Tea and Broken Biscuits

by Daphne Neville

  “The red Fiesta,” gasped Hetty, watching as the car drove through a puddle further along the street.

  Quickly the three ladies crossed the road where they were just able to see the Fiesta pull up as before opposite the post office. None of them were surprised to see Marlene step from the car and wave as it drove away.

  “That was a much longer night out,” gabbled Hetty, “We need to look into this and see what she’s up to.”

  “Meanwhile, I’ll follow her to St Mary’s Avenue and see if she goes straight home,” said Debbie.

  “Good thinking,” agreed Lottie, “Off you go because she has quite a head start.”

  “Right, goodnight and I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

  On Thursday afternoon, Hetty and Lottie decided to take a walk to the address where Hazel Mitchell lived because the day before, their next door neighbour, Chloe, told them that she had heard how touched Hazel’s son and daughter were by the amount of get well cards that had been posted through their mother’s letterbox. On hearing this Hetty subtly asked Chloe where Hazel lived so they might also send a card, although the real reason was that she hoped while there delivering it, they might see someone of interest, namely Andrew Banks. Debbie went with the sisters and as luck would have it there was a small garden park opposite Hazel’s house and a bench faced her front door. Delighted that they’d be able to sit and watch without looking suspicious, the three ladies sat down and waited.

  “Of course, it’d help if we had some idea of what he looked like,” said Lottie.

  “I agree, and I suppose in reality if her son and daughter disapprove of him he’s not likely to leave a card here anyway.”

  “Or he might already have done so if he was close to Hazel,” reasoned Debbie.

  “Hmm, yes of course, and if he did I wonder if they passed it on to her.” Hetty frowned as she thought.

  “There wouldn’t be much point at this stage, would there, Het? Remember poor Hazel is in a coma so she won’t be able to look at anything.”

  “Good point,” said Hetty, “but we’ll hang around for a while just on the off-chance.”

  During the first half hour they were there only one person put anything through Hazel’s letterbox and that was the postman. Shortly afterwards a white van pulled up and its driver took a parcel from the back but that was delivered to the house next door.

  “Oh dear, I think we’re wasting our time,” admitted Hetty, “Shall we go home?”

  But before Lottie or Debbie had a chance to answer a car pulled up in front of Hazel’s gate and a young man stepped out.

  “Well, I never. You know who that is, don’t you?” Lottie asked.

  Both Debbie and Hetty shook their heads.

  “It’s the chap who feeds the ducks and swans at Pentrillick House. Ben I think Tess said his name is.”

  “Oh, is it really?” Debbie asked, “I’ve heard Gideon mention him. I think they get on quite well because they have a lot in common and if I remember correctly Ben is in the church choir.”

  “Of course,” gushed Lottie, realising why he had looked vaguely familiar, “hardly a hardened criminal then.”

  “That’s interesting, Debbie,” mused Hetty, ignoring her sister, “so I wonder why he’s come up here?”

  Lottie frowned. “Well, that’s obvious. He works at Pentrillick House and so no doubt Hazel knows him the same as Gideon does.”

  Instead of going home by the quickest route the three ladies decided to walk around some of the back streets which were unfamiliar to them. After crossing a few roads and turning corners they came across a recreation field opposite a row of semi-detached, pebble-dashed houses.

  “These must be council houses,” surmised Debbie, noting they were all the same style.

  “Or were,” agreed Hetty, “it looks like several have been bought judging by the different style doors and various upgrades.”

  Lottie read the name on a metal plate attached to the garden wall of the first house. “We’re in Hawthorn Road. I like that name; it’s a bit like Blackberry Way.”

  “Only in as much as they both have thorns and grow in hedges,” laughed Hetty.

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Lottie cast her eyes along the row of houses. “If I remember correctly we were told that someone we’ve recently come across lives up here but I can’t recollect who. Can you, Het?”

  “It does sound familiar I must admit but no I can’t remember either.”

  As they strolled along the pavement they caught sight of someone trimming a hedge in the last house.

  “Pickle,” said Lottie, nodded towards the figure, “it’s Pickle who lives up here and that’s him.”

  Hetty squinted. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive, you’ll be able to see when we get nearer.”

  “Who is Pickle?” Debbie asked, “I’ve never heard mention of that name before.”

  “He’s a poacher,” sighed Hetty, “and his name is Percy Pickering but everyone calls him Pickle because as a boy he couldn’t say Pickering so called himself Pickle. That’s probably not quite right but it’s near enough.”

  “Oh, I see. I think that’s rather charming.”

  As they got nearer they saw it was the poacher and to their surprise he greeted them warmly and wished them a good day.

  “And good day to you too. This is a lovely spot. Very tranquil.” Hetty was keen to learn anything she could about the poacher.

  “Yes, I love it up here. It’s well away from the main street and the air feels fresher.”

  “So have you been here long?” Lottie asked.

  Pickle hooked the shears over the garden gate, took a tissue from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Yes, I’ve been in this same house since I got married and we were lucky enough to buy it in the early nineties. Both our boys were born here but they’ve flown the nest now so I’m all on my own as my dear wife died a few years back.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” sympathised Lottie, “Have your sons gone far?” She knew she had been told where but couldn’t remember.

  “One’s in Taunton, the other Falmouth so he’s quite near.”

  Remembering Pickle did gardening jobs, Hetty peeped over the gate where neatly trimmed lawns on either side of a central path were surrounded by borders crammed with colourful spring flowers. “It looks like you enjoy your garden, Mr Pickering. It’s very pretty.”

  “Thank you, I do, but please call me Pickle. Everyone else does.”

  “I’m fond of gardening,” said Debbie, “it’s good exercise and productive too.”

  Pickle picked up the shears. “I won’t disagree with you there. I’d rather be in my garden any day than be in crowds.”

  “You’re not one for the shops then?” Hetty asked.

  “No, and thank goodness for the internet. That’s where I do my shopping. I even have my groceries delivered so I don’t have to bother traipsing around the supermarket.”

  “He seems a really nice chap,” stated Lottie as they continued on their way and were out of earshot.

  “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” Hetty scoffed.

  “Well, in my opinion anyone who likes gardening is alright,” Debbie said.

  “Hmm, but in my opinion anyone who does a bit of poaching is dishonest and so I shall keep an open mind about Mr Pickering.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “How unusual,” said Lottie, on Saturday morning, as she pulled back the sitting room curtains and looked up at the clear blue sky, “Bank Holidays are usually wet. I do hope this nice spell of weather lasts until Monday for the do at Saltwater House.”

  “It’s supposed to,” remarked Hetty, “I must admit I’m looking forward to the garden party if for no other reason than to see the house. I reckon being near to the sea it should have lovely views.”

  The good weather did last and on Bank Holiday Monday afternoon the sisters left Primrose Cottage and walked down to the village. They had briefly considered taking Albert but
decided it would be unfair to Paul; the house was not his and so he would be responsible for any damage during his occupation. Not that Albert would do any serious damage to the property but he was prone to digging holes in the garden.

  The dirt track which led to Saltwater House was a short distance past the Crown and Anchor on the left-hand side of the road. Wild primroses, violets and bluebells grew in profusion on the grass verges and above, hawthorn, elder and the white blossom of blackthorn flourished amongst twisted brambles. The gate at the end of the track was wide open; a welcoming gesture for visitors who chose to arrive by car.

  Once through the gate the sisters followed a gravel path which wound its way through shrubs and an array of small fir trees. At the end of the path was the house, large, detached and painted white, dazzling to the eye in the bright afternoon sunshine.

  Several group members were already there and seated on extensive lawns beyond which lay a breath-taking view of the sea.

  “Must be costing a fortune to rent this place if he’s here for the summer,” whispered Hetty to Ginny, having thanked their host for his kind invitation and poured themselves drinks from the vast selection of bottles on a makeshift bar.

  “I think he knows the people that own it,” divulged Ginny, “They’re away on a cruise so appreciate having someone here to keep an eye on things. That’s what I heard anyway.”

  “So who does own it?” Lottie asked.

  “I only know the name and it’s Goldsworthy. I’ve never met or even seen them. In fact I don’t even know how many of them there are, but then they only bought the place a couple of months ago.”

  “Six months ago actually and there are two of them. A man and a woman but I don’t know their relationship or their ages.” Alex waved his arm at two empty chairs, “Aren’t you two going to sit down?”

  “Thank you, yes,” The sisters each took a seat.

  “Isn’t Goldsworthy a Cornish name?” Lottie asked, as she placed her glass of white wine on the table.

  “I believe so,” said Ginny, “but I’m not sure why I think that.”

  The other guests arrived in dribs and drabs. One of the last was Vicar Sam who carried a box of broken biscuits beneath his arm. He handed them to Daisy and Maisie. “The last box,” he said, “Mother asked me to give them to you and I’ve been meaning to drop them off at the charity shop for some time but I’ve always managed to forget.”

  “Oh, lovely,” cried Maisie, looking at the picture of biscuits on the side of the box, “we shall enjoy them with our tea breaks.”

  As Maisie tucked the box beneath the table, Debbie, and Gideon who had recently joined the drama group to help Kitty with the music and the piano accompaniment for dramatic effect, appeared along the gravel path.

  “Over here,” Lottie beckoned to the latest arrivals when she spotted them walking away from the bar with drinks in hand.

  “I’ve persuaded Gideon to have a gin and tonic,” smiled Debbie, as they took seats round the table with Hetty, Lottie, Ginny and Alex.

  “More like tonic and gin,” laughed Gideon, “it’s very weak and I must admit it’s actually quite nice. Refreshing too, especially on a glorious day like this.”

  “I take it you’re not too fond of alcohol then?” Alex commented.

  Gideon shook his head. “No, I’m not, I don’t know why but it’s just never appealed to me. Debbie likes a drink though, don’t you, love?”

  Debbie nodded eagerly.

  “Well, each to their own,” declared Ginny, conscious of her brim-full glass of chardonnay, “but I think the world would be far less rosy without wine.”

  On a bench beneath a cherry tree in full blossom, sat Brett and Alina; close by was a picnic table around which sat Kitty, Tommy, Tess, and hairdressers, Karen and Nicki.

  “Couldn’t your husband make it?” Kitty asked Tess.

  “No, sadly not, he’s working but he sends his regards to you all.”

  “Nice to see you both back,” said Kitty to Brett and Alina, “have you finished filming now, Alina?”

  “Yes, well, no. That is to say, I’ve finished all I have to do but there’s still lots more to be filmed that doesn’t involve me.”

  “I see, well, you’ve certainly picked a lovely weekend to be back.”

  Hetty’s ears pricked up. “Although I suppose it’s even warmer in London,” she said, knowing full well that it was, “We watched the marathon the other day hoping to see Luke and it was very hot for that. Did you watch it while you were up there?”

  “No, I’m not really into that sort of thing,” claimed Brett, shaking his head, “Looks too much like hard work.”

  “Me neither,” agreed Alina, “although I did see snippets of it on the News.”

  “It must have been hell running in that heat,” said Bernie, “I don’t know how Luke did it.”

  “Is Luke coming here this afternoon?” Alina asked.

  “No, he and Natalie have gone up to visit his parents for the Bank Holiday,” answered Tess.

  “So out of interest, did he do all twenty six miles?” Brett asked.

  “Yes and he wore his medal at the play practice the following day.” Robert took out his phone and showed Brett and Alina a picture he’d taken at the rehearsal of Luke and his medal.

  Sid arrived late because he had been called out to mend a leaking pipe. After he was greeted by everyone, Maisie beckoned him over to where she sat with Daisy and their respective husbands.

  “I’ve something for you,” Maisie reached beneath the table, “I found it in the back of the stockroom yesterday.”

  She handed him a large carrier bag and from it Sid took a trilby hat.

  “Wow brilliant,” he laughed, as he placed it on his head, “How does it look?”

  “Very dapper,” exclaimed Robert, approvingly, “Well done, Maisie, now Sid’s outfit is complete.”

  “Any luck with my sergeant’s uniform?” Vicar Sam asked as he poured Guinness from a can into a glass.

  “We think we’ll have to hire one,” said Robert, “but that’s not a problem. I know a firm who provide an excellent service. Just jot down your measurements some time and I’ll give them a ring.”

  “If this lovely weather continues,” yawned Ginny, leaning back to feel the warmth of the sun on her face, “we’ll be wishing we could do our performances at the Minack Theatre.”

  Alex laughed. “I know we’re good but we’re not that good.”

  “I don’t know,” chuckled Robert, “Some of you are very polished but I think we’re more suited to the village hall.”

  “Well, at least we’re guaranteed an audience when it’s in the village,” said Sid, “because the locals like to come and see us make fools of ourselves.”

  Paul mingled with the guests, chatting to them all in turn and telling them to help themselves to drinks at the bar and food laid out in the kitchen.

  “Would it be alright of we had a look round the garden?” Hetty asked, “I’m intrigued to know what’s on the other side of that huge hedge.”

  Paul waved his hand. “Please help yourself. I’m sure you’ll not be disappointed.”

  Hetty stood up. “Thank you.”

  A grass path twisted and turned through spring flowers in deep attractive borders. The scent of lilac filled the air and a huge magnolia in full flower stood beside a drystone wall. At the end of the path a fountain sprinkled fine water into a small ornamental pond. Beyond the pond the garden began to slope downhill and opened up into an area where plants and small shrubs lay nestled amongst the rocks that led down to the edge of the cliffs.

  As Hetty and Lottie returned to the party, Gideon went into the house in search of the bathroom. When asked, Gary, at Seawater House with his wife Marlene, pointed Gideon in the right direction. When he returned to the party outside he seemed rather vague.

  “Are you alright?” Debbie asked, “You’re frowning.”

  “Am I? Sorry.”

  “Yes, why?”

 
“I’ve just been to the bathroom and there’s an air freshener thing in there and it’s triggered off a memory of the night I was attacked.”

  Everyone stopped talking and looked in Gideon’s direction.

  “And?” Debbie urged.

  “I can’t name it but I’m pretty sure it’s the same fragrance that I smelled before I got hit on the head.”

  There were several gasps, cries and wows as nearly everyone made a beeline for the bathroom and sniffed simultaneously.

  “Musk,” said Karen, “sweetly scented musk. It’s rather pleasant.”

  All agreed.

  “You must tell the police,” insisted Debbie, “it might help with their enquiries.”

  Gideon nodded. “Okay, I will when we get home.”

  “Hmm, we’re getting somewhere at last,” whispered Hetty to Lottie. “All we need now is to sniff out someone wearing either musk aftershave or perfume and we’ll have our culprit.”

  “An impossible task,” scoffed Lottie, “because whoever wore it on the night of Gideon’s attack is unlikely to ever wear it again and especially after today’s findings get to be common knowledge.”

  “Then we must make sure that word doesn’t get out.”

  Lottie laughed. “Tess is here, Het. It’ll be all round the village before nightfall.”

  As the afternoon wore on so the drinks flowed and as the sun set over the sea, Debbie was suddenly aware that Gideon was slurring his words.

  “Gideon, you’re drunk,” she squealed in alarm.

  “I’m not,” he replied, his face set in a silly grin.

  Several people were amused; some laughed but Debbie was concerned. “How can anyone get drunk on tonic water with no more than a teaspoon of gin?”

  Tess stepped forward and took a sip of Gideon’s drink. “I reckon this is near enough neat gin. What do you think, Nicki? You’re the gin drinker.”

  Nicki took a sip and then licked her lips. “Oh goodness me, yes. Not much tonic in that. Who poured Gideon’s drink?”

  “I did,” said Debbie, “that’s how I know the balance between the gin and the tonic. Gideon’s not been anywhere near the bar.”