Rough And Deadly (A Much Winchmoor Mystery Book 2)

by Paula Williams

  ***

  As I walked in with Prescott, our cat Cedric, who made a sloth look hyper-active, arched his back, hissed a few of his most colourful cat curses then rocketed up the stairs.

  “What on earth is that dog doing here?” Mum asked, as she came in from the salon to see what all the noise was about.

  I explained about Elsie going AWOL and how I’d brought Prescott with me to save the neighbours getting up a dog-lynching party.

  “Well, you’re not keeping him,” she said. “I know the vet said Cedric needs more exercise, but that was a bit extreme. I’ve never seen him move like that before. Cats can sense things, you know, and that dog…”

  “Is a psycho, who’s going back the minute Elsie gets home. But don’t worry. I’ll take him out again in a minute. That always calms him down. But I just want to make a couple of quick phone calls before I go.”

  The first was to Mike, to tell him I could cover the Let’s Buy a Pub meeting in Little Chantling after all. The next was to Jules.

  “Is it safe to talk?” I asked.

  “Sorry about last night.” She sighed. “My daughter can be a right little madam when the mood takes her. I don’t know where she gets it from.”

  I laughed. “I can’t think. Anyway, all I wanted was to ask you was something about Winchmoor Manor.”

  “Why do you want to know?” Her tone sharpened. “This isn’t for The Chronicle, is it?”

  “Of course it’s not. If you must know, it’s about my aunt Tanya.”

  “Jeez, Kat, I was really sorry to hear about that,” her voice softened now. “Your mum and dad must be really cut up.”

  “It’s been a shock for the whole family,” I said, which was nothing less than the truth.

  “But what’s the Manor got to do with your aunt?” Jules asked. “It’s not like she even knew the Duckfaces. Or did she?”

  I wasn’t ready to tell anyone about Tanya’s notebook yet. At least not until I’d thought it through.

  “I don’t suppose you heard anything about Margot taking on a business partner in some new venture she was planning?” I asked Jules.

  “Margot discuss her plans with me? You’ve got to be kidding. We weren’t exactly into girly chats over morning coffee. She was very much the sort who believed in keeping the staff firmly in their place.”

  “Talking of which, I was nearly run off the road by the Duckett-Trimbles’ driver just now. I thought he’d have left when John did.”

  “Jenkins? The guy gives me the creeps. I did hear that he was staying on to look after the place until the new owners move in.”

  “The Manor’s definitely been sold then? That was all a bit quick, wasn’t it? Who’s bought it, do you know?”

  “Some mega-rich foreigner. He’s bought not only the Manor but all Margot’s holiday cottages as well, I heard. I’ll tell you something else I heard, if you’re interested?”

  “About Margot?”

  “Only indirectly. It’s about Gerald Crabshaw. Apparently, he’s been going around the village asking anyone who looks over eighteen if they’d be prepared to stand for the parish council.”

  “Against his wife, you mean?”

  “He doesn’t think she’ll have the time to spare from their business to attend council meetings. He even asked my dad, which shows how desperate he must be. He’ll be asking Abe Compton next.”

  “Now that really would be scraping the barrel.”

  “Now I think about it,” she went on, “He’s probably the one who persuaded Margot to stand. I bet that’s what they were discussing that time I saw them together.”

  “Knowing Gruesome Gerald, he’s probably worried he’ll actually have to get on and do some work at the guest house if Fiona gets elected.”

  “Exactly,” Jules said. “Was that what you wanted to ask me about?”

  “No. It was about the layout of the Manor. This might sound a weird question, but what did Margot call the rooms on the ground floor?”

  Jules laughed. “You should have heard her. Talk about lady of the Manor. It was like Winchmoor Manor was Somerset’s answer to Downton Abbey and had been in her family for centuries. She would insist on calling the rooms the drawing room, the orangery (that’s a conservatory to you and me), the morning room – she even called one room the library, although there were precious few books in it.”

  I had to stop myself from punching the air and shouting, “Yay!” I’d been right. The business partner Tanya had been talking about had to be Margot. Tanya’s notebook proved it. There really was a connection between the two women.

  “That’s great. I’ll…”

  I got no further as Prescott, who I’d left having a drink in the kitchen while I made the calls, launched yet another volley of hysterical barking. I promised to catch Jules later and hurried down to shut him up. I decided to go for the Dog Bellower approach seeing as it had worked last time.

  He was standing on the kitchen window sill. Mum’s precious pots of basil and coriander that she’d been cosseting for months were scattered on the floor, while Prescott made threatening noises through the window to Cedric, who was watching him with disdain from the safety of the roof of the garden shed.

  “Prescott!” I bellowed. “Be quiet and get down.”

  He ignored me. Mum, unfortunately, did not. She came in from the salon, took one look at the floor and then at Prescott, who was still dancing about on the window sill, his claws clicking on the tiles like he was a little four-legged Fred Astaire.

  “Get down from there this minute, you horrible little creature,” she said without raising her voice. But Prescott was no fool. He knew when he’d met his match. He jumped down and sat obediently at her feet, trying to pretend that it was some other dog – or maybe even the cat – who’d caused all the damage, and not him. All he’d been doing was trying to raise the alarm.

  Mum rounded on me. “And I’ll thank you to remember I have customers in the salon. Poor Mrs Sweetman thought something had gone wrong with her hearing aid and is still in a state of shock. So when you’ve cleared up that mess, you can make her a cup of tea and then get that creature out of my house. And don’t bring him back.”

  ***

  So, for the second time in as many hours, I was clearing up Prescott’s trail of destruction. I’d just finished when my phone rang again. It was a number I didn’t recognise.

  But I didn’t dare hang around in the kitchen to answer it in case Prescott kicked off again, so I hurriedly clipped on his lead, opened the door and didn’t answer the call until I was safely out of the house.

  “Hello?” I said once I was sure Prescott could no longer see Cedric.

  “Hi, it’s Adam Wickham here. You left a message for me to call you.”

  For a moment, I couldn’t think who he was or what he was on about. Then I remembered. I was talking to the man Tanya had been having an affair with.

  He’d actually called me back. My mouth went dry.

  “You mentioned Tanya,” he said, his voice wary.

  “Yes. I did, didn’t I?” I said, desperately playing for time while I tried to work out what on earth I was going to say to him. Particularly as I wasn’t sure if he knew about Tanya.

  “Who is this, please?” he demanded.

  “I’m – I’m Tanya’s niece,” I said. “I’m not sure… I mean, I don’t know—”

  “If you’re trying to ask me if I know about her death, then, yes I do,” he said briskly. “My wife and I have already had a visit from the police.”

  “Oh, good. No, sorry. I don’t mean good that you’ve had a visit from the police, of course. I mean, good that you know and…”

  “Look, what’s this all about?” he cut in. “Only I’ve got a class in five minutes.”

  Go for it. That’s what they say when you’re dithering on the edge, wondering whether to dive in, isn’t it? So I went for it.

  “I understand you went to Bournemouth last year with Tanya and – and a friend of hers,” I said
.

  His voice rose. “What the devil has this got to do with you? Was it you who put the police on to me and my wife? Because if so, I have nothing more to say to you and what’s more, my wife and I have watertight alibis for the time of Tanya’s death. We were at a rugby match in Bath with ten thousand other people. And, if you’d care to check, the match was televised and we were caught on camera. Just before half time.”

  “No, no, please believe me. This has nothing to do with Tanya’s death. It’s just…” I took a deep breath and got ready to dive in again, head first this time. “Look, I’m going to come straight out and say this. Do you remember Tanya’s friend?”

  There was such a long pause that I didn’t think he was going to answer. Eventually he said, “Vaguely. She was very shy so we didn’t speak much. I think she said her name was Shirley, or something like that.”

  “It’s Cheryl. And Tanya’s been blackmailing Cheryl ever since that weekend.”

  I heard his sudden intake of breath. “That sounds like Tanya. She liked a bit of blackmail,” he said bitterly. “Threatened me with it when I broke things off with her. But I told my wife before she could. I don’t get it, what on earth would she find to blackmail little Shirley with?”

  “Cheryl.”

  “Sorry, Cheryl. Surely not over the fact that she’d just had a bit too much to drink that night?”

  Another deep breath. I was in too deep to back out now. Although to continue the swimming analogy, I was floundering and beginning to sink. And also wishing I’d never started this.

  “I wondered if you would give me the number of your friend?”

  “So that you can continue your aunt’s career as a blackmailer? I most certainly will not,” he snapped. “Furthermore, if you continue to harass me in this way, I’ll report this conversation to the police.”

  “No. You don’t understand. I’m not looking to blackmail anyone. I’m Cheryl’s daughter. And she and my dad aren’t talking and – and it’s all a horrible mess.”

  “She was blackmailing Cheryl over the fact that she’d had a few drinks? Is your dad some sort of diehard teetotaller?”

  “Of course not. It wasn’t the drink – although it’s not like my mum to do that. It’s – it’s what happened after.”

  “Nothing happened after. I wasn’t there but my friend told me that he was worried about her so helped her to her room and left her there.”

  “Nothing happened? But Tanya told Mum that she and your friend had – had spent the night together.”

  “No way,” he said forcefully. “My mate’s a happily married man who went home to his wife at the end of the evening. To be honest, I’m afraid I sort of conned him into coming, to give me an alibi. He gave me a right dressing down about it when he realised. But are you saying Tanya let your mother believe…?”

  “That she’d slept with your friend. And Mum was so drunk, she couldn’t remember and so she did believe her.”

  He swore. “She was a piece of work, wasn’t she? I mean, I’m sorry she’s dead. But jeez – do you know, I always thought it was weird the way Shirley – I mean, Cheryl – suddenly went. One minute she was drinking mineral water, the next Tanya had ordered a bottle of fizz and that was it. My mate said he wondered if she was on some pills of some sort that reacted badly to alcohol. Hello? Are you still there?”

  I was still there. Still trying to take it in. It made more sense. But would Tanya have actually sunk so low as to spike Mum’s drink? Why?

  Would it have been to keep Mum quiet? I found it hard to believe that even Tanya could have been so cold and calculating. And yet, it was the only explanation.

  Adam was actually very nice in the end. He offered to talk to his friend and get him to confirm what he’d just told me. I was dying to go back and tell Mum, but I didn’t dare return to the house until I’d got rid of Prescott.

  I called Elsie’s landline – none of these nasty ‘mobility phones that fry your brains’ for her, thank you very much – to see if she was back yet, but there was no answer. There was no way of leaving a message, either, so I carried on with my plan to walk Prescott as far as the Manor and back. Having a dog with me would give me a good excuse if I was caught nosing around.

  ***

  He’d already peed on every lamppost and barked at every leaf, cat and squirrel during our morning walk, so for a change of scenery I took the longer route to the Manor, which led up past Winchmoor Mill.

  I thought about knocking on the door and asking Fiona if she and Gerald had got their alibis sorted out yet, just for the fun of it. But Prescott began digging up their tulips, so I decided it would be better to keep him moving.

  Winchmoor Manor is right on the edge of the village. I’d just reached it and was about to turn round and go and see if Elsie was back, when I saw Fiona. She was walking up the long tree-lined drive that led up to the Manor. What was she doing? On impulse, I decided to follow her.

  But have you ever tried following someone unobtrusively when you’re with a lunatic dog who barks hysterically at every bird or insect that comes within six feet of him? I had no chance.

  The look on Fiona’s face as she watched me approach suggested she’d not yet forgiven me for Saturday’s grilling at the restaurant.

  “Do you have business at the Manor?” she asked icily.

  “Sort of.” I scrabbled in my pocket and took out one of Mum’s appointment cards I’d used for a shopping list. “I’m delivering a condolence card.”

  I waved it about and hoped she wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately, she did.

  “When are you going to grow up?” Her voice had been at freezing point before, now it was fifty degrees below and her strange eyes glittered like silver-green icicles. “I’ve had enough of your childish games. I’m going to tell the police you’ve been harassing me.”

  “And will you also tell them about the row you had with Margot?” I flashed back. “And how you stand to gain, twofold, by Margot’s death?”

  “You ridiculous girl. How do you make that out?”

  “First there’s the parish council election. And, second, the damage Margot was doing to your business.”

  “That’s nonsense.” She stepped towards me, her fists clenched. “For your information, I’ve decided not to stand for election to the parish council anyway. My husband’s convinced me that our business needs me to focus on it one hundred per cent if we are to survive.”

  “Has he now? And did you know your husband was the one who encouraged Margot to stand against you? To stop you being elected? And that now she’s dead, he’s going around asking anyone in the village who can write their name to put themselves forward for election?”

  “How dare you spread lies like that?” Her voice was a cross between a hiss and a growl, and reminded me strongly of Cedric’s reaction to Prescott earlier. “You’ve always had it in for Gerald, haven’t you? What has he ever done to you?”

  How long have you got? I wanted to ask her. But there was no point.

  “So what are you really doing here?” I said, “Knowing John Duckett-Trimble is away and the house is all shut up?”

  “Unlike you, I really was going to deliver this,” she held out an envelope. “I was going to see if Mr Jenkins is around and ask him to forward it for me. But I’ve changed my mind.” She advanced towards me, the envelope crumpled in her tightly-clenched fist. “And now I’m warning you, Katie, take your unpleasant little dog and go home before you find yourself seriously out of your depth.”

  I took a step back, my heart hammering. Had I just been threatened by Fiona wouldn’t-say-boo-to-a-goose Crabshaw?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As she stalked off I looked around for my ‘unpleasant little dog’ (she’d got that right, at least) and realised he was no longer with me. He must have slipped his lead while I was scratching around for my fake condolence card.

  “Prescott!” I yelled, but my Dog Bellower strategy was obviously not working any more. I didn’t dare call again
in case Jenkins heard me, so I walked on up the drive, looking and listening all the time. I was just working out how I was going to break it to Elsie that I’d lost Prescott, when I heard a familiar snarling sound. It was coming from a building to the left that was screened from the main house by a thick laurel hedge.

  Could this be the old stables Tanya had mentioned in her notebook? Fetching Prescott would give me a perfect excuse to go and have a nose around the place if Jenkins challenged me.

  “Cheers, Prescott,” I whispered as I crept towards the half-timber, half-brick building. As I got closer I could see it was indeed an old stable block, although it must have been a long time since any horses were stabled here.

  Half a dozen loose boxes, each with a split stable door, stood around three sides of a courtyard, where a fine crop of thistles grew up among the cobblestones. An old stone shed that was probably once the tack room made up the fourth side.

  The stables, like the barn I’d looked in earlier, were in a very poor state of repair. There were missing roof tiles, rotting door frames and grime-encrusted, cracked or broken windows. These buildings, like the barn, had obviously not been included in the extensive repairs John Duckett-Trimble had made when he’d renovated the Manor.

  The door to a loose box in the far corner was open, and I could hear Prescott’s distinctive snarling coming from inside, which meant I’d got the little ratbag cornered. My plan was to creep up on him and snap the lead on while he was still snuffling about. That done, I could then have a good look around.

  But as I went into the loose box to get him, a stomach-churning smell hit me. A combination of raw, rough cider, rotting vegetation and engine oil, I recognised it immediately.

  When Will and I were fourteen and fifteen respectively, we’d broken into Abe Compton’s cider barn one summer evening and helped ourselves to a drop or ten of Abe’s legendary HeadBender cider. We’d heard so much about it and were anxious to try it out for ourselves.

  It did more than bend my head. It bent my legs, arms, lips and tongue and turned most of my internal organs inside out. I have never felt so ill or been so sick, either before or since.