by Agatha Frost
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Alan said as he reversed out of their driveway using the view of the back of the car on the dashboard screen. “I think you and I have got along very well for all these years.”
Janet pursed her lips, but she didn’t fire anything back. To most, Claire’s parents had a funny relationship, but to Claire, it made perfect sense. Her father’s wit and playful spirit softened Janet’s humourless, stiff ways. Forty-five years of marriage had deeply intertwined their roots. They loved each other too much to ever take the other too seriously. At thirty-five, Claire was in a shrinking group of acquaintances whose parents hadn’t divorced.
Fine drizzle sprayed the windscreen as they trundled down the bumpy lane leading away from the cul-de-sac. The automatic wipers batted the droplets away as the sky darkened behind them. The sun had been up for hours, and yet its morning light barely broke through the clouds; it looked more like 9 pm than 9 am.
The drizzle turned to pelting rain as they emerged from the lane. Villagers and shoppers in the square scattered to the shelter of the open shops. Alan pulled up in front of Jane’s Tearoom, the only business not adding its warm glow to the encroaching darkness. The dark shop had been closed since the beginning of January – but not for much longer.
Claire grinned from ear to ear, her dream candle shop finally within reach.
Chapter Two
Sally Halliwell and Damon Gilbert huddled under the slight canopy jutting out above the shop window. At least two more people could have fit in the gap between them, but then, they had never been close in any sense.
Claire considered them her best friends, but they came from different parts of her life. She’d known Sally practically since birth, and they’d gone through school together. While she’d known of Damon for just as long – he’d also gone to their school – their friendship hadn’t blossomed until they found themselves working on the same production line at the candle factory. For whatever reason, Claire had never been able to bridge the gap between her two closest friends.
“Sorry we’re late,” Claire called as she and the orchid hurried from the car to the shelter. “I lost track of time.”
“Don’t be silly!” Sally wafted her hand before digging in her pocket. “I was early. Here you go.”
Sally thrust the keys into Claire’s hand. With the rain pounding down around them, Claire stared at them, unsure how to react. The paperwork had been signed and deposits paid almost a month ago. She’d only ever rented one other building, a small two-bedroom workman’s cottage she’d shared with her cats until her landlord decided he wanted his house back after years of living away. The process of checks and guarantors had been slow all those years ago, but getting the keys for the shop had felt like diving through a series of ever-moving hoops while wearing cement shoes.
And just like that, after all the waiting, here they were in her hands.
“Let’s get inside,” Damon said, pulling something from his pocket. “Sally, hold this.”
Sally picked up the end of a red ribbon and stretched it across the front door. Damon reached into another pocket in his factory-issued lumpy blue jumpsuit and pulled out a pair of scissors.
“I know you’re meant to wait until the shop opens,” he called over the rain, thrusting them into her hand, “but I couldn’t resist.”
Claire giddily snipped through the ribbon, her smile spreading wider than she’d thought possible. If not for the rain, she might have lingered longer to bask in the moment.
The ring held three different keys, and only one matched up with the gold Yale lock. She plucked it out and slotted it in. The metal clicked through the rivets in the lock, each sending a tingle down her spine. She twisted, and the tension in the door gave up and swung inwards.
This moment would stay with her forever.
Eager to get out of the rain, Claire hurried in, glad she hadn’t dried her hair after all. Sally and Damon followed quickly, and Janet and Alan joined them, leaving the decorating equipment in the boot of the car. Once they were all inside, Claire closed the door.
“It’s weird seeing it like this,” Damon whispered, the only one not to have visited the shop since Jane left. “Eerie, almost.”
Claire couldn’t disagree. The once vibrant tearoom had been stripped bare, leaving only the black and white linoleum floor, and dated blue floral wallpaper. Crinkled newspaper sheets hung sloppily at the windows, applied once the ‘TO LET’ sign finally came down.
“It’s funny how different it feels,” Janet remarked, running her hands over the bubbled and peeling wallpaper. “The spirit has left the place. You can just tell Jane isn’t here anymore.”
“And good for her!” Alan hobbled over to the wall and flicked on the row of lights; he never used his cane outside of the house, and even then, he only used it when he really needed it. “Poor woman worked far longer than she should have. Eighty is no age to be running a place like this on her own. She earned that retirement.”
“Where’d she go again?” Sally asked, checking her watch, no doubt eager to rush off to another of her estate agent appointments. “Spain?”
“France,” Janet peered through a bright square in the window where some newspaper had come unstuck. “I hope the weather is a damn sight better there than it is here right now.”
Claire placed the orchid on the small windowsill in the front bay window. Spring may have well and truly sprung, but the air in the unused building still held a chill.
“I thought she would have written,” Janet said, also checking her watch. “But you’re right, she deserved to retire, especially since her selfish daughter wouldn’t take over.”
Claire rolled her eyes, more at the idea that Em, Jane’s daughter, was ‘selfish’ for not wanting to run her mother’s café than over Jane’s lack of correspondence.
For years, the same description about Em, now in her fifties, had been parroted around the village ad nauseam. Claire had never agreed with the idea that children should follow directly in the footsteps of their parents. It wasn’t like she had forced Sid and Domino into becoming candle making cats.
“Well, I say it’s about time someone gives this place a new lease on life!” Alan remarked, patting Claire slowly on the shoulder. “What do you say, little one?”
“I think you’re right, Dad.”
“It’s certainly about time someone changed this wallpaper,” Janet said, tugging at a ripped edge until a chunk the shape of a banana tore off the yellowed plaster. “I’ve always wanted to do that. Noticed it every time I came in.”
Claire turned to the window, and her heart skipped a beat before hammering twice as hard. Two eyes stared back through the gap in the newspaper, an umbrella casting a dark shadow over them as the rain pounded down.
“Bloody hell!” Damon cried out when he turned and spotted it. “What the . . . ?”
The eyes belonged to Agnes Reid, who ran one of the local B&Bs with her twin sister, Jeanie. Claire knew of them, though they weren’t acquainted. It was common knowledge that Jeanie was the nicer of the sisters.
Since word of Claire’s plan had spread, Agnes, along with a handful of other Jane’s Tearoom ‘loyalists’, had been showing their discontent. None of them, including Agnes, had said anything to Claire’s face, but she’d endured enough sideways glances, fake smiles, and cold silences to know what was going on.
“Not this again.” Janet huffed, shooing at Agnes like she, too, had been caught gnawing at the leftover chicken. “I won’t have you harassing my daughter.”
“Only your mother gets to do that,” Alan teased in a whisper.
Agnes let her glare linger on Claire for a moment longer before scurrying off into the rain. Though Claire had lived in the village since birth, the loyalists made her feel like an intruder, which she was sure was their goal. Anyone who dared to take over the tearoom and not keep things frozen in amber was always going to have been met with some resistance, but Claire hadn’t expected so much hostility from w
omen who didn’t even know her. She was sure they didn’t even care enough to remember her name unless they actively enjoyed referring to her as ‘that candle woman.’
“Mate?” Sally said, already by the door. “I wish I could stay and celebrate, but I have to shoot off.”
“Viewing?”
Sally nodded. “And it’s a big one. Farmhouse out in the countryside – 1.2 million pounds. Five bedrooms, pool, you name it. It’s one appointment I can’t be late for.” She rechecked her watch before saying, “Champagne and ice cream at mine tonight?”
Claire’s heart beamed at the suggestion. Despite their closeness growing up, their lives had gone in different directions. While Claire had, as her mother called it, ‘floundered’ through her twenties, Sally found the life Janet had always wanted for her daughter. She had a high-flying career as an estate agent, a husband, and two children. Leading such different lives, Claire and Sally had naturally drifted, though they’d always remained friends. Sally’s role as the shop’s estate agent, not to mention how vital she’d been in solving the murder at the candle factory, had brought them back together; this was Sally’s fourth invitation to her house in a month.
“I’d love that.”
“Call me when you’re done here, and I’ll pick you up to save you walking up the hill.” She pecked Claire on the cheek, eyes still on her watch. “I’ll see—”
“Just one second, Sally Halliwell!” Janet bellowed from the kitchen. “There’s a strange smell in here.”
“There is?”
“Ignore her.” Claire sighed. “She thinks there’s a strange smell everywhere. Nose more sensitive than a dog in an airport.”
Alan hobbled into the kitchen, recoiling when he breathed in the air. Damon followed and went as far as to gag.
“Not this again,” Sally muttered before slowly exhaling. “I thought we’d sorted it.”
Before Claire could ask, Sally marched into the kitchen; the smell knocked her back a few steps. More than a little curious, Claire followed. The stink hit her like a slap across the face. Putrid was the word that came to mind. It reminded her of the time she’d discovered a rotten bowl of cereal that had found its way under her bed. When she’d lived alone, of course. At home, her mother would have sensed Claire was about to put her midnight snack on the floor and swooped in before it touched the carpet.
Sally pushed through the minglers and pulled open the door to the staircase leading to the small flat above. The scent intensified, flooding the kitchen like water through a burst dam. Disgusting, stagnant water.
“It smells like something’s died up there.” Damon coughed, covering his mouth and nose with the crook of his elbow.
“I thought it was the sewers.” Sally did the same with her sleeve. “I could smell something when I got here for the viewings. Opening the windows cleared it, and I had someone come in and clean out the drains.”
“I don’t think it’s the drains,” Alan said, with an unsmiling face. “And I don’t think Damon is too far off. It smells like decay.”
“I’ll go and have a look,” Sally said, already stepping into the dark stairway. “Stay there.”
While Sally’s footsteps creaked the floorboards in the flat above them, Claire walked back to the bay window. She ripped the paper off the top panels – the only ones able to open – and shimmied out each metal bolt lock. Rain blew in with the swirling wind; together, they cleared the air enough for Claire to feel comfortable breathing without fabric in the way. She heard someone doing the same with the windows in the kitchen.
“Anything?” Alan called up the stairs, his look of worry growing. “Sally?”
“One second,” she cried back, muffled and distant.
With the windows open, the four of them reconvened in the kitchen. The smell cleared enough to let them uncover their mouths. Janet unclipped her small handbag and sprayed her floral perfume around her before pulling out a creaseless brilliant white handkerchief to cover her face anyway.
“Sally?” Alan called up again, hands on hips, left foot tapping uncontrollably – which could be irritation or impatience as much as the nerve damage.
“I can’t see anything,” she called back. “It’s clear.”
Alan set off up the stairs, Janet hurrying behind him.
“Don’t you have to get to work?” Claire asked Damon, knowing he started at nine just as she had always done.
“Graham won’t mind.” Damon shrugged as he walked through the door. “He runs things a little looser. I texted ahead and told him I wanted to be here when you got the keys, and he said he understood.”
“Nice guy.”
Claire almost couldn’t believe she had suspected her next-door neighbour, Grahamm, of murdering Nicola, his wife and the former owner of the factory. If not for him paying Claire £3000 for the vanilla candle formula his wife stole from her, she’d never have managed to rent the shop in the first place, strange smell or not.
Following Damon up the dim staircase, Claire noticed how tattered and frayed the dark floral carpet was. The walls also had cracks and light patches of damp that she hadn’t noticed until now. She’d been so blinded by the idea of turning the tearoom into a candle shop, she hadn’t seen the flaws.
“Are you sure you want to live here, Claire?” Janet asked once Claire emerged into the much brighter flat. The window had a view of the village square from the same height as the central clock tower. “It’s a bit dingy.”
The flat, like the stairs, was also more rundown than she’d first realised. More dated and faded peeling wallpaper covered the walls, and the floral carpet was so trodden it barely resembled fabric except where the furniture had kept it protected.
“Nothing a bit of paint won’t fix,” Claire pointed out, glad Sally had gone through and opened all the windows, “and—”
“Is that black mould?” Janet gasped, her hand going over her mouth as she pointed at the ceiling. “Sally Halliwell! What have you dragged my daughter into?”
“I swear that wasn’t there,” Sally said quickly, looking to Claire for support. “That never came up during any of the inspections.”
“I didn’t see it either,” Claire backed her up. “I definitely would have noticed that.”
“It looks fresh.” Alan stood under it, hands on his hips as he stared up, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Maybe a bird somehow got into the roof and died?”
“What were you saying earlier about killing birds with stones, Claire?” Janet remarked, sticking as close to the window – the source of fresh air – as she could. “But that would explain the smell. Someone needs to go up into the attic to have a look.”
“Where’s the attic door?” Alan asked.
Sally scanned the ceiling, the red blush forming under her light layer of makeup a giveaway that she didn’t know.
“For goodness sake!” Janet huffed and set off. “Everyone take a different room, and we’ll—”
“Found it,” Damon said, nodding into the open bathroom, eyes on the ceiling. “It’s in the same place as mine. The layout is almost identical to my flat.”
Claire had visited Damon’s flat above Marley’s Café – the only other place to get a cup of tea and a slice of cake since the tearoom had closed – many times. His apartment was darkly decorated and so crammed with Doctor Who memorabilia (Damon’s only vice, according to him) that she’d never noticed the similarities. They both had the open-plan living area with a U-shaped kitchen tucked away in a corner, a small open vestibule, and three doors leading off to the bathroom and two bedrooms. Damon’s flat, however, was a flipped mirror image.
“Please tell me you have a key, Sally?” Janet asked, already sounding resigned to the fact she didn’t.
“Why would she carry around an attic key, my love?” Alan asked, slightly holding her back while Sally patted down her pockets. “I think it’s similar to the one we have at home.”
“Similar, or the same?” Sally pulled out her phone. “There might be
a copy at the office. I can have one of the lads bring it—”
“Wait.” Damon pulled out his giant bundle of keys with more Doctor Who themed keyrings than seemed natural. “If the doors are in the same place . . .”
Tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, he dug amongst the monster figurines and metal logo keyrings before pulling out the one key that didn’t resemble a key at all. He held the stubby black object up to the light, squinting between the lock and key.
“It looks the same,” Claire said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Is there a chair somewhere?”
“Flat’s empty.” Sally took the bundle of keys from Damon and nodded for Claire to give her a leg up onto the sink. “I think I can get up there.”
“It’ll hold your weight better than mine,” Claire joked as she helped Sally up onto the sink. “Luckily, you’re the lightest one here.”
“Excuse me!” Janet cleared her throat. “I am here.”
“Also, sixty-something.” Alan pulled Janet out of the bathroom entirely. “Leave them to it, dear.”
With Claire and Damon each holding a leg, Sally steadied herself on the sink by reaching her fingertips out to the textured roof.
“I can’t believe they ever made bathrooms this small,” Claire said, careful to keep Sally as still as possible. “You couldn’t swing a cat in here.”
“Watch me try,” her mother muttered from the hall.
Sally reached out and the stubby black thing slotted into the lock perfectly. The bundle of keyrings bounced noisily from side to side as she rattled the key.
“I think the bathrooms were an afterthought,” Damon said, holding Sally’s wobbling leg higher than he seemed comfortable with. “These shops were here before indoor plumbing.”
Sally gave one final grunt. The lock clicked, and the door swung heavily down. She wobbled back and forth as a fresh wave of the rotting smell poured out of the attic, and every muscle in her legs shook against Claire’s fingers.
