by J New
“That’s very kind of you, I’m sure he will be very grateful. Oh, and Mr Kelly?”
“Yes, Penny?”
She wanted to tell him about overhearing the conversation between Milo and Nick Staines but decided it would keep until the next day. “Thanks again.”
Penny stared at her phone, and then back at Fischer. They were parked outside the manor, about to go in. “Do you think I should call Edward?”
Fischer turned his head and pawed at the van door.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then,” she muttered and put the phone back in her bag. Her errant ex-fiancé had continued to text and leave her pleading voice messages throughout the day, such that she was bombarded by pinging sounds when she had switched her phone on after work. It was a weight off her mind to be able to turn it off again.
As soon as she opened the driver’s door, Fischer leapt across her and jumped out, racing toward the portico.
The gravel crunched beneath her feet as she walked to the entrance and Celia let them in.
“Hello, Penny. Fischer, are you coming to the kitchen with me?”
Fischer looked up at Penny with his tongue hanging out.
She chuckled. “You’re no fool, are you? You know Celia has goodies for you in the kitchen. Off you go then.”
In the library, Penny was glad to lose herself in a parallel universe, one where Edward Marshall didn’t exist. Working her way through Mrs Montague’s collection of books was an adventure with surprises and treasures waiting on every shelf. There was still another wall of books to trawl through, dust, meticulously catalogue and then categorise depending on their future homes, but she estimated with Mr Kelly’s help they should get through it in another week or so. She supposed then she could start planning the trip she would take with the money she had earned, and she vowed to make it a good one, worthy of Mrs Montague’s gift to her. Because of course it was a gift, however Mrs Montague had chosen to dress it up.
She pulled the sheets of paper from the bag Mr Kelly had given her and read his notes and comments. His precise cursive script was easy to decipher, and using a ballpoint pen she carefully checked off the final list of books to be sent to the British Library, against the contents of the box. She then verified the number of books in the box against the number of books on the list, just to be sure. But no matter how many times she tried, she couldn’t get them to tally.
Even though she had taken the duplicate titles the Library did not want out of the box, there were several other works she was unable to find. One of those was a book the curator had told Mr Kelly they were very excited about. That it was missing didn’t make sense, as it must have been there when he made the list. Deciding she was tired and probably not thinking straight, she was glad when Celia and Fischer arrived, Celia carrying two mugs of steaming hot tea, and Fischer chewing one of his toys, left behind on an earlier visit.
“Thank you, Celia. I think I’ll call it a night after this,” Penny said, accepting the tea and slumping into one of the leather armchairs. “By the way, there are a couple of books I can’t seem to find. You didn’t happen to move anything in here, by any chance?”
“Not me, dear, although Master Milo was in here earlier, you should ask him. He’s gone to pick up his wife from the station in Winstoke and then he’s taking her out for dinner. I told him I’ve heard good things about the French bistro. Have you been?”
Penny shook her head, at a loss for words. As far as she was concerned, the less said about the French bistro, the better.
The way Celia’s mouth was set in a straight line indicated to Penny the older woman was not happy about something either. “I can ask him tomorrow if you’d like? but I’d prefer if you did it yourself, Penny. Truth be told we had words earlier.”
“That’s fine, I’ll mention it when I see him.”
Without waiting to be asked, Celia continued, “Told me I’d need to pack my bags, insomuch as the place is being sold and my services are no longer required.” She gazed at Penny in indignation. “It’s not entirely unexpected, but I’m surprised at the way he just blurted it out. He might have been a bit more sensitive to my feelings, considering anyone can see I’m upset enough as it is. The funeral’s in a couple of days and it’s all getting on top of me.”
“Maybe it just came out in the wrong way. Milo strikes me as being quite shy, and he probably felt awkward about having to break such bad news to you. I doubt he meant to be so abrupt or tactless.”
Celia raised her eyebrows. “You always think the best of people. All I know is, I’m not his responsibility, and all this is his now.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm across the breadth of the room. “He said I should make other arrangements as soon as possible as the new owner wants to start work on the place right away.”
“Did he say anything about who the new owner is?”
“Hmmph. Him next door, judging by the fact he was walking around this afternoon with a surveyor. Next thing you know, the bulldozers will be lined up. Mrs Montague must be turning in her grave. I’ll be homeless and unemployed, and what does he care? I’ve done this job my whole working life and don’t expect I’ll get another. Not much call for live-in help apart from nannies and au pairs these days. Nobody wants an old woman like me getting under their feet.”
Any thought of Penny’s own troubles was forgotten in light of Celia’s woes. “What will you do? Do you have somewhere to go?”
“I have savings, I won’t be on the streets.” Celia straightened in her chair and jutted out her chin. “I’m not looking for charity, don’t get me wrong. It’s Nick Staines and that smug attitude of his that riles me. He’s a man who gets what he wants at whatever cost, mark my words.”
From what Penny had overheard from the conversation between Nick and Milo, she thought Celia was probably right. “This may be a stupid question, but can you remember what kind of coat Nick was wearing when he was here earlier?”
Celia nodded. “A green waxed coat with a brown corduroy collar. I’ve noticed he wears that when he’s in country squire mode. When he’s back and forth to London, he wears a suit, or jeans with a leather jacket.”
Penny’s mind was made up. It was about time she had a word with Nick Staines, to see what he had to say for himself.
“This way, Fischer.” Penny said, gently tugging on the lead in the dark.
It was a few hundred yards from the manor to the glass building beyond the trees that marked the edge of Mrs Montague’s garden. There was no path, and although the Staines’ residence had its own driveway, accessing it involved driving back down the lane from the manor, along the main road until the next entrance, and back up the hill again. The shortcut across the garden was the quicker option, although perhaps not the most sensible one Penny decided as she squelched through the muddy grass. At one point she had to give her leg a vigorous shake to loosen her shoe from where it had been sucked into the earth below. Fischer stopped and waited for her to extricate her foot and recover her stride. Arriving on Nick Staines’ doorstep with mud clinging to her legs was not her most dignified look.
The huge glass box masquerading as a home was illuminated from several different rooms within, giving it a checkered appearance on their approach. The glass had an opacity rendering it impossible to see through, and Penny wondered what it was like inside. Glancing around the entrance, no doorbell was visible. Just as she was about to knock, a booming male voice coming from a concealed speaker made her jump. “Who is it?”
“It’s Penny Finch, from the village,” she said, addressing the door. “I’d like a word with Mr Staines, if he’s home, please.”
The speaker crackled for a moment and then there was a click before it went silent. Penny glanced down at Fischer, who was looking up at her in quiet confusion. The door opened abruptly, and Nick Staines stood facing them, cigarette in hand, wearing cycling shorts and a tight sports top t
hat showcased his taut chest and abs.
“Hello,” he said, looking her up and down, his gaze lingering on her filthy shoes. “What do you want?” His greeting, if not exactly friendly, was not hostile either, and he seemed to be regarding her with an amused curiosity.
Penny shuffled her feet, realising she hadn’t prepared what she was going to say. Her first thought, ‘Did you kill Mrs Montague?’ was definitely not a good opening gambit.
“It’s about the manor house next door,” she said eventually, fixing her eyes on his.
He took a drag of his cigarette before exhaling in her direction. “What about it?”
“I understand you’re going to be the new owner?”
“I might be, not that it’s any of your business.”
Fischer nosed towards the door, trying to edge his way inside, but Nick put a leg out to stop him. Apparently, they weren’t to be invited in.
“You do realise, you’re making a woman homeless, someone who has lived there for more than forty years? Maybe if you weren’t in such a hurry to knock the place down, or whatever your plans for it are, you might consider how your actions impact other’s lives.”
“I’m just expanding my property portfolio,” Nick said with a shrug. “If anyone is being made homeless, it’s nothing to do with me. That’s Milo Montague’s doing, not mine. And for your information, I’m not planning on knocking the place down. It’s a listed building, so that would be illegal.”
“I’m pleased to hear you have a respect for the building laws, Mr Staines.” Silently she wondered if it extended to all laws, but in particular, murder.
“Right. Well, now that’s settled, I’ll say goodnight.” He made to shut the door, but Penny stuck her foot over the threshold to prevent him.
“Just one more question, if you don’t mind. Where were you a week ago, last Thursday night, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I do mind, but if it will make you go away, I’ll tell you.” His eyes narrowed, and he frowned. “I know who you are. None other than the busybody spinster from the mobile library, aren’t you?”
Penny chose to ignore his question, assuming it was rhetorical. His opinion of her was irrelevant. “Where did you say you were, Mr Staines?”
He let out a bored sigh, and taking a final puff of his cigarette, tossed the stub past Penny’s head into the driveway beyond. “I was in London, at a television awards show, if you must know. Check the guest list and the media coverage if you don’t believe me. I got ready beforehand and stayed overnight at the hotel in the West End where it was being held. Call my assistant in the morning, and she’ll give you the details. In the meantime, I suggest you and your yappy little dog go away and annoy someone else.”
Considering Nick was already irked, saying anything more wasn’t going to change the situation. Undeterred, Penny continued, “You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr Staines. Bullying an old woman like Mrs Montague while she was alive. Is that why you befriended her son, so he could persuade her to sell part of her land to you in the first place? You’ve had the whole scheme planned for a while, I shouldn’t warrant. Ready to pounce on the rest of her estate, as soon as she passed on. You must be happy now.”
“That’s it, I’ve had enough of your cheek.” Nick’s face turned stony. “Milo and I went to the same school, although I was several years ahead of him. Ever heard of the old boys’ network? I don’t suppose you would understand how that works, unless you’re from a certain background, which you evidently are not. This is the last time I’ll ask you. Please get off my property, before I call the police.”
Fischer yelped, and Nick rolled his eyes.
Penny, drawing herself up to her full height, nodded. “Thank you for your time, Mr Staines. I won’t bother you again.”
“Good,” he said, slamming the door in her face.
“Oh Fischer, that didn’t go very well.” Penny wasn’t sure whether she should laugh or cry. “What an unpleasant man. We can rule him out as a person of interest considering his alibi, but I hope I never have the misfortune of meeting him again. Time to go home and get cleaned up, I think.”
Driving back into the village, she decided to treat herself to a warm bath and a glass of wine once they were back at the cottage. Perhaps at the same time.
Thirteen
“Out you go, Little Man.”
Penny opened the kitchen door which led into the handkerchief-sized garden at the back of the cottage and watched Fischer scamper off. The garden, still a work in progress, was bare this time of year, save for an irregular patch of grass surrounded by low-lying evergreen shrubs. She looked forward to the appearance of the shock of daffodils around the gnarled trunk of the old apple tree in the corner beside the wall, marking the start of spring. Squirrels loved the tree, even if it had never borne fruit in the time she had lived there. And it was a perfect spot for the housewarming gift she had received from Susie and her children when she moved in, a lopsided bird feeder, made by Billy and Ellen. Later in spring, she was hoping for a show of the bluebells she had put in the previous May. Albert Finch had assured her planting them in full bloom would guarantee success, although she was apprehensive, not having inherited her father’s green thumb. Mowing the lawn and dead-heading the climbing roses on the whitewashed wall at the back of the cottage, was the sum-total of her horticultural capabilities, although she was eager to learn.
Penny rubbed her temple and winced. “We’ll go for our walk a bit later, little man,” she muttered. “I have a sore head this morning.” After her bath the night before she had telephoned Susie, one glass of wine turning into several. Susie had made light of Penny’s encounter with Nick Staines, which made her feel a little better about marching up to his door and all but accusing him of murder.
“Good for you, standing up to him like that. And who cares if he resents being asked where he was the night Mrs Montague died? At least now you know. It does look as if there’s no story, mind you. But don’t keep looking for one on my account. I’m still milking my last scoop, which, let’s face it, may be my one and only, but if it means no more murders in the Downs, I’m fine with that.”
“That’s a good way of looking at it. I should probably forget all about continuing to investigate, I haven’t discovered anything worthwhile so far.” Whether or not she could, was another matter.
On the subject of Edward, Susie had made her promise she would not contact him without letting him stew in his own juices for a little longer, even though Penny assured her it wasn’t going to change the outcome.
“Thank goodness. I’m so glad you’re done with that man.” Susie stopped short of saying she had never liked him, even though Penny suspected that was the case.
“He was done with me first,” Penny pointed out.
Apart from her pride being hurt, she considered she had escaped the relationship relatively unscathed. Her overriding emotion was a sense of relief, which spoke volumes as to the state the relationship had been in toward the end. She was intending to speak to him to get proper closure, but only when she was good and ready. In the meantime, she would ignore his calls and texts. Letting the answer phone pick up on her land-line and setting her mobile to silent had solved the issue, for the short term at least. She knew she wouldn’t be able to fob him off for much longer though.
Back in the kitchen, she made a pot of her favourite rooibos and cinnamon tea, because it felt like a day for spoiling herself. On that theme, she scanned the shelves of the larder, smiling when she found the heavy glass jar she was looking for. No porridge and honey that morning, instead, golden baked granola. Loaded with a selection of dried berries, shredded coconut, and mixed nuts and seeds, its secret ingredient was an infusion of runny light treacle syrup that gave the cereal a crisp sweet coating when baked in the Aga. She spooned a generous helping into a colourful painted bowl she had bought from a market on holiday in Spain and hummed to
herself while filling a jug with cold, creamy milk.
Fischer came wandering in as she placed two chunky slices of wholemeal bread into the toaster and waited for them to pop back up. His head cocked on one side, and a quizzical look in his chocolate brown eyes, he seemed to be questioning this change in her habits.
She looked down at him with a smile. “I know it’s strange, but I’m changing things up today. Sometimes, routines are meant to be broken.”
After placing the granola, milk, and a mug of tea onto a tray there was just enough room for a small glass of orange juice. The buttered toast went on a plate on top of the granola bowl, to save her a second trip.
“It’s called breakfast in bed.” She said, lifting the tray in triumph.
Fischer, confused, wandered over to stare meaningfully into his empty bowls by the door.
Penny chuckled and set the tray back on the table. “Oops. Sorry about that, Little Man. I should have seen to you first. Here you go, and as a special treat, I’ll save you my toast crusts.”
After seeing to Fischer, it was with an air of decadence that Penny went back upstairs to her bedroom with the tray. Meals in bed were something she associated with being sick, her memory being of one or other of her parents bringing her up tea and toast or soup when she was unwell as a child. They would sit with her as she ate and feel her forehead with their palm and tuck her in when she was done.
Penny couldn’t remember the last time she had been ill. Climbing back in to her still-warm bed, her headache had all but gone. She switched on the battered clock radio on her bedside table and moved the dial on the top until she found Winstoke FM. She had owned the radio since her university days, and in recent years part of her had been hoping it would die so she would have to replace it with a digital model with a wider range of stations, but it showed no signs of giving up the ghost. Until then, tuning into the required radio frequency was trial and error, but when the crackles turned to the sound of the local weather report, she knew she had found it.
