Bunburry--Death of a Ladies' Man

by Helena Marchmont

  “No,” snapped the sergeant. “What I would like is for you to explain your reference to a crime scene.”

  “Because he had blood on his face.”

  “He could have fallen.”

  “That’s what I thought to begin with, but Marge said he could have been murdered.”

  “And what has Miss Redwood got to with it?” the sergeant demanded acidly.

  “She prefers to be called Ms,” said Debbie. “And she knows about these things. She’s solved a number of crimes in the village, hasn’t she? Well, not just her, Liz and Alfie as well.”

  Sergeant Wilson’s colour rose. “Crime is not something to be dealt with by interfering amateurs. You tell Ms Redwood that unless she keeps her mouth shut about matters that don’t concern her, she could find herself up on a charge of obstructing the police in the execution of their duty. So, you just leave things to us. We’ll determine the cause of death and we’ll also identify the deceased.”

  “Oh, don’t you know who he is?” said Debbie. “Marge told me all about him. He’s Mario Bellini, the owner of Bellini’s Ice Cream Parlours. He was going to open one in Bunburry. He was staying at The Horse.”

  Sergeant Wilson choked back his response as the salon door opened and a matronly woman stood uncertainly at the entrance.

  “Sylvia!” cried Debbie. “Come in, come in. You’re looking fantastic. Full leg, isn’t it? Just go through and pop your things off. Don’t worry about Sergeant Wilson, he’s just finishing interviewing me about the gorgeous man I found stone dead in the park. I’ll tell you all about it in a minute.”

  As Sylvia headed through the curtain, Debbie whispered to the sergeant: “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything about the murder. So, is there anything more I can help you with?”

  Sergeant Wilson made a deep rumbling noise in his throat and Perro jumped up to defend Debbie, teeth bared.

  The sergeant flung the pink lead to the ground and stalked out without a goodbye.

  5. Tourists in the Tearoom

  Alfie pored over the documents from Sasha, which only confirmed his initial reaction. The investment looked superficially attractive but was far too risky to interest him. Sasha and Sebastian must think he had lost all business sense when he sold his start-up.

  She had said they would probably stay in Bunburry for a day or two: hopefully it would be one rather than two. He would just have to be incommunicado. The simplest solutions were often the best. He switched off his mobile and unplugged the landline.

  Should he have explicitly warned Liz and Marge, in case they were offered a similarly hazardous deal? No, that would have sounded utterly patronising, as though he thought they were a couple of old biddies with no common sense. He had nothing but admiration for them, and they ran a business, after all – they didn’t need him being protective.

  Emma called them both “aunt”, even though Liz was her great-aunt and Marge was no relation at all. He had only been in Bunburry since November, just over six months, but he now thought of them as his aunts as well. He felt as though they had inherited him from Aunt Augusta, just as he had inherited her cottage.

  The only problem was that Liz and Marge seemed determined to get him and Emma together. She must be fifteen years younger than him, and he was sure she would run for the rolling Cotswold hills if she suspected. He couldn’t avoid her – Liz and Marge kept inviting them both for dinner, accusing Emma of not eating properly and Alfie of not eating enough. All he could do was emulate the coolness that Emma treated him with. Perhaps it was because she was a policewoman, but he sometimes felt as though she was senior to him.

  Vivian could only have been slightly older than Emma, but the age gap had never been an issue. At least, not until … but he wasn’t going to think about that, that last terrible argument that could never be unsaid.

  No, the problem hadn’t been his age; it had been his money. It took him three months to persuade Vivian to move in with him. He quoted Shakespeare back at her: “According to you, the Bard said, ‘There is money, spend it, spend it.’”

  “It’s not my money. I’m not going to be a kept woman,” she insisted.

  “You’re not going to be a kept woman. You’re an actress you’ve got your career.”

  “But I could never afford to live anywhere like your flat. Flat! It’s a mansion. Two floors, a balcony overlooking the Thames. You’ve even got a doorman, for heaven’s sake.”

  “So, you’d move in with me tomorrow if I lived in social housing in Hackney? I’ll apply to the council tomorrow if that’s what it takes.”

  “Yes, I can see you living in Hackney,” she scoffed.

  “Why not? It’s where I used to live.”

  But finally, she allowed him to help move her small number of possessions from Brixton to SE1. That evening, he lay stretched out full-length on the couch, with Vivian snuggled on top of him, and realised he had never thought it possible to be so happy.

  He kissed the top of her head.

  “I’m so glad you’re here at last.”

  “You’ve got Oscar to thank for that,” she said.

  “Oscar?”

  “He told me you were a miserable old sod without me, and he’d take it as a personal favour if I would compromise my principles and live with you.” She smiled lazily down at him. “Oscar’s so sweet, how could I refuse?”

  “Vivian Templeton,” he growled, “you are the most infuriating woman I have ever met.”

  “See?” she said. “I’m cheering you up already.”

  That was two years ago, and now she was dead, and Alfie couldn’t face life in London without her.

  Brooding on what couldn’t be changed was doing him no good. He should go out and be sociable. Not The Horse, with the risk of bumping into Sasha and Sebastian. The tearoom. Sasha would be too concerned about her figure ever to go in there.

  There was something soothing about a Bunburry cream tea, he thought as he walked through the village. It was the Cotswolds equivalent of the Japanese tea ceremony, a time for meditation, for total concentration on what you were doing.

  The silver teapot, flanked by a silver jug with milk, and another silver jug with hot water to top up the tea pot. A silver bowl filled with sugar lumps, topped by a tiny pair of sugar tongs.

  Cutting through the warm scone, letting the golden farm butter melt into it, slathering it with home-made strawberry jam, and then the ultimate decadence, cream as well, cream solid enough just to sit there until you sank your teeth into it.

  His mouth was practically watering by the time he reached the tearoom. And discovered it was over-run by tourists who had taken over every table.

  Betty was standing at the counter and turned to see who had just come in. She waved to him. “We’re reduced to take-out.”

  This wasn’t what he had planned at all. You couldn’t have a takeaway cream tea.

  “What can I get you?” she asked. “Tea, coffee?”

  Tea that wasn’t poured out of a silver pot into a china cup wasn’t the same. “Thanks, that’s kind of you. I’ll have an Americano, no milk.”

  “Anything else?” asked the waitress.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Hell, Al, live dangerously. Have a sticky bun,” said Betty. “I’m in the middle of preparing a seminar and I thought I would collapse without some serious carbs. I’m having a piece of carrot cake.”

  Betty was the only person who ever called him Al, and he still hadn’t quite got used to it. He scanned the glass display case. “I’ll have a cherry Bakewell tart, thanks.”

  The waitress put the cakes in separate paper bags and handed them over along with the drinks.

  Alfie was about to head home but when they got outside, Betty said: “You fancy a stroll to Frank’s Bridge? I like to remember Gussie there.”

  “That’s a lovely idea.” Alfie fell i
nto step beside her. Betty had been another friend of Aunt Augusta’s, someone else who knew her far better than he did.

  It was a warm summer day, a welcome breeze sending the clouds scudding across the blue sky. This was much better than retreating to Windermere Cottage. And he had no fear of Sasha venturing this far from pavements in her spiky-heeled Christian Louboutins or Jimmy Choos. Betty was in her usual uniform of shirt, jeans and hiking boots.

  They sat down companionably on the old wooden bench that Betty said was one of Aunt Augusta’s favourite places. Alfie could understand that. It was a beautiful view, the clear water of the river flowing gently between the grassy banks and under the ancient stone footbridge.

  “I miss Gussie,” said Betty. “And you must miss her so much more.”

  How could he miss someone he barely remembered? He gave a non-committal grunt.

  “And by the way,” she went on, “a little bird, or possibly a kitten, tells me that someone is making the monthly donations to the animal shelter that used to come from Gussie.”

  “That’s nice,” he said. He had been startled to find that Aunt Augusta had helped to found the shelter and then continued to support it, and he felt honour-bound to keep up the funding. He took a mouthful of coffee. “You know, I’m surprised at you. Bunburry’s Green Party member and using a non-recyclable cup.”

  Betty looked at him under lowered lids. “Not as surprised as I am that you could think such a thing of me. I evangelise wherever I go. The tearoom’s to-go cups are now one hundred per cent compostable, biodegradable and recyclable. As are all its drinking straws and the straws in The Horse.”

  Alfie shook his head in admiration. “How could I have doubted you for a second?”

  “Perhaps you were judging me by your own standards,” she said.

  “Just for that, you’re not getting any of my cherry Bakewell tart,” he told her, carefully removing it from the paper bag and biting into it. The missed cream tea was forgotten. Sweet shortcrust pastry, frangipane, raspberry jam and fondant icing. He closed his eyes and focused on the burst of flavours.

  Then he remembered something. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “If you’re asking for some of my carrot cake, the answer’s no.”

  “Your mother – Elisabeth Thorndike – I’ve never heard of her.”

  Betty’s laugh, so different from Sasha’s artificial trill, pealed out.

  “It’s not that much of a question, but it definitely wins you a gold star.”

  “Should I have heard of her?” he persisted.

  “The fact that you haven’t probably answers that one,” she said, scraping some carrot cake icing off the paper bag with her pinkie finger and delicately licking it clean. “By the way, interesting friends you’ve got.”

  “Acquaintances,” Alfie corrected. “I know them from my business days. Not that I’ve ever done business with them. Of course, perhaps you’ll soon be business partners once their people have called your people.”

  Betty slowly finished eating the piece of carrot cake, then crumpled up the paper bag and put it in her jeans pocket.

  “My mom has people,” she said. “I guess she was one of the first supermodels in the 1970s. Maybe not in the top league with Jerry Hall and Marisa Berenson, but she did okay. She walked the runway for designers like Ralph Lauren, Azzedine Alaïa and Yves Saint Laurent.”

  So, Sasha had thought Betty was a supermodel. Alfie gave her a surreptitious glance. She was very attractive, her face delicate and fine-boned, her long fair hair in a pony-tail, her slim figure testimony to all the walking and cycling she did. But he would never have thought of her as a supermodel. Perhaps it was because he assumed supermodels were airheads.

  As if she had read his thoughts, Betty said: “Mom is a human adding machine. She made a fortune as a model and then she found an even more lucrative career. She subscribes to the Zsa Zsa Gabor theory of marriage.”

  Alfie’s brow creased. “Which is what?”

  “Zsa Zsa said she was always a good housekeeper – whenever she got divorced, she kept the house. Mom is now a New York socialite, hosting ten-thousand-dollars-a-plate charity lunches, rubbing shoulders with presidents and ambassadors. She’s on to her fourth husband. Or is it her fifth? I’ve kinda lost track.”

  She turned to look at Alfie with an oblique smile. “We’re not close. I don’t get invited to the fundraisers for fear I’ll throw red paint over the mink coats.”

  “And your father? Are you close to him?”

  “My father didn’t even make it to husband status. I guess he was just some poor schmuck my mom enlisted when she decided she wanted a baby. And she wanted a baby like she wanted a Tiffany necklace, as an acquisition. She didn’t want a baby she had to look after.”

  Alfie, who had been reading the Oscar Wilde biography again, was reminded of his comment about knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing.

  “So, she wasn’t a hands-on mum?”

  Her laugh was no longer amused. “I was raised by nannies until I could be sent to boarding school. I got a great education.”

  He wasn’t sure what she had meant about her father. It was going to be an intrusive question, but he wanted to know.

  “You don’t know who your father is?” he asked tentatively.

  “Sure I know. I even met him once, when I was twenty. When they got together, he was an assistant on a photoshoot she did for Harper’s Bazaar. He was cute enough, I guess, but I can’t say he had much else going for him.”

  Alfie stared down at the grass. “Did you wonder about him when you were growing up?”

  “What’s with all the questions? Is this a throwback to your psychology studies – you’re trying to psychoanalyse me?”

  Alfie was going to make some light remark about the length of time it took to train in psychoanalysis when he decided that she had been open enough with him.

  “I wondered about my father when I was growing up. He left my mother before I was born,” he said, still looking down. “I never knew him. My mother never spoke about him and I didn’t ask in case it upset her.”

  He felt a hand on his arm.

  “That’s tough,” she said quietly. “And yes, I used to wonder about my dad all the time. I made believe he would drive up to the school gates in his Cadillac and say he’d been looking for me all this while, and now that he’d found me, he was taking me to live in a cabin on the New England coast where I could play on the beach and hunt for clams. That was before I knew that eating clams was wrong. Mom’s apartment, in case you haven’t guessed, was in NYC, Park Avenue. You can imagine how stupid I felt when I found he was just a regular guy who rode the subway and didn’t want me turning up on his doorstep ever again.”

  Alfie contemplated confiding in her further, about how he blamed himself for his father’s departure. His parents had loved each other enough to get married. What had gone wrong was his mother becoming pregnant with him.

  He was about to speak when Betty said: “And since we’re into question time, am I supposed to know who Vivian is?”

  Alfie didn’t know how to answer. He had always felt hesitant about what to call her. “Girlfriend” sounded too casual, “partner” too formal. Vivian, he thought, my love.

  “Sasha said Vivian would approve,” Betty prompted. “Quite what of, I – Oh, it’s Marge.”

  A small figure was making its way as rapidly as possible along the rough path, gesticulating wildly.

  “Alfie! Alfie!” it called, the voice urgent.

  “I’d better go and see what she wants,” he said, getting up. “Thanks for the coffee and cake.”

  “Any time.”

  He sprinted towards Marge to save her walking any further.

  “What’s the matter?” he panted as he reached her.

  “Where on earth have you been?
” she snapped. “I’ve been phoning and phoning you. I couldn’t get through on the landline and you’re not answering your mobile.”

  He groaned. His strategy for avoiding Sasha and Sebastian had misfired. “Sorry, that’s entirely my fault.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” she replied tartly. She looked towards the bench where Betty was still sitting. “And I thought you said Betty wasn’t your girlfriend?”

  “We were just having a coffee.”

  “Were you indeed?” Her tone was sceptical.

  “Marge, I presume you’re not just here to inform me that having an al fresco coffee with someone of the opposite sex is breaching Bunburry’s by-laws?”

  Her face fell. “Oh, Alfie. I’ve got some awful news. Mario’s dead.”

  “What happened? A car accident?” Not surprising that that was uppermost in his mind after Betty bringing up Vivian.

  “A fall,” said Marge. “And I don’t think it was an accident.”

  “You can’t mean you think he was murdered,” said Alfie.

  “That’s exactly what I mean.” Marge began walking back to the village. “Sergeant Wilson’s now on the case, which means there’s every likelihood of a miscarriage of justice. So, it’s time for the Bunburry Triangle to take over.”

  “We’re not really calling ourselves that, are we?” asked Alfie.

  “Have you come up with anything better?”

  “No, but –”

  “In that case, Liz, you and I are the Bunburry Triangle until further notice. Liz has had to go to Cheltenham to pick up some things for old Mrs Murray. The three of us need to meet as soon as possible.”

  “Come for supper,” suggested Alfie.

  “We’ll be there at seven. And I think Emma should come along as well, if she’s free. Make sure you’ve got enough for four.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” murmured Alfie, too softly for Marge to hear. “I’ll leave you here,” he said more loudly. “I’m still avoiding Sasha and Sebastian, so I’ll go around the back way to the supermarket.”

  Marge held her hand up at shoulder height, her palm facing Alfie, her thumb holding down her little finger. “Oh look,” she said. “The Girl Guide salute works for the Bunburry Triangle as well. Now you do it.”