthur, and he raises his eyebrows as we follow Fenella into a big kitchen. It looks spotless; I have a feeling Fenella doesn’t cook much herself. Maybe she has a chef come in to do all her food.
“Tea or coffee?” she asks, gesturing for us to take a place at the central pine table.
“Coffee please,” we both reply.
“So,” she says as she starts preparing the coffee machine, “you found Valerie’s body.”
“Yes. I was showing Arthur around the abbey, and we just happened to be the first people that entered the Lady Chapel after it happened.”
“How awful.” She presses the button on the machine, then leans on the counter for a moment, staring out through the window at the kennels. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“When did you last see her?” I ask.
“On Saturday.” She begins steaming some milk. “A group of us meet up occasionally for lunch. It was Valerie’s fortieth next week, and we spent most of the hour discussing her party.”
The back door opens, and Dylan comes in, leaving his boots outside. “Merlin’s all settled in and having fun,” he says.
I refrain from saying I very much doubt that’s the case, and smile as he joins Fenella in making the coffee. Before long, we’re all sipping lattes and nibbling cookies. How strange it is to be sitting there, drinking coffee with Arthur like we’re an ordinary couple. Under the table, he rests his hand on mine, and I curl my fingers around his.
“We bumped into Valerie’s sister-in-law, Kianna, earlier, in the park,” I say. “She was telling us how Valerie hadn’t been feeling well lately.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Fenella leans her elbows on the table and sips her drink. “She’d been a bit down. Usually, our weekly meetups are quite fun, but Valerie seemed determined to be a black cloud hanging over us all.”
Her words seem quite harsh. Dylan glances at her, but she keeps her gaze on her coffee. I’m sure a woman like Fenella would tell a depressed person to keep their chin up and stop moping around. I can’t imagine she’s very sympathetic.
“Did she give you the impression she was depressed enough to kill herself?” I ask gently, hoping I’m not probing too deeply.
Fenella shrugs. “It’s difficult to say. She didn’t like the idea of turning forty. I don’t understand that kind of thinking. I hit the big four-oh a few months ago, and it’s made no difference to me. You just get on with it, don’t you?”<
br />
“I know what you mean,” I reply politely, still a little puzzled as to her cool manner. I thought they were friends?
Dylan looks at his wife again, then sighs. “If you’re wondering why we’re not more upset, we had a bit of an argument with Valerie a couple of weeks ago.”
Arthur’s fingers tighten on mine.
“Oh?” I say.
Fenella visibly stiffens. “It was most unpleasant.”
“Valerie brought her Spaniel, Copper, to the kennels while she and her family went to London for a few days,” Dylan says.
“I thought her dog was called Beauty?” I reply, confused.
“She had two,” Fenella says. “From the same litter—a brother and sister. They both came here. They were fine. Had a whale of a time. But the day after she took them home, Copper fell sick and he died just a couple of days later. Valerie was convinced it was our fault.”
“What did Copper die from?” Arthur wants to know.
“The dog had vomiting and diarrhoea, and then I think his heart just stopped. The vet said he could have been poisoned.”
“And Valerie blamed you?” I say, trying not to think about Merlin out there in the kennels.
“She said we must have left some rat poison somewhere,” Dylan states, “but of course that’s ridiculous. We would never keep poison on the site. We’re very careful with the dogs that stay here. They were fine until they left. I think it’s much more likely that Copper ate something in their garden or in the park.”
“It was awful,” Fenella says, visibly distressed for the first time since we arrived. “We’ve run these kennels for over ten years, and I can count the number of complaints we’ve received on the fingers of one hand. Most dogs adore coming here, and the owners bring them for play dates. It was very upsetting to have one of my best friends accuse us of something like that.”
A Knight on the Town Page 6