by Holly Bell
Tempest regarded her benevolently. He liked it when his wishes were anticipated and he was addressed with proper respect.
‘Yes, please,’ replied Amanda apologetically. ‘We’re back to Empawrer Gourmet Tuna Filet, please.’
Mrs Sharma had a hotline to all of the select cat food suppliers. ‘I’ll see to it.’
‘Tha —’
Ding!
‘Good morning, Dennis.’
‘Good morning to you, Nalini,’ responded Mr Hanley-Page of Vintage Vehicles, gallantly tipping his tweed trilby. ‘Amanda. How are you faring after your ordeal? Shall I call the cad out? At twenty paces on the green? Though I do believe dear Miss Armstrong-Witworth is the better shot,’ he added impishly.
‘Thank you, Mr Hanley-Page, but I don’t think that will be necessary,’ replied Amanda with a smile.
‘I see you’ve brought your minder.’
Amanda glanced down at her familiar.
‘Oh yes, he’s very protective.'
‘I was addressing the cat,’ he quipped.
The ladies chuckled, which affronted Tempest.
‘Your cigars were just delivered,’ said Mrs Sharma.
‘Splendid, splendid,’ replied Dennis.
Ding! This heralded the entrance of the village’s oldest and most respected resident, Miss Cynthia de Havillande of The Grange. She held the door open as she called into the street in stentorian tones:
‘Churchill! Heel! Come along now. Don’t dawdle!’ An elderly terrier, distracted by a fascinating scent in the gutter, unwillingly wandered in.
‘Good morning Nalini, Amanda. Ah, Dennis! Excellent! The very man I wanted to see. About your vehicle —’
‘Well, I really must be on my w—’ began Mr Hanley-Page.
Ding! Joan the postlady burst in, evidently big with news.
‘Oh! Everyone!’
‘Are you all right, Joan?’ asked Mrs Sharma solicitously.
‘I am, thank you, Nalini, but I can’t say the same for other people.’
The ongoing traffic feud between Miss de Havillande and Mr Hanley-Page was forgotten.
‘Whatever has happened?’ asked Amanda.
‘Well!’ said Joan, looking around at her audience. ‘I thought I’d give the new salon a try. It’s just opened, and I thought, “Support the local shops,” you know how you do?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Dennis, ‘quite right.’
‘So,’ continued Joan, ‘in I went to make an appointment. They seem nice enough. A brother and sister. She’s the older one, the more qualified, and he’s got the business side of it with his background, and it’s been a dream of hers.’
‘Yes, Joan, but what happened?’ enquired Cynthia patiently.
‘So, there I was at the reception while we arranged a day and time, when the phone rang.’
Joan paused for effect.
‘Yes?’ encouraged Dennis.
‘And, of course, it was for the funeral parlour as was. You know, Mr Blackaby’s. Well, it was there for 30 years at least, and they hadn’t changed the number but then why would they?’
‘Quite,’ agreed Cynthia.
'As I was standing right there, I couldn’t help but hear the caller. Not intentionally you understand.’
‘Of course not,’ soothed Mrs Sharma.
‘The voice said, “Mr Blackaby?’ and of course, Donna, that’s the hairdresser, said, “I’m sorry, but the funeral parlour is no longer here.”’
‘But I said, “Hold on, please. I recognise that voice. Is it all right if I have a word?” And she hands over the phone, and I say, “Deirdre? Is that you?” and she says, “Yes. Joan?” And I say, “Are you all right, dear?” and she says, “Yes, but I need funeral services.” “Whatever for?” I say. And she tells me … he’s kicked the bucket. She was calling from the hospital!’
‘Who?’ the assembled cast asked in unison.
‘Horace. Horace Bottle!’
‘But … but how?’ exclaimed Amanda. ‘I saw him only yesterday.’
‘What time would that have been?’ asked Joan.
‘He left the house where I’m working at about 3 – 3.30.’
‘Yes, that would be right. She said he was driving down the A1000 when he had a heart attack, the doctor said. And drove into a lamppost. It was curtains. Someone stopped, of course, but he was a goner. Just like that!’
‘Oh dear,’ said Amanda penitently. ‘He was in a lather when he left. I’d never seen a complexion that colour before.’
‘Well, it finished him,’ stated Joan.
‘Poor Mrs Bottle.’
‘Oh, she didn’t sound “poor Mrs Bottle”,’ Joan replied. ‘Glad to be rid of his foul temper, I shouldn’t wonder. I asked what she’d do now, and she said she’s got the death certificated all right and tight, and she’s seeing a solicitor friend of Erik’s this very morning to get probate started. “As soon as I get it,” she says, “I’m putting the house on the market. I’ve got two weeks compassionate leave from work, and as soon as I’ve got his things to the charity shop, I’m off to my sister’s in Derbyshire.” You know? Where she comes from. “I’ve had an offer to go into partnership with her,” she says. Yes, and she was only holding off for that husband of hers, and no way was he going to budge and move up there for her. So there! What do you think of that?’
‘So she’s leaving?’ Amanda confirmed.
‘Yes, I think she’s planning to be gone by this afternoon.’
Oh no, said Amanda to herself. How will I question her about what Horace said yesterday, about someone watching me? Or question him for that matter! It was all very inconvenient.
‘So there you go. All’s well that ends well,’ Joan summed up.
‘Except for Horace Bottle,’ commented Dennis wryly.
‘I wouldn’t like to comment,’ said Cynthia with equal dryness.
‘Karma,’ pronounced Mrs Sharma judicially.
‘I don’t think anyone will argue with that, Nalini,’ agreed Joan.
‘Dear, dear,’ murmured Amanda. ‘Well, I must be off. Goodbye, everyone. Come on, Tempest.’ Once outside the shop, she added, ‘We need privacy!’
They hurried back to the Astra and bolted for the cottage. Amanda had no sooner shut the front door behind Tempest than she pulled out her phone and tapped the number.
‘Amanda?’
‘Uncle Mike!’
‘Whatever is the matter?’
‘Something dreadful has happened.’
‘Calm down and tell me all about it,’ urged Hogarth gently.
‘Horace Bottle is dead, and his wife is leaving today. I won’t be able to question either of them again!’
‘I see. Did his demise take place in questionable circumstances?’
‘I think it might have been my fault,’ Amanda replied anxiously.
‘Dear me. Did you brain him with the lead piping in the kitchen or the candlestick in the library?’
That surprised a smile out of Amanda.
‘Neither, but he was in such a temper when he left, after what happened, that he had a heart attack while he was driving and went into a lamppost.’
‘How inconsiderate of him,’ condoled Hogarth. ‘My dear, you cannot be blamed for someone flying into a pucker when you point out, ever so nicely no doubt, that they have purloined one of your tools.’
‘No. No, you’re right, Uncle Mike.’
‘However, it does mean that that route to further information has now been cul-de-sacked. Alternative measures are required that I shall now arrange. Leave it with me. There is nothing more for you to do. Enjoy your Horace-Bottle-free day, Amanda. Besides which, if anyone is to be blamed it is not you, is it? The Furry Fury is the impenitent culprit.’
‘Thank you, Uncle Mike. I do feel better talking to you.’
‘Good.’
‘Sorry to bother you with this when you’re on holiday.’
‘Not at all. On the contrary, I shall enjoy setting the next train in motion,’ he said with
delight. ‘Off you go to work now, my dear.’
‘Yes, bye for now.’
‘Cheerio.’
Hogarth had been standing on the decking and now sat on one of the loungers. Vera came out with tea.
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ she remarked affectionately, handing him the cup, and putting the biscuits down in front of him.
‘Ah good. Hobnobs. You are a princess of sisters. Yes. I am pleased. Bottle has departed this life, and his widow is departing posthaste for The Midlands. There is now no reason for me not to follow the course of action that has been appealing to me for the past 18 hours. All right if I invite a guest?’
‘Is it who I think it is?’ asked Vera, shrewdly.
‘It is.’
‘He’ll be very welcome. I’ll get the other spare room ready. Sure he’ll say yes?’
‘I can be very persuasive,’ said Hogarth.
But, on this occasion, he didn’t have to be.
Chapter 7
Thomas is Perturbed
On the previous Saturday evening, just four days ago, after a late night finishing off some admin in the police station at the small port of Parhayle on the Cornish south coast, Detective Inspector Thomas Trelawney had received a domestic SOS from his mother.
‘Darling, I’m so sorry to ask, and you can say no, but are you busy tomorrow?’
‘Er, I don’t have to be,’ replied her son helpfully.
‘Could you possibly come up to London? Marcus has let me down. He was supposed to help me to get the old dining suite out of the attic for the Heart Foundation to come and collect in the afternoon. They’re doing a special run, but his mother is insisting that he join the family gathering, as his sister is suddenly coming down and … well!’
‘Of course, Mum,’ said Thomas affably. ‘I’ll throw some things into a bag and come now.’
‘But it’s 8 o’clock.’
‘I’ll be there around midnight, and there won’t be much traffic.’
‘You’re an angel.’
‘You don’t have to wait up. I’ll let myself in.’
‘Of course I’ll wait up. I’ll have cocoa and shortbread biscuits ready for you.’
Thomas chuckled. ‘You know the way to your son’s heart.’
‘So I should hope,’ rejoined his mother cheerfully.
‘See you presently.’
The following day, the furniture was removed from the attic at Penelope’s house in Crouch End, North London, and successfully collected. Companionably, she and Thomas cooked dinner: roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, carrots and parsnips with peas, cabbage and gravy. Penelope opened a bottle of Super-Tuscan Chianti.
Thomas inspected the label.
‘Good heavens, Ma-maa, bit extravagant, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all, my lamb, I got a case of six at a discount.’
‘Hm, I shall have to help you move furniture more often!’
After dinner, replete, washed up and contented, mother and son collapsed on the sofa, pushed the fair-trade coffee table a little away from them, and talked of meals shared in the past.
Thomas slid down in his seat, and they leaned companionably against one another. Penelope’s hair was blonder than her son’s light brown but it was easy to see where he got his hazel eyes. The height he owed to his father and his gentleness and courtesy too. His incisive mind could be traced to both parents, but cultivated by himself in a scientific, practical and deductive direction since the age of twelve.
Thomas was one of the best police interviewers in his area, and if there was one thing he knew, it was how to pick his time. The time was now. He broached a sensitive subject.
‘Puddings, Mum.’
‘Yes, love?’
‘Do you think some time you could make me jam roly-poly? It’s not that I don’t appreciate the spun-sugar basket of passion fruit and pineapple compôte. But I do like the old-fashioned stodgy stuff once in a while.’
‘You and your jam roly-poly. You’ve loved that since you were a tot!’
‘Really? I don’t remember.’
‘And spotted dick and marmalade roll.’
‘I did?’
‘Oh my word, yes!’ recalled his mother, affectionately.
‘Mum .… ’
‘Hmm?’
‘What was I like?’ Thomas asked tentatively.
‘When you were little?’
‘Yes. You know I have practically no memory of anything before I was about ten.’
‘Oh, you were adorable,’ Penelope answered at once. ‘Even as a baby, you usually slept through the night as long as you knew your father and I were OK. If we were restless, you’d wake up. It was very sweet. And you always seemed to know if I was sad or worried, and you used to comfort me, put your little arms around my neck and your head against mine.’
‘I did?’
‘Yes, darling. And once or twice you even verbalised it, although you didn’t say many words yet. I remember this one occasion. There you were with your tea …’
‘Tea?’
‘Oh yes, you loved your tea from a very early age. I suppose I shouldn’t have let you have any, knowing now, as we do, how much caffeine there in it! But there you are. You used to drink mine or your father’s, so we gave you your own. And then as soon as your tiny fingers were strong and dexterous enough to hold a cup, if I put your tea in your beaker, you cried.’
‘Oh dear,’ Thomas remarked apologetically.
‘You’d have water, milk or juice in your beaker, but tea had to be in a cup, and no ordinary cup either, your special cup.’
‘Good heavens, what a demanding child!’
‘Oh no, it was no trouble really. It was the only thing you were ever insistent about, and I liked to please you.’
‘Thank you, Mum. So what cup was this?’
‘Wait … I’ll go and get it. In a minute. But, first, let me tell you about that day.’
‘That day?’
‘Yes. You see, your father was very late, and I was getting worried about him. He’d usually find a way to call, and eventually, he had a car phone, you know. Anyway, you wouldn’t go to sleep, and there we were in the sitting room at the house, and I made tea for us both. And there you sat, staring into your cup — oh, it used to fascinate you when I poured the milk in; the patterns it would make. You’d take a sip and gaze at the tea, and you liked tea leaves too, and you’d drain the cup, and, — anyway, there you sat staring into your cup, and suddenly you said, “Mummy. Daddy OK”. Oh, it was so endearing. And he was, you know. He came home about an hour later, and he’d been stuck in dreadful traffic and couldn’t get near a phone box.’
‘I’m glad that I was a solicitous toddler to make up for my fussiness.’
‘Oh, you were an angel,’ said his mother, ruffling his hair and getting up. Her still lissome form, clad in a black yoga outfit, moved toward the kitchen. ‘Now let me find that cup …. It was one of a pair,’ she called from the pantry. ‘Your great-grandmother’s. Eggshell china .…’
Penelope came back into the room in triumph. ‘Here! A bit dusty but …,’ she wiped it with a piece of kitchen roll and handed it to Thomas. ‘It’s so fragile that it’s a miracle you didn’t break it, but you never so much as cracked the glaze.’
‘Hm,’ said Thomas receiving it from her. It wasn’t familiar at first. There was a clank from the kitchen where utensils disturbed in the search had keeled over.
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Penelope, and headed off to restore order, leaving Thomas with his old friend. On an impulse, he slid off the sofa onto the floor in front of the coffee table, to child height. He cupped his hands around the delicate porcelain.
In a flash, he was there. Tiny hands, the warmth of the liquid, the still surface at first reflecting only the ceiling. And then … the picture formed … there he was … his father … but not in a car as he’d told Thomas’s mother, but in the house, the old house, Flamgoyne, seat of Thomas’s maternal grandmother’s powerful family.
Kytto, his father, was with the old woman and the other men in black that Thomas had seen in a dream and then remembered. His father was fine. He looked intense but calm.
Thomas came back to the present with a gasp. How on earth had he been able to do that? His father was, as Thomas’s little self had said, ‘OK’. But Kytto Trelawney had not told the truth to his wife about where he was. And it had all been playing out in the surface of the tea, as clear as day… and Thomas had seen it … how? Why? He didn’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo paranormal nonsense. It must have been his imagination. His hands shook as he placed the cup on the table and sat back up on the sofa as his mother came back in.
‘Are you all right, darling? You look as white as a sheet,’ said Penelope, concerned.
‘I’m fine,’ Thomas assured her with a smile. ‘I was just thinking how happy we all were, and what a shame it —’
‘Water under the bridge, my sweet.’
‘Yes, of course, and it was all for the best. I got used to it. And you know, in the end, it was better having two homes and you being happy, rather than one where you weren’t. And Dad seemed to relax after. He wasn’t so … so scared. Maybe because he knew that the person he loved most in all the world was safe from his family.’
‘Oh yes, you were the apple of his eye.’
‘Not me, Mum. You. You were safe in London.’
His mother, for once, was lost for words. She plumped up the cushions on the sofa and rearranged the throw. Finally, she said,
‘Well, we are where we are. And look how fine you’ve grown up to be. Your father and I are both very proud of you, you know. You’ve done very well for yourself, and you were right about the career you’ve chosen, in spite of our reservations.’
The diversion in the conversation had calmed Thomas considerably. His hands were steady once more.
‘Would you like some tea in that cup?’ asked Penelope.
‘No,’ he said at once, then more slowly, ‘a mug will do fine for me, thanks, Mum.’
He followed her out to the kitchen, as though to put some distance between him and the egg-shell china on the coffee table.
