A Dish Served Cold

by Diney Costeloe

  “I’m so glad you did,” Arabella said warmly. “I was away when it happened, so I’ve only just heard the news. When is the funeral?”

  “Friday afternoon,” replied David Watson. “The school are anxious to allow any of their students to attend, so we thought Friday afternoon would be the best. Then they can go straight home afterwards.”

  “Where is it? Is she to be cremated?”

  “Three o’clock in Stone Winton church. She asked to buried in the graveyard there.”

  “I see.”

  “Look, are you staying at St Jude’s now?” asked the solicitor. “Only if you are, perhaps I could pop over and collect the papers I need. I have her will here in the office, but I need her bank statements, share certificates, things like that so that I can start to deal with her affairs.”

  “Yes, of course,” Arabella agreed. “I shall be here. Perhaps you’d like me to sort out her personal things, clothes and the like.”

  “If you could that would be wonderful,” David Watson sounded relieved. “I think the best thing is to give clothes to a charity shop.”

  Arabella spent much of the afternoon sorting through Sylvia’s wardrobe. There were plenty of things for the charity shop, but there were other items of clothing that would not be at all suitable to pass on there. Arabella bundled up the erotic and exotic part of Sylvia’s wardrobe into a suitcase she found in the loft and stowed it in the boot of her car, to dispose of later. She wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do with it all yet, but she was determined that Sylvia’s secret London life should not be paraded before her Belcaster friends.

  The little church at Stone Winton was packed. Sylvia had been well-known and well-respected in the Belcaster Community and people flocked to pay their respects. Crosshills School had closed for the afternoon and many of the children were there, crammed in beside their parents; her colleagues on the staff were all there, and James Faulkner, the head teacher gave the address. Ex-pupils had taken time off work to attend and people from the village squashed in beside those from the town, leaving not a single space on the pews and with many standing at the back.

  “Do you want to walk in with the coffin?” David Watson had asked Arabella when he’d come round to collect the paperwork. “I haven’t been able to trace a single family member. You must be her oldest friend if you were at school together.”

  Arabella shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m afraid I’m not very good at funerals.”

  “Never mind, perhaps you’d sit with me in the front row. Will you do that?”

  He seemed so anxious for her to say she would, that Arabella allowed herself to be persuaded. People might wonder who she was, but ‘an old school friend’ would cover that. She felt secure in her new identity, and now that she had claimed her prize she had a steadily growing confidence that came from money in the bank. She had no one to answer to but herself. Now there was no Sylvia, she was truly on her own.

  When she actually arrived at the church and saw the huge number of people trying to get inside for the service, she was sorry she had agreed. The press was there, she could see a photographer among the crowd; probably only the local rag, but even so Arabella didn’t want to draw his attention. She hoped no one would remember the photo of her which had appeared in April. It was unlikely, the story was far too old for anyone to think about it now. Even so, she edged into the church amid a group of people. She knew no one but David Watson, she had never met any of Sylvia’s friends while she’d been living there. They sat together in the front row, but several other people crammed in beside them as the church filled to overflowing.

  The service was a mixture of joy and sorrow.

  “This is a celebration of Sylvia’s life,” the vicar had announced at the beginning. “We mourn her early death, but we celebrate the life she had and the happiness she brought to those around her, the gift of imparting knowledge, her love of life. So we start our service with one of her favourite hymns, ‘Praise my Soul the King of Heaven.’

  When the service ended, the whole congregation followed the coffin out to the graveyard and Sylvia was finally laid to rest; buried with her was the secret of Arabella’s new identity. After the burial people began to drift away. There were refreshments laid on in the local pub, everything organised by David Watson before Arabella arrived. She stood at the graveside, looking down at the coffin, already scattered with earth. The vicar had moved back towards the church and the grave diggers were waiting close by with their spades, ready to fill in the grave. Arabella picked up a handful of earth. Letting it trickle through her fingers she sprinkled it over the coffin.

  “You were a good friend to me,” she whispered as she heard the soil rattle on the oak below. “Goodbye Sylvia, thank you for everything. Sleep well.” The tears welled in her eyes and she turned away.

  Emma Wilson had seen Arabella in the front row in church and thought that she looked familiar. For several moments she racked her brains trying to remember where she’d seen her and who she was. All of a sudden it came to her.

  It’s the lottery lady, she thought excitedly, I’m sure it is. She peered at her more carefully. It was difficult to be sure from behind, but when Arabella turned her head to watch the coffin being carried down the aisle, Emma could see her face better and she was almost certain that was who it was. She was better dressed than she had been before and had a nicer hairdo, Emma decided, but even so she was fairly sure that it was the woman who had checked her ticket and whom she’d seen with Miss Durston that other day. It made sense her being at the funeral, if she had been a friend of Miss Durston’s. Emma looked round for Justin, but he was still busy outside the church and she didn’t get a chance to point Arabella out to him until the burial was over.

  “I know it’s her,” she told him breathlessly. “She was sitting in the front pew. So she must have been a close friend, mustn’t she? I mean it stands to reason, doesn’t it? If she’s in the front pew? That’s for family. Perhaps she’s Miss Durston’s sister.”

  “She hasn’t got one,” said Justin. “Which is she?”

  “Over there, standing by the grave, in the navy dress.”

  “Thanks Em. See you in a minute.” Justin ran to find Jon, the photographer, who was taking pictures of some of the pupils from Crosshills.

  “Jon, quickly. I want a really good picture of the woman over there in the blue dress. Doesn’t matter if she sees you take it, but take some of other people round her so that she doesn’t realise you snapped her in particular.”

  “OK. No probs.” Jon moved casually in the direction of Arabella. Justin watched her for a minute or two. He had only seen her in the distance before, through the telephoto lens of a camera, but he thought Em could be right. It could well be the woman in Sylvia’s garden. If Jon got a decent picture of her, he could compare the two .He wondered who she was. He went across to speak to David Watson, whom he knew had organised the funeral.

  “Mr Watson,” he said extending a hand as he reached the solicitor’s side. “Justin Woods, Belcaster Chronicle. I am covering this sad event for the paper. Miss Durston was such a well-loved lady and I wanted be sure I got the names of the chief mourners right. I noticed you had a lady sitting with you in the church. I don’t think I know her. Please could you tell me her name, so that I can include it?”

  David Watson looked across at where Arabella stood alone by the grave and said, “That’s Arabella Agnew, an old school friend of Sylvia’s. Would you like me to introduce you?”

  “Yes, please,” Justin said, “that would be great.”

  Arabella saw them approaching with dismay. She had realised that the man with David was a reporter and she wondered if he was the one who had sneaked up to St Jude’s and taken her picture. She began to move in the other direction as if she hadn’t seen them.

  “Mrs Agnew,” David Watson called, “Arabella! There’s someone who’d like to meet you.”

  “Mrs Agnew,” Justin said, “I’m Justin Woods from the Chronic
le.”

  It is him! Arabella thought, recognising his name from the by-line of the article that had gone with her picture.

  She looked at him coolly and said, “How do you do?”

  “This is a sad day,” Justin began. “I understand you were an old friend of Miss Durston’s.”

  “We were at school together, yes,” replied Arabella. David Watson had moved away to speak to someone else, so she went on, “but we haven’t seen each other for some time. It’s very sad. We were planning to meet and catch up. Now it’s too late.”

  “But surely, you were staying with Sylvia Durston, not so long ago,” Justin said casually.

  “No. I haven’t seen her for a couple of years. I don’t know where you got that idea from.”

  I got the idea from having seen you in her garden, Justin thought, sure now that she had been the woman sitting in the sun, but what he said was, “She certainly had a friend staying for a while recently. I thought it was you.”

  “Well, it wasn’t,” Arabella said firmly. “I’m afraid you were mistaken. It must have been somebody else. Now if you’ll excuse me…” She turned away and strode out of the churchyard and over to a smart little black Golf. Justin watched her get into the car and automatically made a note of its number. Then he turned to find Emma at his side.

  “What did she say? Was it her?” she asked excitedly. “Was I right?”

  Justin grinned at her. “I think you were, Em. She denied it of course, denied having been staying with Sylvia at all, but I’m almost certain she was the one sitting in the garden. Jon got a couple of pics while I was chatting to her, so I shall be able to compare them back at the office.”

  “Does it matter now?” Emma asked as they wandered towards the lych gate, among the last of the congregation, most of whom were headed for the pub. “The lottery story must be too old now.”

  “Yes, that is,” agreed Justin, “but I know there’s something fishy about Mrs Arabella Agnew, so I think I shall do a little more digging. Come on Em, let’s go down the pub, before they drink the place dry.”

  Arabella did not go to the wake in the pub. She didn’t want to meet any more people, and though David Watson had invited her out for dinner she had turned him down, too. She didn’t want to have any conversation with him, to talk about herself, not even of her friendship with Sylvia, especially not her friendship with Sylvia. There was too much to hide, and it would be too easy to make a slip. All she wanted now, was to get back to London and get on with her life. She had thanked David for his invitation but said that she was not in the mood for dinner, and when he had suggested another day, she had said that she must get back to London straight away. She stayed one last night in St Jude’s Cottage and was on the road for London by eight o’clock the next morning. There was nothing left for her in Stone Winton now.

  While she was in Paris, Arabella had decided to buy the flat she had seen in Chelsea and move in as soon as she could. Much as she enjoyed life at the Sylvester, it was, at the end of the day, still only a hotel. She wanted somewhere she could make her own. The dream she had when walking on the beach at Belmouth before she knew she had won the money, was still with her, just on a much grander scale than she had envisaged. As soon as she got back to town she went to see the agent and said she had decided to buy the flat, offering the full asking price, in cash. Her offer was accepted, despite the fact that she said she wanted vacant possession within the month, and she moved into her new home, the first that had been entirely hers, in mid-July.

  Chapter 23

  Inspector Crozier had the satisfaction of seeing Roger Smith remanded in custody by the magistrates. The search of house and shop had revealed even more than they had hoped. All three of the Smiths were such novices with the computer, it had been the work of moments for an expert to get into Roger’s private files. The opening of the safe had proved hardly more difficult and its contents were quite enough for Roger to be charged with handling stolen goods. The pearl choker rolled in its black velvet was identified immediately as having come from a house in Wrington, outside Bristol, burgled in early April. The lists of customers and orders which were also in the safe gave the police great leads to follow up whilst making it clear that Roger had been in this business to a greater or lesser extent for some time. There was, however, no information as to his suppliers.

  Roger said almost nothing at interview. The memory of the visit from the frightener was all too vivid in his mind, and when he was finally allowed to see Karen and she told him about the second visit, he knew the threat was no idle one. He had several of the larger pieces Gord had brought him stashed in his lock-up garage. The padlock on the garage door was a combination one and as there had been no key for the police to find, so far at least, they had not discovered the store. Gord knew where it was of course and Roger wondered if he would steal the goods back from him once he heard that Roger had been pulled in. Probably, Roger thought, but that was the least of his worries.

  However, interesting as they were turning out to be, it wasn’t only Roger’s fencing activities which were concerning Gavin Crozier. The DNA reports had come back from the lab and the blood found in Roger’s car was confirmed as Pam Smith’s. Crozier had got the Belcaster police to search the area where the car had been found, and their divers had searched the flooded quarry so see if her body had been dumped there, but so far without a result.

  “The obvious place was the quarry,” Inspector Howard from Belcaster told him. “No luck there, but we are searching the woodland nearby. The trouble is there’s such a big area to cover, we could easily miss something. We’ll do our best.”

  Crozier thanked him, asked him to keep him posted on any developments in Belshire, and cutting the connection, he called in his sergeant.

  “What have we got,” Crozier asked Grant. “Let’s go over it again.”

  “Well, your sister, Mrs Ross, was the last person we know who actually spoke to Mrs Smith. We know they were going to meet on 26th February, but your sister cried off because she had to go to your mother who was taken ill. Right?”

  Crozier nodded and Grant went on, “She rang Pam Smith on her mobile, and Pam, who was on the train at the time, presumably turned round in London and went home again.”

  “Right. So she goes home and she and Roger have a blazing row about something,” said Crozier.

  “I suppose she did go home again,” said Grant thoughtfully. “I mean, we’ve only got Roger Smith’s word for it. Maybe she just took off somewhere.”

  “But why lie about something like that? It would suit him better to say that she never came home again. And remember, we do have another witness to Pam being in the house that evening.”

  “The neighbour, Margaret Hillier?”

  “Well, she says she heard them rowing that evening. If that’s true, I mean if she’s got the right day, then Pam must have gone home again,” Crozier pointed out. “What exactly did she say? Let’s have a look at her statement.”

  Margaret Hillier had been delighted to help the police with their enquiries when they came round asking.

  “Oh yes,” she said leading PC Baron into the kitchen and offering him a cup of tea. “She had a dreadful time of it, poor dear. He was always shouting at her, I don’t know how she put up with it.”

  “And did she shout back?” asked Baron, sitting down at the table and accepting the tea.

  “Sometimes. Not very often I think. I mean, well there were days when I’m sure he’d hit her. You know, she’d go out wearing dark glasses as if she was covering a black eye. I think she didn’t fight back or it was the worse for her. Nasty bit of work he is if you ask me.”

  “Did Mrs Smith ever confide in you?”

  “Not exactly, no,” Margaret Hillier felt bound to admit, “though I did ask her if she was OK once or twice. She always said she was, but you could see she wasn’t. You know, keeping her head down and scuttling along as if she didn’t want to be noticed.”

  PC Baron could believe i
t, especially if she had a neighbour like Margaret Hillier, but for his purposes she was extremely useful, so he encouraged her to talk.

  “Of course the worst time was one day in the summer,” Margaret continued whispering almost conspiratorially. “He was so angry he threatened to kill her. I asked her in for a cup of coffee the next day, but she didn’t come.”

  “You say he threatened to kill her,” said Baron. “Can you remember exactly what he said?”

  “He was shouting at her, something like ‘You stupid cow. How could you be so stupid? I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.’ Then there was banging and crashing and screaming.”

  “What did you do?” asked Baron.

  “Nothing, not then,” admitted Margaret, “but I saw her the next day and she was wearing dark glasses like I said.” She thought for a moment and then said, “I did call the police once, and they came, but that Roger saw them off with some story. My Harry says we shouldn’t get involved, that it’s not our business, but I’m not so sure. I mean, if we’d called your lot that night he might not have killed her; we might have saved her, mightn’t we?”

  “We don’t know that Mrs Smith is dead,” PC Baron said. “She’s missing, but that maybe because she wanted to disappear.”

  “Wouldn’t blame her, would you?” said Margaret. “Good luck to her I say.”

  “Remind me again the date of that last row,” Baron said.

  “It was our wedding anniversary, the 26th February,” she replied promptly.

  “And you didn’t see her after that?”

  “No. There was a crash, breaking glass or something like. You can hear everything through the walls when you’re semi-detached, you know, and they’re paper thin. Harry and I always try to be quiet. We don’t want nosy neighbours to know our business.” She said this with such sincerity that PC Baron had to look away to hide a grin.

  “So, there was a crash and shouting,” he said. “Did you see Pam Smith leave?”