by Amy Myers
*
Luke was up there looking down at her. What on earth was she doing in bed? Luke and Peter, too. Her head hurt and she felt sick. Nevertheless she registered that they looked awfully worried.
‘Georgia!’ she heard Luke say with great thankfulness, and Peter seemed to be crying. ‘You’re all right, don’t worry.’
‘Of course I am,’ she said uncertainly. She tried to look round but it hurt. ‘What . . .?’
‘You’re in A and E,’ Luke told her briskly. ‘Concussion only, with luck. Don’t move,’ he said, as she began to struggle. ‘Stay right there. They might let you go home later if you’re good.’
They didn’t. She was whisked into a ward. Overnight only, they said, as if she might clamour to stay in for a fortnight. ‘Just to be sure.’
She slept for some hours and woke up to find Luke still at her side. Her head was clearer now. She remembered the car; she remembered where she had been going.
‘The Winters material,’ she said with alarm. ‘I was taking it to Mike Gilroy. Was it still there in the car?
‘Taken care of. The police have it. The car was on its side, a local farmer found you, called the ambulance and police who, finding a bag in the back of the car marked DI Mike Gilroy, cunningly jumped to the right conclusion. The car’s still there. I’ll deal with it.’
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘That’s what we want to know. Not like you to be drunk at the wheel.’ Luke might be joking but his face was flatteringly strained.
‘I wasn’t,’ she said flatly. ‘It was the car.’
‘Peter rang Mike about it, and he checked it out. A wheel came off, but whether that happened after the crash or caused it isn’t clear. All the signs are that it did cause it. You were unlucky in coming round that bend at the time it decided to come loose.’ His voice sounded soothingly matter-of-fact, as though this happened all the time.
‘That’s crazy. The car’s just had its MOT and I refuse to believe that Sid Cooper’ (the Haden Shaw garage owner) ‘left the wheel nuts loose.’
‘You don’t think,’ Luke said politely, ‘that Friday Street might be making a point?’
*
‘I’m not giving in,’ Georgia said firmly, established in an armchair the next day in End Cottage after Luke had brought her back from hospital. ‘I’ll go back to Haden Shaw late tomorrow. If Friday Street has a point to make, they can make it direct to me. They’ll find me at the fete.’
‘Then I’m coming with you,’ Luke informed her.
‘Village fetes aren’t your thing.’ Nevertheless she felt a great sense of peace. It was nice to be looked after – once in a while. She could rejoin battle with the world later.
‘Dana’s told me I can sleep over,’ Luke retorted. ‘I don’t intend to have any villains climbing through the window to bang you over the head again. This threat wasn’t meant to kill you; the next one might.’
‘So you think I should give up?’ she asked baldly, contemplating the thought of Dana, herself and Luke here together. She felt so wobbly she realized she didn’t care, even when halfway through dinner she was forced to abandon them at the table in favour of bed. Some time later she was aware of Luke crawling in by her side. She reached out to him, and was rewarded with a kiss on the palm of her hand, then one on her cheek, and then a whispered, ‘Georgia, I love you. Don’t frighten me like this again.’
She thought of Luke’s first wife killing herself in a stupid, unnecessary car accident, and of what thoughts must have rushed through his head this afternoon. I’ll make it up to you, she vowed silently. I will.
The next morning Luke ordered her to stay in the garden at End Cottage and not to answer the door to strangers, while he and Dana went to help set up stalls at the fete. At first she insisted on going with them, but on consideration the best plan seemed to be to do as she was told. Peter had told her Mike was coming over later in the morning and that was good enough reason to do nothing for a while.
He turned up at eleven, as composed as ever. ‘Trying to get yourself killed, are you, Georgia?’ he said, sitting down next to her at the garden table.
‘That hadn’t been my plan.’
‘If you’d been really unlucky, that’s what would have happened. Highly inefficient way of doing things.’
‘I suppose there’s no doubt that the wheel nuts were deliberately loosened?’
‘We’ve got fingerprints, DNA and signed confession and photo stuck to the wheel,’ Mike assured her without a glimmer of a smile. ‘I’ve looked through the bag of sweeties you were bringing me. Interesting, but no—’
‘Solid evidence for the DCI,’ she finished for him. ‘Would my dead body help?’
He looked at her reproachfully. ‘Cheap shot, Georgia.’
He was right. ‘Sorry, Mike. It’s getting frustrating, sensing that Friday Street is sitting on a heaving volcano, and keeping the lid on far too tightly.’
‘Volcanoes don’t have lids. Be careful, Georgia. Don’t want you buried in a Friday Street Pompeii.’
After Mike’s departure, Dana’s neighbour called in to see if she was all right – Dana’s instructions, she said. Georgia assured her she was, and she had scarcely left before Sheila Ludd appeared, box in hand and immaculate as ever. No jeans and shirt for Sheila. ‘How’s the invalid?’
‘Recovered, thanks.’
‘I thought you and Dana might not feel like cooking this evening, so Michael’s sent one of his specials for you.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘His coq au vin pie,’ Sheila said with pride, displaying the contents of the box.
‘I didn’t think of Michael as a pie-maker,’ Georgia said, amused.
‘It’s a joint effort. He does the coq au vin; I do the pastry. I must rush and do my bit at the fete. Don’t bother about the teas,’ she said graciously to Georgia, who had no intention of bothering. ‘Henry’s opening the fete and I have to be ready for the hordes by then.’
She watched Sheila depart in her elegant linen two-piece and wondered how it was that ladies of the manor went on from generation to generation with exactly the same stamp. The pie looked good and she stowed it in the fridge with a note telling Dana to enjoy it, since she’d be going home with Luke after the fete. She ate the salad that Luke had left for her, and then left for the festivities.
A village fete should be a gentle affair, and it was a reasonably good day for it, considering the unseasonable June weather so far. She enjoyed walking alone to Priory Field. No need for an armed guard. As she approached she could see roundabouts and the top of a bouncy castle, and could hear children’s cries. Everything seemed normal. When she arrived, the scene was like every other village fete she’d been to her in her life. Perhaps the inhabitants of Friday Street were acting out the play that this was a normal village, where people ate cakes and played childish games. Or perhaps this was the real Friday Street, and it was simply taking time off from its darker side to see what it could do if it tried. It was hard to imagine there had been two murders here, to her knowledge, and perhaps a third attempted one. Perhaps this fete was an indication that the waters were gently closing over the whirlpool of the horrors of the last few months? No, Georgia disciplined herself. She mustn’t think like that. Someone had deliberately tampered with her car. She couldn’t deal with that this afternoon, though. Today was a day off.
She had hoped to see Toby Beamish running a haunted house, with ghastly spectres leaping out at unexpected places, but she was disappointed. The nearest to a ghostly residence was a ‘Krazy Kottage’, a magnificent structure of crooked beams, bulging corners and windows at odd angles. There were other obviously touring attractions, a hook-a-duck stall, the bouncy castle and roundabouts, a candy floss and popcorn stall. Toby was contenting himself with an old-fashioned coconut shy. Dear me, Grandmama, what powerful arms you have, she thought hazily as she watched Toby, sleeves rolled up, encouraging the punters. No doubt Cadenza longed to be encased within t
hem, but she would settle for Luke. Where was he? she wondered. With Dana, obviously, but she felt too tired to care very much.
There was a central area where, according to the programme she had bought, the primary-school children would be giving a display. Tim Perry was running a win-the-pig competition. Tempting, that. She’d like to return home with a grunting piglet under one arm. Then she saw that the said pig was a pink fluffy replica and lost interest. Josh was running a plant stall and nodded awkwardly when she approached.
‘I heard what happened,’ was all he said. ‘Glad it was no worse.’
She had half expected another lecture on getting out of Friday Street, but none came. Hazel, he told her, was in the tea tent, selling her beloved cakes. Georgia had gathered that there was some rivalry as to whose cakes on the stall went first: Cadenza’s creamy Black Forest gâteau, Hazel’s iced carrot cake, Sheila’s amaretto cheesecake, and the chocolate cakes made by Bob’s wife, Mary Perry. Nearly all the plants on Josh’s stall had already been sold, and those remaining looked like wallflowers at the first real dance of summer. It was so hot today that it was hard to tell whether it was the heat or the accident making her head feel muzzy.
Such village fetes were timeless, and she wondered how many Fanny had attended. Had the gang come in force? Had they sneered at such humble village pleasures? Georgia almost felt part of Friday Street now. She began to feel she understood it, even though its darkest secrets hadn’t yet been penetrated. Perhaps there were none. Then she thought again of yesterday, and felt sick once again.
‘Come on,’ Luke said, miraculously materializing at her side and steering her towards the tent. ‘You look in need of tea and cake.’
She let herself be led, for her head felt as if it was filled with candy floss. She could see everyone without even using her eyes. She just knew they were there. Henry chatting with the vicar; Sheila, Dana, Cadenza and Hazel at the tea stall, performing an intricate dance with the plates, teacups and money. Cadenza spotted her first.
‘My dear Georgia.’ She was full of concern. ‘Sit down and I’ll bring you some tea. You must try my cake.’
‘Try Sheila’s cheesecake. It’s delicious,’ Dana said.
Cakes seemed to swim before Georgia’s face and she pleaded sickness. All she wanted was tea.
Cadenza brought it to her and then sat down at her side while she drank it. Squashed between her and Luke, Georgia felt like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. ‘I used to come here as a child,’ Cadenza confided.
‘To the tea tent?’ Georgia was confused.
Cadenza laughed merrily. ‘To this field. The old priory, which we used to call Solomon’s Temple. I feel I can commune with the true murderer of Lady Rosamund here. It was from here the wicked knight must have set out to murder her.’
‘You could appeal to his better nature to come forward,’ Georgia said idiotically. Why couldn’t she think straight? Cadenza would think she was mocking her, but she had no such intention.
‘Yes, yes, you do understand. If he confessed, if we could speak to his ghost, then I feel Friday Street might be much easier in its mind. I feel he cast a blight over this whole village by blaming my poor ancestor, Piers. If only he would come forward. Meanwhile,’ she laid her hand over Georgia’s, ‘you are facing great danger. Do please take very special care.’
Chapter Eleven
Sunday, the perfect antidote to Friday Street. Georgia lay back on the lounger in her garden, dozing, aware that somewhere far away was the sound of Luke in the kitchen preparing lunch. Next door she heard a door to the conservatory being flung open and her father’s routine wrangle with Margaret. This was usually good fun to overhear, since Margaret always won, but today she was content to let it drift past her. Her head no longer ached, but felt sufficiently heavy to excuse her remaining here, absolving her from duties for at least another day. Tomorrow would come the reckoning: who in Friday Street had wanted her dead? That, however, was apparently disputable.
‘Daft way to try to kill someone,’ Mike had pointed out. ‘It was only that corner did for you. If it had come off somewhere else, you probably wouldn’t even have lost control. He couldn’t bank on it.’
‘It felt pretty final to me,’ she’d muttered.
‘I’d say you were being warned off. We’ll station a community officer in Friday Street for a while.’
The offer had not inspired confidence. What could one person do if a whole village was united against her?
Mike had rung Peter yesterday evening, however, with the news that the Alice Winters case was officially being reopened. He’d added, so Peter had told her, that that meant Marsh & Daughter could continue looking into (or, to use Mike’s words, messing around with) the Fanny Star murder. ‘Which means,’ Peter had cynically suggested, ‘that we can do their donkey work for them – on the off chance that we’re right and there’s a firm link between the two.’
Today, from her lounger perspective, that link seemed far more likely than Mike would still credit. Nevertheless she wasn’t going to worry about it today. This was an official day off. She could even ignore the weeds growing in her garden. She’d done her major weeding for the year months ago, so any that grew now could have a free rein until autumn. Even lawn mowing was—
Her pleasant train of thought was interrupted by the intercom ringing inside her house. This was odd, for Peter had said he wouldn’t disturb her. Moreover it was tacitly acknowledged that the intercom was only for work purposes. If it was a paternal call, he’d use the landline. There was no rhyme or reason to this; it was just one of those habits that had grown up over the years. So why ring now? She heard the murmur of Luke’s voice, and sank back thankfully. For once she could wait and let the problem come to her.
It did. Luke came out into the garden after a few minutes, bearing two cups of instant coffee and a very worried look. ‘Anything wrong with Peter?’ she asked tentatively.
‘No. It’s Dana. Josh rang Peter.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Crazy scenarios whizzed through her mind.
‘It seems she ate something that disagreed with her. She’s in hospital.’
Bad, but not the worst, and why should Josh . . . Then she realized the answer to her question. ‘You mean really disagreed?’
‘Yes. She’s in a coma, and it doesn’t look good. She was just able to dial nine-nine-nine late last evening but was in a bad way when the ambulance got there. Her neighbour alerted Josh this morning.’
‘Why?’ Her brain didn’t seem to be working. ‘Why is he involved?’
‘The police arrived to search the cottage early this morning, and the grapevine swung into action. Obviously the police need to check what Dana had been eating. Peter’s rung Mike, who wasn’t best pleased on a Sunday morning, and he’s sorting it out with uniform. It was a large dose of something unpleasant, not yet identified. Any ideas?’
Salmonella, ancient cold meats, fish, chicken, all the usual suspects flashed through her mind. When she’d last opened Dana’s fridge yesterday it had looked fairly empty. Perhaps she had brought something home for supper. The answer then struck her with terrible force.
‘The pie!’ she said, aghast. ‘Sheila Ludd brought a coq au vin pie yesterday.’
‘There’s no such thing.’
‘It seems to have been a Ludd speciality. She,’ Georgia swallowed, ‘brought it round for us both, and since we were coming back to Haden Shaw, I left it with a note for Dana.’
Luke went very white. ‘You mean it was intended for you?’
Georgia grappled with the implications. ‘I don’t know. I think so. No, for both of us . . .’ She stopped rambling. ‘Yes,’ she added quietly, ‘Sheila said for both of us.’ She couldn’t get her head round the idea that it was Sheila and Michael Ludd who had baked it. ‘Does it have to be the pie?’ she asked, aware that she sounded pathetic.
‘No.’
Luke the comforter, Luke the strong. Georgia pulled herself together. ‘Which hospital is s
he in? I should go.’
‘The William Harvey at Ashford. And we should go.’
Of course, she thought dully. This was Dana, and Luke too must be suffering greatly. Dana held at least a part of Luke’s heart. She must acknowledge it, and be generous.
Lunch was a hurried affair with the sunshine gone from the day. All Georgia could think of was Dana, as she was convinced that she, Georgia, had been the real target if the pie proved to contain poison. Accidental poisoning to such a severe extent seemed unlikely, she and Luke had agreed, and yet the alternative was too much to take in all at once.
The hospital was a maze of endless bright sterile corridors of anonymity, intensifying her fear of what they might find at the other end. They found Dana, still in a coma, in a room by herself. Looking down at her sleeping, peaceful face, the dark hair tumbled around her and the mass of tubes sticking everywhere, Georgia felt perilously near crying. Come back, she willed her, come back. We’ll start again. A second chance at a friendship that she’d in her heart of hearts resisted. But there was no movement. Nothing.
She and Luke remained for an hour, talking to her, trying to break through to her, but to no noticeable avail, and finally decided they should leave. ‘If you can hear us, Dana, we’ll be back. Both of us,’ she promised.
Another visitor arrived as they went into the corridor. Henry Ludd of all people. So Friday Street had a heart, Georgia thought. One member of the family showed sympathy while two more apparently conspired to kill both Dana and herself. The pie loomed large in her still woolly head, and she found it hard to be natural, even though she was condemning without evidence.
‘Is there any news?’ Henry asked. He looked much older than when she had last seen him at the fete. The effort of coming here must be quite considerable, and though he had no need of a wheelchair he leaned heavily on his stick.
‘No change, I’m afraid.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll sit with her for a while. It can do no harm, can it?’
They left him at Dana’s side, and Georgia glanced back as they walked along the corridor. ‘I may be slightly cuckoo today, but what’s Henry Ludd doing here?’
