‘What do you think, Hazel?’ said Ovid.
‘About what, sir?’
‘Lorelli thinks I poisoned Uncle Harry. You’ve been in the kitchen all day. Have you seen me dropping anything suspicious into the food?’
‘No. No one has been near the food except Beaufort, and he would never poison anyone.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ said Ovid.
‘Because he wouldn’t. If that’s all …’ Hazel took her leave.
‘What is it about this house?’ asked Lorelli. ‘It’s as though secrecy is built into the brickwork. Aren’t you tired of it all?’
‘Certainly I am,’ said Ovid. ‘Let’s tell the truth. So, how long have you been writing to Adam?’
‘I …’
‘It’s not so easy, is it?’
Lorelli met her brother’s eyes, but they were as unreadable as they were impenetrable.
Moving the Story On
Old Tom said he would take the twins to visit Uncle Harry in the hospital the following afternoon, so in the morning they caught the bus to Little Fledgling. They barely spoke on the way, so there was no need for either of them to lie about where they were going. They parted ways at the bus stop and Lorelli walked straight to the library where she found Miss Wilde surrounded by boxes of books. The shelves were half empty, but Miss Wilde was sitting on the floor, hunched over a large book. When she looked up, it took a moment for her to blink herself out of the story she was reading.
‘Lorelli,’ she said. ‘Sorry. I’m supposed to be clearing up this place but I keep getting distracted. Books are rather distracting, aren’t they? I suppose that’s their appeal.’
‘You can stop packing,’ said Lorelli. ‘It’s my uncle buying the library.’
‘Your uncle?’
‘Harry Marshall. He wanted to turn it into a restaurant but he’s promised to keep it as a library.’
‘Harry Marshall, the property magnate? What would he want with a library?’
‘He’s doing it for me. Isn’t that wonderful?’
Miss Wilde closed her book. ‘Yes, Lorelli, it is remarkable. It’s unbelievable. I’m not sure I can process it immediately, but I am deeply indebted to you. As usual, I am in awe of such competence and such confidence in one so young. I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘You don’t need to. I just want you to keep teaching me how to write.’
‘Very well. Tell me about your Russian dressmaker. Any sign of chapter two?’
‘It’s hopeless. I don’t know how to move the story on.’
Miss Wilde removed her glasses and sighed. ‘Someone arrives, someone leaves, something is lost or something is found. Make things happen and the story will move on.’
‘But how do I know if they are the right things?’
‘You won’t. You have to work to find the story. It is there. Your words will help you uncover it.’
‘But you said I had to make things happen myself. Isn’t that the opposite?’
‘Yes, but you are not a scientist. Your methods don’t have to make sense. You’re a writer. They shouldn’t make sense.’
‘I don’t think I am a writer,’ said Lorelli sadly. ‘I look at my characters’ situations and I know what has to happen, but I don’t know how to make it happen.’
‘None of us walks one perfect path. Stories are like life. They are made up of each step. As a writer, all you need to do is document that journey with all its stumbles and trips. Make mistakes. Each one will make you better at what you do.’
‘But when I read your book there were no mistakes. It felt as though everything happened to Franciska so perfectly.’
‘Even though her life ends tragically? Remember, you never liked the ending of my book. You wanted to change it.’
‘I understand now that it’s perfect because it’s true.’
Miss Wilde removed her glasses. ‘Lorelli, no one bought my book. It went out of print.’
‘So you gave up?’
‘I didn’t give up on writing. Writing gave up on me.’
‘You keep telling me to believe in myself and write my story. You don’t listen to your own advice.’
‘When you get to my age you understand that advice is easier to give than take.’
‘I don’t believe that and I don’t believe you do either. I want to be a writer, but you are one. Even if you have forgotten that.’
Miss Wilde placed a hand over Lorelli’s. ‘That’s the thing about youth. They won’t be told. And why should they? Refusing to do what you’re told is the only way you’ll ever achieve anything worth doing.’
A Pound of Flesh
Ovid was planning to spend a while at the bus stop, building up the courage to go in to see Millicent, but as he turned the corner he saw Father Whelan standing outside Hartwell’s Rare Meat Emporium. He was flapping the wing-like sleeves of his tunic and waving a placard that read: ‘A pound of flesh. The devil’s butcher!’
‘Stay away!’ yelled the hysterical priest.
A passerby crossed the road to avoid him.
‘Beware those who enter this house of sin. Shame on those who protect it,’ he ranted at no one in particular.
His bloodshot eyes swivelled in their sockets and settled on Ovid. ‘Ah, the Thornthwaite boy. Why am I not surprised to see you approach this terrible shop of death?’
‘It’s a butcher’s,’ said Ovid.
‘This is no butcher’s,’ said Father Whelan. ‘It is a den of devilry, a shop of horror, a business of Beelzebub.’
The door opened and Mr Hartwell stepped out. He wiped his hands on his stained apron and stood with fists on hips. Father Whelan stared back defiantly.
‘Now, Father, let’s not go through this again,’ said Mr Hartwell.
‘I must speak. I must be heard,’ proclaimed Father Whelan. ‘The villagers must be warned …’
Mr Hartwell took a step forward. Father Whelan shrank a little and tried to hide behind the placard.
‘I have a reputable business with specialist clientele,’ snarled Mr Hartwell.
‘Clientele? Is that what they call Lucifer’s cannibalistic hordes now?’
‘Father Whelan, I have already called Sergeant Putnam. I suggest you move along before he is forced to make a report that will get back to the archbishop.’
‘My superiors are as bad as the police. They are all establishment members who do nothing but protect people like you.’
‘People like me?’ Mr Hartwell crossed his arms.
‘Your wife,’ whispered Father Whelan. ‘You killed her, then chopped her up and sold her as meat. How many more have you killed? How many more will you turn into mincemeat before you are stopped?’
‘I can think of one more.’ Mr Hartwell placed a hand on Father Whelan’s shoulder.
The priest screamed and batted Mr Hartwell’s hand away. ‘Get off me, you fiend!’
Sergeant Putnam arrived. With his snugly fitted uniform, buttons straining to connect over his sizeable belly, he was not as intimidating a figure as Mr Hartwell, but, seeing him, Father Whelan finally lowered his placard.
‘Morning, Fred,’ said the policeman. ‘Morning, Father. How are we today?’
‘Apparently I am a murderer and you are in on it,’ said Mr Hartwell.
Sergeant Putnam wagged his finger at Father Whelan. ‘Now, Father Whelan, not this again.’
Father Whelan whispered, ‘This meat is murder.’
‘Where do you get these ideas?’
‘I will not reveal my sources.’ The crazed priest stared into the shop window.
‘We’ve been through this. You can’t just go around accusing people of killing their wives willy-nilly,’ said Sergeant Putnam. ‘You know perfectly well that Mrs Hartwell left, but instead of offering Mr Hartwell sympathy, you make these outlandish accusations. It’s not good form, Father. Not good at all.’
Sergeant Putnam shook his head at the priest, as though scolding a misbehaving child. ‘You’re lucky that Mr Hartwel
l is more patient with you than I am. Now, move along.’
Father Whelan took a moment to glare at Mr Hartwell before turning and disappearing down the road, his tunic flapping behind him.
‘You sure you don’t want me to make an official charge?’ said Sergeant Putnam.
‘No, that’s fine,’ said Mr Hartwell. ‘I just don’t know where he gets these ideas in his head.’
‘Too much altar wine is my guess.’ Sergeant Putnam noticed Ovid. ‘You’re the Thornthwaite lad. The last time I came up your way was that unfortunate business with Mrs Bagshaw. How is she?’
‘Hazel says she’s been moved to a low-security prison,’ replied Ovid.
‘I’m pleased. It seems wrong putting away a sweet lady like that. You take care now. I’d better go and check Whelan makes it back to the vicarage without upsetting any more of the locals.’ Sergeant Putnam ambled away in the same direction as the priest, leaving Mr Hartwell to turn to Ovid. ‘I’ve a batch of wildebeest for your uncle,’ he said.
‘Wildebeest. Yum,’ said Ovid.
Mr Hartwell pushed the door shut and lowered his head to speak in Ovid’s ear. ‘I know why you’re here. I don’t want you anywhere near my daughter. Everyone here knows about you and your family. Millicent has troubles enough. You’re to stay away from her. Do you understand?’
Ovid could see Millicent inside the shop. From the look on her face she knew what her father was saying to him. Mr Hartwell went into the shop, picked up a package of meat and brought it out for Ovid.
‘I don’t want any misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘I am not warning you. I am threatening you. Stay away from my daughter. One thing I do agree with that deluded old priest about: you Thornthwaites are poison.’
Cricks’ Glassware
A little bell tinkled as Lorelli stepped into Cricks’ Glassware. It was a beautiful shop. The shelves were full of coloured glass ornaments of all shapes and sizes. There were bowls, jugs, glasses and other assorted objects. They caught the sunlight and painted the walls with vibrant colours. Felicia appeared at the back door. ‘Oh Lori-chicken!’ she cried. ‘You’ve come, you’ve come … How lovely. Is Ovid with you too?’
‘No. I think he’s gone to see Millicent.’
‘Oh.’ Felicia’s face fell into a pout. ‘You don’t think he really likes her, do you? Even if he does, he’ll change his mind when he finds out how much better he can do.’
Felicia caught her reflection in a mirror and adjusted a stray strand of blonde hair. Lorelli felt a little queasy at the idea of Felicia being attracted to her brother, so she changed the subject. ‘This place is amazing.’
‘It’s nothing compared to Thornthwaite Manor,’ said Felicia. ‘I’d give anything to swap places with you. Would you like to see the workshop? Mum and Dad are in there making things at the moment.’
Lorelli followed Felicia into the back room where there were rows of tools lining the walls. Mr and Mrs Crick were standing in front of a pair of furnaces. Mr Crick held a long pole, the other end of which was inside one of the furnaces. He turned it a few times, then pulled it out. He rested it on the metal bar, while Mrs Crick added molten glass to the end.
‘Ah, a visit from our landlady. How lovely.’ Mr Crick bowed.
‘Honestly, Martin, stop teasing the poor girl,’ said his wife.
‘Why is it teasing?’ asked Lorelli.
‘This shop belongs to your estate,’ explained Mr Crick. ‘Half of the shop owners in town pay rent to you.’
‘Ignore him,’ said Mrs Crick. ‘My husband switches off his brain when he’s working.’
‘Brain? What brain?’
Lorelli loved the way Felicia’s parents spoke to each other. There was always such tenderness and warmth.
‘What are you making?’ she asked.
‘We haven’t decided yet,’ said Mr Crick. ‘Sometimes we just start and see where the glass takes us.’
‘You sound like a hippy,’ said Mrs Crick.
‘I would be a hippy if I could grow the hair,’ he replied.
Felicia brought Lorelli a chair and she sat down to watch them work. She enjoyed the warmth of the furnace and the contented glow of Mr and Mrs Crick’s conversation. Occasionally Mr Crick asked his wife for something. Sometimes Mrs Crick would explain part of the process, but mostly they worked side by side without the need for words. When they had finished Mrs Crick opened an oven door and Mr Crick placed the vase they had made inside.
‘Does it need to be cooked?’ asked Lorelli.
‘No, it needs to cool down,’ said Mr Crick. ‘But it needs to cool down very slowly. This is the cooling kiln. It cools the glass down gradually over thirty-six hours.’
‘Why? What would happen if it didn’t?’
‘It would crack,’ said Mrs Crick.
‘More like explode,’ said Mr Crick.
‘And they’re more difficult to sell like that,’ said Mrs Crick. ‘I’m going to make some coffee. Would you girls like some hot chocolate?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Felicia. ‘Hot chocolate would be heaven, wouldn’t it, Lori-chicken?’
‘Heaven,’ said Lorelli.
Artie Newly Is Dead
‘This is sabotage! You ’ear me? Sabotage!’
Beaufort’s words echoed around Thornthwaite Manor as he stormed down the corridor, yelling at the top of his voice.
The irate chef stopped at the bottom of the central staircase holding a frying pan in one hand and a bread knife in the other.
‘My oxygen ’as been cut off. My blood has been sucked out. My breath has been stolen.’
Dragos appeared on the landing. He wore his yellow hard hat as usual and held a large spanner. ‘What is all this shouting? You disturb the old lady with this noise.’
‘The gas,’ Beaufort hissed. ‘Who is the culprit who turned off my gas?’
‘I am culprit,’ said Dragos.
‘You?’ cried the French chef. ‘You are the saboteur. Well? What are you waiting for? Turn it back on again.’
‘I will turn back on when I have finished job. I must put the old lady’s needs first.’
‘What old lady? What are you talking about? A building is not a living thing. It is a space in which an artist can create, but I cannot create without gas.’
‘You can use the oven until it is back on,’ said Dragos. ‘Oven is electric.’
Beaufort’s inhalation of breath sounded like an ocean pulling back before the next wave crashed onto the beach. ‘An oven?’ he cried. ‘The art of cooking cannot be realised in a cave. My art is created upon the engines of creation. I must cook with gas. I must make smoke. I must have fire. Besides, I switched off the electricity in that part of the building.’
‘You switched off electrics,’ said Dragos. ‘You are not allowed to do this. Why are you doing this?’
‘Because of the fire alarm. Beep, beep, beep. All the time. Beep, beep, beep. So I tripped the fuse. Now, no more beep, beep.’
‘This is dangerous. The fire alarm is there for good reason. You must not tamper.’
‘How dare you?’ yelled Beaufort.
‘What on earth is going on?’ Nurse Griddle stepped out of the library.
‘Madame, this is none of your …’ The rest of Beaufort’s sentence died in his throat. It was the first time he had set eyes on her since his arrival.
‘Artie?’ Nurse Griddle peered at Beaufort as though she was looking at a face in an old photograph that had suddenly come to life and spoken.
‘Eileen?’ Beaufort stared back with equal bafflement and wonder. Guilt and shame played in his hazel eyes.
‘You know each other?’ asked Dragos.
‘Artie Newly?’ said Nurse Griddle, still struggling to speak.
‘That has not been my name for many years,’ said Beaufort.
‘Who is this Artie Newly?’ asked Dragos, clearly confused.
‘Artie Newly is the man I was to marry before he drowned in Avernus Lake,’ replied Nurse Griddle. ‘Artie Newly is dead
.’
A Small Favour
Considering the many perils of the Thornthwaite twins’ upbringing, it was surprising that neither had ever set foot in Hexford Hospital before. Tom gave them a lift but waited in the car while they entered the large red-brick building and found a waiting room with harsh strip lighting. The whole place smelt of illness and medicine.
Ovid reached into his pocket and pulled out the carved tortoise.
‘You went to see Millicent again yesterday, didn’t you?’ said Lorelli. ‘How was it?’
Ovid was unsure what to say. It was a simple enough question, but to answer it honestly would have involved admitting to the crushing pain of rejection, the lingering sense of injustice and the profound sadness he felt.
‘It was fine,’ he said.
A young blonde-haired nurse entered the room, looked at them sympathetically, then informed them they could go through.
‘Do you know what happened?’ asked Lorelli.
‘Your uncle had a heart attack,’ replied the nurse.
‘A heart attack?’ repeated Lorelli. ‘Are you sure? Did you check for poisoning?’
The nurse looked confused by this.
‘Please excuse my sister,’ said Ovid. ‘She gets funny ideas in her head sometimes.’
‘I see.’ The nurse eyed Lorelli warily. ‘Would you like to come through and see him now?’ She led them into a room with softer lighting and flowers on the bedside table.
Uncle Harry was sitting up in bed reading. ‘Lorelli, Ovid. How kind of you to come.’
‘Are you all right?’ asked Lorelli.
‘Fit as a fiddle.’ Uncle Harry closed the book and placed it on the bedside table.
‘The nurse said you had a heart attack,’ said Lorelli.
Uncle Harry swallowed. ‘Yes. I have a heart condition. It turns out that Heartless Harry isn’t heartless at all. He just has an incurably weak heart. It is my third attack. They tell me my next might be my last, but then they always say that.’
‘You mean, you’re dying?’ said Lorelli.
‘Yes,’ said Uncle Harry.
‘So that’s what Mr Farthing was talking about,’ said Ovid.
The Thornthwaite Betrayal Page 11