by Agatha Frost
“Jane’s gone,” Claire said, louder than she’d intended. “She wanted to retire. She deserved it, and someone took that away from her. If you sat down and actually thought about it instead of mindlessly gossiping, you’d stop pointing the finger at me for daring to change the status quo.” She paused to exhale heavily, before adding in a softer voice, “I’m just a normal woman trying to open the shop of my dreams, and last time I checked, I’m the only person in this room actively helping Jane’s daughter figure out what happened to her mother.”
Agnes opened her mouth to fire back, but nothing came. Claire tried not to let her pleased smile break through, but she couldn’t help it. Nostrils flared, Agnes spun around and grabbed her coat off the back of her chair.
“Your cake was dry,” Agnes shot at Marley before stomping to the door. “Ladies?”
The four other women, all locals Claire recognised from around the village, gathered up their things and scurried after Agnes. One by one, they glared through the window as they headed back to the square.
“Brava!” Eugene cried, clapping. “That was fabulous, Claire!”
“Knew there’d be trouble from the moment they stepped foot inside,” Marley said as he quickly cleared away their table. “Funny that she thought it was dry. She finished every last crumb.”
“They didn’t pay, dear!” Eugene slapped his hand on the counter. “Should I go drag them back by their pearls?”
“Let them have this one on me,” Marley said, winking to Claire as he hurried past. “It’ll be their first and last time in here. They’re barred.”
“Can you believe she called me a hobbit?” Greta cried as she pulled Claire in for a longer hug; nobody gave better hugs than Granny Greta. “Thanks for sticking up for me, love. It’s good to see you. I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” Claire hadn’t realised just how much until that moment. “I’ll walk you home, Gran.”
“That would be lovely.” Greta looped their arms and nodded. “I’ll tell you all about my holiday.”
Leaving Damon to get changed in his flat upstairs, which he entered via a door in the kitchen just like Claire’s new abode, they set off. Greta’s cottage was situated further up the side street, the last house before it became a dead-end at Gary’s Mechanics.
“I stayed in a lovely hotel in the mountains of southern Spain,” Greta said as they walked slowly down the street. “It had a terrace that looked over this valley. Oh, it was beautiful! I’ll show you the pictures as soon as they’re developed.”
Even in her eighties, Granny Greta still made a habit of going on holiday multiple times a year. No amount of sun was enough for her, and since she’d learned how to search for deals and book her own holidays online, it had been impossible to keep her in the country for more than a few months at a time.
“Good to be home?” Claire asked.
“I wish I could say it was.” She patted Claire’s hand. “I still can’t wrap my head around it, to tell you the truth. Who would do something like that to Jane?”
“I wish I knew.” They reached the end of the street. “You and Jane must have been around the same age. Did you know her?”
“When you get to my age, it’s hard not to know a little about everyone in a village like this.” Greta chuckled as she pulled her key out of her coat pocket. “I was two years above Jane at school, but they used to teach us all at once back when we still had the original village school. She was always a bit of a bossy boots.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes.” She slotted the key into the lock. “A bit of a bully, to tell you to the truth, though her mother’s no better! I still remember when the shop was Opal’s Tearoom. I think Jane was only a young ‘un when it was forced upon her.”
“Forced?” Claire echoed, her ears pricking up. “Jane didn’t want the tearoom?”
“Did she, bugger!” Greta swung the front door open and stepped in, turning to face Claire. “She couldn’t have been any older than eighteen when her grandfather died, and her mother inherited that whopping big house and all that old money. What teenager wants the responsibility? Her mother made her do everything on her own. Cut her off the second she handed over the tearoom keys. It took Jane a good few years to settle into that role. She cleaned up her act, and I became quite fond of her, but every so often that bullish girl I knew from school came out.”
The more she heard about Jane, the more human she became in Claire’s mind. For years, she had been the smiling woman in the tearoom who loved Claire’s black cherry candles and was always willing to tell a good story or listen to one if something interesting had happened. Claire had always liked Jane, but she hadn’t known her at all; not the real her, at least.
“I don’t know if I’m coming or going.” Greta fanned out a yawn. “I’ve had a right day of it. Bloody wheel came off my suitcase at the airport!” She pulled open the door to show the tilted red plastic case; she gave it a swift kick. “Serves me right. I thought I was saving a few bob getting it from the charity shop, but you pay cheap, you pay twice!” Another yawn escaped her. “I’ll let you get on your way, love. I think an early night is calling my name.”
“Night, Gran.” Claire kissed her on the cheek. “Sleep well.”
Claire joined Damon at the café door. He’d changed into a pair of baggy jeans, a baggy t-shirt with a baggy long-sleeved shirt over the top, and a scruffy pair of Converse. Like Claire, Damon couldn’t have cared less about fashion; it was one of the many points they’d bonded over early in their friendship. That, and both of their mothers being far more invested in their children’s love lives than those same children had ever been.
“I’m gasping for a pint,” Damon said, rubbing his hands together. “Might order a pie, too. Those buttons didn’t touch the sides.”
“Ooh, a pie.” Claire looped her arm through his. “I could just inhale a pie.”
They reached the top of the street and turned in the direction of the pub, but in her peripheral vision, Claire noticed someone join in right behind them. She spun and was surprised to see Agnes Reid – alone this time. Had she been waiting for Claire at the top of the street?
“You said you had questions?” Agnes said, her tone rigid, but without her audience, most of her bravado had vanished. “My son works at the factory, and he speaks very highly of you. You saved his job.”
“Why the sudden change of heart?” Claire asked.
“I haven’t had any change of heart.” Agnes stiffened up, her hands going to clutch the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “I still think that you’re erasing an important piece of Northash history, but if there’s any way I can help bring peace to Jane, I’ll help.”
“Thank you,” Claire said, smiling and meaning it. “We’re on the same side, then, because that’s all I want too.”
Agnes briefly returned the smile. “What did you want to ask me?”
“When did you last see Jane?”
“That’s easy.” Agnes unclipped her bag and pulled out a paper sleeve of printed photographs. “I’ve just had copies made.”
Agnes pulled out the stack of glossy pictures and handed one to Claire. It depicted Jane in front of the tearoom in the dead of night, with Agnes and six other similarly aged women around her. They were all wrapped up in hats, scarves, and gloves, smiling at the camera.
“I overheard Jane say her taxi was picking her up at four,” Agnes said, putting the rest of the photographs back in her bag. “Wasn’t hard to convince the ladies to surprise Jane with a final send-off, despite how bitterly cold it was that morning.”
“This was taken the day she was supposed to leave?” Claire asked, squinting at Jane in the slightly blurry image. She wore a heavy-looking red coat, and a shiny black scarf with white polka dots was wrapped around her neck; it looked like silk. “What time?”
“Can’t have been much before four,” Agnes said, glancing back at the shop across the square. “We roped in some poor early morning jogger to take the
picture, but she was happy to oblige. The taxi pulled up almost as soon as the woman handed back my camera. The driver didn’t get out to help Jane put her cases in the car, but we managed it between us.”
“You’re saying Jane got in the taxi?” Claire asked, her brows knitted tightly. “How can that be possible?”
“More than that,” Agnes said in a lower voice, leaning in slightly. “We waved her off. We watched her taxi leave the square.”
“But that makes no sense.”
“Well, it’s what happened.” Agnes took a step back, hands clinging the bag strap again. “We marched into the station and told the police, but they didn’t seem to believe us. I made copies of the picture to give to the ladies as a memento, and to take up to the police as evidence that we saw Jane Brindle leave Northash.” She checked her watch. “That’s all I know. I need to get back to the B&B for dinner.”
“One more thing,” Claire said quickly. “Did Jane mention being ill or thinking she had food poisoning?”
“Food poisoning?” Agnes shook her head. “Not that I recall.”
“Did she seem sick to you?”
“I never noticed.” She checked her watch again. “It was cold, so we were all shivering. She seemed tired but excited. And it was four in the morning.” She took another step back, nodding at the picture in Claire’s hands. “You can keep that one. I made spares.”
Head lowered, Agnes set off across the square in the direction of the bed and breakfast. Claire stared at the picture, more confused than ever.
“How could Jane have left the same night she died in the attic?” Claire pinched between her brows, the revelation of Jane’s movements making her head hurt even more. “None of this makes any sense. I feel like I’m being lied to.”
“By whom?”
“I wish I knew.” Claire lifted the photograph to her face and tried to see if Jane looked ill, but the white balance washed out all of their faces in the darkness. “Does she look ill to you?”
“Can’t really tell.” He tilted his head. “I could take a picture of it and try to enhance it on my computer.”
“You can do that?”
“Leave it with me.” Damon pulled out his phone and snapped a quick copy of the photograph. “I’ll try and correct the white balance to see if it brings out any details.”
“Thank you.” Claire slid the picture in her hand next to the plastic bag with the records; the key suddenly called out to her. “Do you mind if we don’t go for a drink after all? I think I need to face the shop.”
“Sure.” Damon stepped back in the direction of the pub. “I’ll still go if it’s all the same. Some of the lads from work mentioned they’d be in tonight.”
“Hark at you, Damon Gilbert.” Claire could barely believe her ears. “One of the lads, all of a sudden?”
“Without you, I’ve been forced to mingle.” He playfully jabbed her in the arm. “Turns out, they’re not so bad once you get past the smell.” He fired a wink as he spun. “Good luck in the shop.”
“Good luck being one of the lads.”
Claire watched Damon cross the road with a slightly giddy spring to his step. Back in school, Damon was the boy who sat silent and friendless in the library. Their paths had never crossed. The idea that one of her closest friends had been there the whole time, lonely in the background, didn’t sit right with her. Maybe leaving him ‘alone’ at the factory was just what he needed; she’d worried he might have returned to being that impossibly shy boy in the library.
Claire crossed the square, but she only got as far as the pavement across the street. The floral tribute had been cleared from the bench and added to the second pile under the window, pushing it up past the window ledge. Most of the flowers had dried up, and the ink in the cards had run, but nobody seemed in a hurry to move the display on; Claire couldn’t blame them.
Opening her bag, she went to pull the key out of the plastic bag, but her hand found the photograph instead. She held it up, the lines of the picture almost matching up with the scene in front of her.
“What happened to you, Jane?” she whispered. “What am I missing?”
Claire lowered the picture and sat on the bench. She stared ahead at the tearoom, wishing she could go back to the giddy excitement of the morning Sally had handed over the keys. How quickly things had soured since that moment. She slotted the picture away, knowing she wasn’t ready to face the tearoom yet. Was it too late to run after Damon and join him for that pint?
“Claire!” a familiar voice called from across the street. “I thought that was you!”
Claire cut her eyes from the tearoom to The Abbey Friar Fish and Chip Shop next door as a woman of about sixty stepped out of the shop, a white plastic bag in hand. It took Claire a moment to place her as the housekeeper from Starfall, Diane.
“Evening,” Claire called back, as Diane crossed the road to meet her. “Chippy tea?”
“We always have fish and chips on Friday,” Diane revealed, opening up the bag to glance down at the paper-wrapped food. “It’s tradition, and Opal loves sticking to her traditions.”
“Sounds like a good tradition,” Claire said, letting her eyes drift past Diane to the chippy, the scent of the salt and vinegar from the bag grumbling her stomach. “I think I’ll do the same.”
“You’re more than welcome to join me at the house,” Diane said, glancing back at the entrance to Park Lane. “I couldn’t help but notice you look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
“You could say that.”
“Then I insist.” Diane smiled, looping her arm through Claire’s. “Come on, let’s go. I always over-order so I can have leftovers for Saturday lunchtime.”
Claire barely knew the woman, but she let Diane pull her up the hill and into Starfall Park; at that moment, she needed a chat and a chippy tea more than anything.
Chapter Ten
“They added this second entrance at a later date,” Diane explained as they walked through the side entrance of the park. “I think that was about 1875. Wall used to run right up.”
They shimmied around the side of the bollard, coming out on the other side of the fountain. The longer and warmer days of spring showed in the park. The children’s area was full of kids laughing and playing, with parents watching adoringly around the edges. Groups of teenagers lingered here and there, but with the flowers and trees around them, they didn’t seem as threatening as they did when loitering around the square. Dog walkers nodded and smiled at each other, and some even stopped to chat.
Over the years, many a person had commented that Starfall Park was a happy place, and Claire was obliged to agree.
“What about the observatory?” Claire stopped and shielded her eyes to look up at the dome atop the dark stone building at the peak of the hill. “I’ve always been curious. I heard it used to be open to the public.”
“Built in 1904 by Opal’s grandfather after the death of her grandmother,” Diane explained, stopping and then doubling back to join Claire. “According to Opal, he became obsessed with the idea that his deceased wife was amongst the stars, and he drove himself mad trying to find her.” She pointed up to a large oak tree on the corner; the path bent around it. “Hanged himself in that tree there in 1920. That’s when Opal’s father inherited.”
“That’s horrible!” Claire gasped. “How have I never heard about it?”
“Family hushed it up,” she whispered, tapping her nose. “And I expect you to honour that.”
“Of course.”
“Well, Opal’s father kept the observatory shackled up until his death,” Diane continued with a sigh. “Timothy, Opal’s late husband, thought the building should make them money, so he opened it to members of the park. But then Timothy, just like Opal’s grandfather, fell in love with the stars, and he no longer wanted to share that pleasure with others.”
“Did it turn him mad too?”
“Oh, no, dear.” Diane chuckled, setting off again. “He died qu
ite peacefully in his bed in 2001, at the age of eighty-three. Lung cancer got him in the end, but he was up there stargazing just days before his death. Smoked Cuban cigars like they were going out of fashion. You can still smell the smoke in the books on a hot day.”
Diane passed the bag of food to Claire before fishing her keys from her pocket. She slotted the key into the lock but paused before opening the door, turning to look back at the observatory through the wall of trees that barely shielded the house.
“It’s a shame it never gets used.” Diane’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before she pushed open the door. “The observatory is how Starfall got its name. Before it, when the park belonged to the family and was the gardens of the house, it was referred to as the Oak Estate. They sold it off to the local authorities for eleven thousand pounds – which was a lot back in 1908.”
“That’s still a lot right now,” Claire replied. “I think I’d have a heart attack if my bank account ever went up to five digits.”
“Oh, but it would be worth as much as the house today.” Diane wiped her feet on the doormat at the kitchen door. “Millions, at least! According to the stories, the observatory nearly bankrupted the family, so they clawed themselves back from the brink by selling the land. Oak House and the observatory were sectioned off, and Starfall stuck.” She dragged her feet against the brown stippled doormat and whispered, “Technically, this is still Oak House on the deeds, but nobody calls it that.”
Diane stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the kitchen floor. She balled her fists up and planted them on her hips.
“Really, Colin?” she cried. “More bootprints? Is it so hard to take them off at the back door?”
Diane hurried across the large kitchen, straight for a mop and bucket in the corner. She wrung it out and chased the prints around the table, reminding Claire of her mother.
“I don’t know why Opal keeps Colin around,” Diane called over her shoulder as Claire wiped her feet on the doormat, scared of not being thorough enough. “She hates him as much as I do, but she insists he’s the best of the best, and only the best for Starfall Park.”
