Rough And Deadly (A Much Winchmoor Mystery Book 2)

by Paula Williams

  While I was watching Danny, Prescott had busied himself burrowing in the nearby compost heap in the corner of the churchyard. He’d dug himself in so deeply that only his back legs and stubby little tail was visible. I gave a sharp tug on his lead, stepped out from behind the yew tree and walked towards Danny.

  The tag on Prescott’s collar jingled like a bicycle bell as he shook off the last of the leaf mould, grass clippings and goodness know what else he’d been digging in. Judging by the smell, I preferred not to know.

  Danny looked up at the sound. “It’s Katie, isn’t it?”

  I was going to say something snippy about how property developers were ripping the hearts out of small villages. But instead, I nodded curtly and returned his smile with a hostile glare. And went to walk on.

  “Look, don’t rush off,” he said. “I’m glad I’ve seen you. The thing is, I’m a bit worried about Gran. Is she really as hard up as she makes out?”

  “Worse,” I snapped, furious with him for touching the poor old soul for cash and then pretending to be worried about her. “She’s hardly got enough to eat at times and has to sit with her coat on most days because she can’t afford to turn the heating on. It’s terrible when you get old and nobody cares about you, isn’t it?”

  At least that wiped the smile off his way-too-handsome face, I thought, as I stomped away.

  Of course it wasn’t true. Elsie had more than enough to eat which explained why her waistbands wouldn’t do up, even though she always blamed it on her clothes ‘shrinking in the wash.’ And her bungalow was like a sauna most days. But I wanted to make Danny feel bad.

  And by the shocked look on his face I’d succeeded.

  ***

  Walking through the village with Prescott was, as always, a nightmare. He barked at everything, from the discarded crisp packet that scudded along the pavement in front of us to the For Sale sign that, in spite of my efforts to right it yesterday, now lolled against the wall of the Old Forge. He also insisted on stopping to sniff at every bush, gate and lamp post.

  I decided to take him up Pendle Hill, in the hope that the wind (which was always a full-on gale up there, no matter what it was doing anywhere else) might blow away the smell of the churchyard compost heap which still clung to him. Also, once up there I could let him off his lead and get in a half-decent walk.

  The route to Pendle Hill took me past the entrance to Winchmoor Manor. The wrought iron gates, usually tightly closed, were open. As I stood there, waiting for the dog to leave his ‘Prescott was here!’ messages all over the elegant stone pillars, I caught sight of a flash of bubblegum pink in the bushes just inside the gate.

  Was that Tanya? But before I could check it out, I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel and John Duckett-Trimble’s long, sleek car came down the drive.

  At first I thought the car was being driven by his chauffeur, a surly guy with a face that looked like it would crack if he broke out a smile. But as it got closer I could see it was John himself at the wheel and my heart went out to him. He was almost unrecognisable.

  He was away on business a lot and didn’t mix much in village life, apart from an occasional pint in the pub. But when he was out and about he was always polite and friendly, with a smile and a wave for everyone, and was usually dressed like an advert for an upmarket Savile Row tailor. Smart, well cut suit, snowy white shirt with crisp cuffs and collar, expensive silk tie. The archetypal successful businessman.

  But that day, he looked dreadful. He was wearing an old sweatshirt that was as grey as his face, while his usually trim hair made him look, as Olive would say, like he’d been ‘dragged through a hay-rick upside down.’

  He also looked like a man who hadn’t slept for a fortnight. He was probably jet-lagged after being called back from his business trip in such terrible circumstances.

  I yanked Prescott away from the stone pillars and stood aside as the car whispered past, engine purring liked a contented cat. I felt like I’d been caught peering through his letterbox, but he didn’t even appear to have seen me as he turned right on the road out of the village.

  What must it be like, to lose someone you love in such dreadful circumstances? To live with the knowledge that out there somewhere was a person who hated your wife so much they could do such a dreadful thing to her.

  But who? Who would that be? There was no doubt Margot had managed to upset almost everyone in the village at some time or another. Margot was to tact what Darcey Bussell was to mud wrestling.

  But you didn’t kill someone just because they’d told you your frontage was letting down the look of the entire High Street (Mary in the pub) or that the WI was stuck in the past and needed a good shake-up (and maybe a nude calendar). Or even that the Young Wives Group should be renamed, as none of its members would see sixty-five again (the entire membership of the Grumble and Gossip Group). Even our elderly vicar didn’t escape (boring sermons and too many hymns).

  I thought of Fiona Crabshaw’s reaction last night to my innocent remark about the police asking people where they were at the time of the murder. It wasn’t true, of course. According to Elsie, poor old Abe Compton was still suspect number one. And I’d only said that to Fiona to rattle her. Because, at the time, I was rattled myself. I’d let the encounter with the pretty blonde vet and then the starchy maitre d’ get under my skin.

  I’d regretted the words the moment they left my mouth. But the memory of her extreme reaction (and that of Gruesome Gerald) got me wondering if I hadn’t, after all, struck a nerve.

  “Katie?”

  I looked up to see Tanya extricating herself from yet another bush. What was it with her and bushes, I wondered? First, the laurels outside The Old Forge and now the rhododendrons here at the entrance to the Manor.

  As she clip-clopped her way towards me, bracelets jangling, Prescott growled. She looked down at him as if I had a rat on the other end of the lead.

  “What sort of a dog is that? He seems a particularly unpleasant little creature.”

  I thought so too. But there was no way I was letting her know that. I suddenly felt quite protective towards my bad-tempered little canine friend whose bite was, as I knew to my cost, most definitely worse than his bark.

  “His name’s Prescott,” I said, raising my voice slightly to cover his low, rumbling growl. “I’m walking him while his owner’s recovering from a broken ankle.”

  She tutted and looked at me with mock pity.

  “You poor darling. The things you have to do to earn a few pennies around here. Never mind, when I open my salon I could well have an opening for you, if you’re interested.”

  I stared at her in astonishment. “Of course I’m not. For starters, I’m a qualified journalist.” Well, she didn’t need to know that the ‘qualified’ bit wasn’t totally true. “And you’re planning to set up in opposition to my mother. I couldn’t do that to her, even if I wanted to. Which I do not.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself, sweetie. I’m sure there are plenty of people who’ll be only too happy to work in a trendy, upmarket salon that caters for younger people, with not a perm or a shampoo and set in sight. Talking of which…” she peered at my hair. “I was right, wasn’t I? That style suits you so much better.”

  I thought of Will’s ‘um – very nice’ last night. And felt a little glow – until I went on to remember the way he’d looked at Anna.

  “I don’t understand why you’re doing this to Mum.” I scowled at her. “What did she ever do to you?”

  If what Elsie said was true, it was more a case of what Tanya, and Richard, had done to Mum.

  She gave that tinkly laugh that always set my teeth on edge – and set Prescott off on another of his long, low grumbles.

  “Whatever gave you that idea? This is purely business, sweetie. Nothing to do with your mother.”

  “You’re still going ahead with your idea for opening a hair salon here, then?”

  “Not just a hair salon.” Her eyes shone, her bracelets jangling
as she waved her arms expansively. “It’s going to be the ultimate one-stop pamper-shop. Spa, perfumery, tanning salon, nail bar – a complete beauty package, all under one roof. Maybe even a juice bar. So, yes, you’d better believe it’s going ahead. And there’s not a damn thing your mother can do about it. She might as well sell up now.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I’d have been worried for Mum, if the whole thing wasn’t so ridiculous. The Old Forge was one of the larger higgledy-piggledy cottages at the far end of the High Street. But even so it was hardly big enough for the sort of set-up Tanya was talking about.

  It probably wasn’t true, anyway. Chances were, she was just telling me all this in the hope I’d tell Mum.

  “I wouldn’t have thought there was enough room in The Old Forge for all that,” I said. “Unless, of course, you’re planning to turn the old stone shed that used to be the outside privy into a space for a hot tub?”

  She gave a slow, catlike smile. “Who said anything about it being in the Old Forge?”

  “You did. At least that was what you were talking about yesterday.”

  “Yes, I was, wasn’t I?” Another catlike smile, only this time it was more of a smirk. “What is it they say? Twenty-four hours is a long time in politics? It is in business as well, sweetie.” She looked like a kid who has a secret that’s just bursting to be shared. “It’s all very hush-hush at the moment but I’ve just set up a meeting which, if it goes my way – and I’ve got a very strong feeling it will – will put Much Winchmoor well and truly on the map. Watch this space, as they say.”

  I wasn’t sure that Much Winchmoor wanted, or indeed, deserved, to be put on the map. Unless it was one of those ‘places best avoided’ ones.

  Before I could say so, she went on. “But whatever happens, I’m this close to finalising a deal on The Old Forge.” She closed her thumb and forefinger in a circle “That, at least, is all going perfectly to plan.”

  I flashed her a suspicious frown. “You haven’t been up to see John Duckett-Trimble, have you?”

  “Of course I haven’t.” She looked indignant. “It’s all being done through his agent.”

  “So what were you doing hiding in the bushes?”

  “Being nosy, the same as you. I saw the gates were open and thought I’d have a wander up the drive and see if I could take a peep at the Manor. Just out of curiosity.”

  “And did you?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t get very far when I heard his car coming, so got myself behind a bush, in case he thought I was trespassing.”

  “Which you were.”

  “Well, yes. I suppose. And if he’d stopped and said something, I was going to...” she broke off and bit her lip. “The thing is, I know something. Something about Margot, and I’m not quite sure what to do about it.”

  I felt a stirring of excitement. “Hey, that’s great. You might be able to help me then. I’m doing a background piece on her for the paper and—”

  “Oh no, no.” She backed away, hands outstretched as if to fend me off. “It’s nothing like that. And certainly not for publication. So don’t you dare write a word.”

  “How can I? You haven’t told me anything.”

  “And I don’t intend to.” She gave her Dolly Parton mane an extra-large toss, as if to emphasise the point. “Not that there’s anything to know,” she added.

  “So, is what you know relevant to her murder?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Probably not.”

  “You should go to the police,” I said forcefully. “Just in case.”

  She shook her head. “No. At least not until I’ve checked something out. But, whatever, it’s nothing to do with her death. And certainly nothing the police would be interested in.”

  “You should let them be the judge of that.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t stand here chatting all day. Mary’s promised me one of her famous Sunday lunches. I’m told they are legendary.”

  I smothered a grin. Mary’s overdone roast beef, soggy boiled cabbage and dishwater gravy was indeed legendary. But like all things, there are good legends. And bad legends.

  Mary’s Sunday roasts definitely fell in the latter category.

  I thought about telling Tanya this. But then I thought about what she and Richard had put my mother through – and were still continuing to do. So I decided against it.

  It wasn’t until Prescott and I were half way up Pendle Hill that I remembered I hadn’t told Tanya that Richard was in the village, looking for her. And could, even now, be ‘enjoying’ Mary’s legendary roast beef himself.

  The pair of them thoroughly deserved it.

  ***

  The top of Pendle Hill is the highest point for miles around. Part of it is pastureland, the rest steeply sloping woodland. Will and I used to play in the wood when we were kids, building dens and making rope swings in the trees. There was one particular place where a tall beech tree grew over what was almost a sheer drop, where the land fell steeply away. We used to call it the Cliff of Death, and dare each other to swing out over it. It scared the living daylights out of me, to be honest. But there was no way I’d ever let Will know that.

  There were no cattle in the field that day so as I set off across it, I let Prescott off his lead. He took off like a bullet and was soon buried deep in the far hedge, where, I hoped, the undergrowth would rub off at least some of the churchyard compost heap smell. Or replace it with something less noxious.

  I zipped up my coat as the chilly wind flattened my hair and stung my cheeks. As I walked on, towards my favourite viewpoint, the knot of tension across my shoulders, that seemed to have been there forever, finally began to loosen. Hands thrust deep in my pockets, I stood and looked at the view that always took my breath away. In the distance, the Somerset levels stretched as far as the eye could see, with the unmistakable Glastonbury Tor sticking up like a pimple in the distance.

  From up here, you could see the pattern made by the willow-fringed rhines (rhymes with beans and is the local name for the deep, ruler-straight drainage ditches that keep the low-lying fields from flooding – at least some of the time). They divided the fields into neat, patchwork squares. The narrow road across the moors followed the lines of the rhines, with sharp right-angled bends that have caught out many unwary motorists hoping for a quick short cut.

  I loved it up here. Will had taught me to recognise the different birds and my attention was caught by a keening cry above me. I looked up and saw a pair of buzzards, their huge wings outstretched as they drew lazy circles in the big open sky. They wheeled around each other, as graceful as a pair of skaters performing an intricate, elegant ice dance.

  As I watched, they flew towards the village. I looked down on Much Winchmoor, and my feeling of peace and all’s right with the world vanished abruptly. The tension knot across my shoulders returned, tighter than ever.

  Somewhere down there, a voice inside my head said, is a murderer.

  I shuddered, hugged my coat closer and wished I’d worn something warmer. I turned away from the village and looked across to where Pendle Hill Farm nestled into the side of the hill. A curl of smoke rose from the farmhouse’s old stone chimney before it was snatched away by the wind.

  “Come on, Prescott. Let’s go,” I called. Suddenly cold, the idea of toasting my toes in front of that fire, enjoying a cup of coffee with Will and his dad (even though Will’s coffee always tasted like something you could paint a fence with) was very appealing.

  I called Prescott again. But he ignored me. Nothing new there. I finally managed to hunt him down, half-way into a rabbit hole. I grabbed him by the harness, clipped his lead on and we headed back to the farm.

  As we got closer, I could see a car that I didn’t recognise parked in the yard. It was a silver estate. Closer still and I could make out the sign in the back window. Dintscombe Vets.

  What was wrong? Whatever it was had to be pretty serious for Will or his Dad to have to call a vet out on a Sunday. />
  As I watched the farmhouse door opened. I heard a familiar laugh and saw Will and Anna come out and cross the yard towards the car. Anna still managed to look chic and neat even when wearing jeans that looked as if they had been poured on, trendy Hunter wellies, the cost of which would have bought me a small car, and a quilted gilet that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a polo match. She was laughing up at something Will had said. Neither of them looked as if there was any sort of animal-related crisis going on.

  Suddenly, the idea of a cup of coffee and a cosy fire didn’t seem such a good one after all. Prescott was happily investigating the gate post but I dragged him away before he drew attention to our presence by barking.

  I was aware of my wild, windswept hair, my ratty old waterproof coat and my saggy tracksuit bottoms. It seemed like everywhere I turned these days I came across Dintscombe’s pretty new blonde vet, with her designer clothes and annoyingly well-behaved hair.

  I headed back to Elsie’s and hoped that Danny wasn’t there. I thought of the problems between Dad and Uncle Richard, then money-grabbing Danny and ‘um, you look nice’ Will, who was certainly looking at Anna in a way he never looked at me.

  Was it any wonder that I decided, then and there, that men were more trouble than they were worth?

  ***

  As I’d hoped, Danny wasn’t at Elsie’s when Prescott and I got back. But Olive was. She and Elsie were in the sitting room, empty tea cups by their side.

  “How’s Millie?” I asked.

  “She’s bearing up, thank you, my dear,” Olive said, with her usual sweet smile. “A lot better now that her fool of a husband is back home, that’s for sure.”

  “They’ve decided he didn’t do it, then?”

  “Of course he didn’t do it,” Elsie snorted. “Don’t know what took them so long to realise that.”