Dead on Dartmoor
Page 28
‘He still wants to be a chef?’
‘No, at the moment he wants to be a vet. I think it’s the effect of working at the animal sanctuary … By the way, I must tell you’ − she lowered her voice so that Olly wouldn’t hear − ‘tomorrow, Prudence is coming to tea.’
‘Who’s Prudence?’
‘Well, judging from the picture on Olly’s phone, she’s a rather scrumptious little thirteen-year-old. She plays the flute in the youth band.’ She hesitated a moment, her expression becoming more serious. ‘And we have moved Dolly to Oakdene, as far as our next-door neighbour is concerned.’
‘So soon?’
‘April was away for a few days. It seemed like the ideal opportunity.’
‘And she has never questioned your being Olly’s aunt?’
‘Why would she?’ She stroked Toby’s head reflectively for a moment before she looked back at me. ‘And I don’t see any reason why Dolly can’t continue to rest in peace beneath the flowers—’
‘Ah!’ I said, surprised. ‘Olly told you about that bit?’
‘He did. I was flattered, took it as a sign of trust. When the time comes … which is whenever Olly is ready … we simply tell April next door that Dolly has passed away peacefully at Oakdene. Of course, we’ll have to kill her off officially in order to stop her pension—’
‘What about the death certificate?’
She raised a delicate eyebrow. ‘It can’t be that difficult to get hold of a death certificate. I’m sure one can be purchased on the Internet if one looks hard enough.’
‘You can get copies of existing certificates,’ I agreed. ‘But the problem is no original exists.’
‘I’m sure with a little careful forgery …’ She shrugged. ‘I shall do some research into the subject.’
You know, I like Elizabeth.
After Olly had shown me the film of GBH on the roof five times, including speeded-up and going backwards, he played me a tune, Elizabeth accompanying him on the newly tuned piano. It was a piece they were practising for his music exam. It had taken Elizabeth some time to persuade him that he should enter for it, but she was confident he would pass. As I walked down the path, they were engrossed in going through it again, happily arguing over some minor detail. They didn’t even realise I had gone.
‘I don’t know if I’m ever going to be any good at this antiques business,’ I confessed to Ricky and Morris.
Morris looked at me anxiously across a plate of home-made scones. ‘Why do you say that, Juno? I thought you enjoyed it.’
‘Well, yesterday, I went to the flea market and I picked up a really rare piece of Poole pottery that this lady was selling for a pound. It had been her mother’s and she didn’t like it. And I knew what it was really worth and how much profit I could make on it and frankly, I felt like a thief.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me—’ Ricky began, rolling his eyeballs.
‘So I gave her a fiver and …’
He groaned and pretended to bang his head on the kitchen table. ‘Look, if the silly cow didn’t know what it was worth, that’s her fault. She could’ve looked it up on the Internet, same as you.’
‘I know,’ I conceded, ‘and I know that the whole point of this business is to buy low and sell high and make a profit, but somewhere in the middle is what a thing is actually worth, its true value—’
‘Which changes all the bloody time,’ Ricky finished for me.
‘It’s true, Juno,’ Morris agreed earnestly. ‘Look at my teapots. Some of them are worth far more now than when I bought them, but some of them are worth a lot less. Antiques go in and out of fashion.’
‘It’s a game, sweetheart!’ Ricky cried in exasperation. ‘Dealing in antiques is just a bloody game. You take it all too seriously.’
‘I suppose.’ I wasn’t convinced.
‘A thing is only worth what someone is prepared to pay for it,’ he insisted.
Morris patted my hand. ‘Tell you what, there’s an auction at Rendells later this week. Why don’t we go together, see if they’ve got anything interesting?’
‘Good idea,’ Ricky nodded, lighting a cigarette. ‘We can keep an eye on your bidding.’
‘By the way,’ Morris added. ‘We need to ask you a favour. We’ve got a concert coming up in December at Ashburton Arts Centre. Someone had to drop out, leaving the organisers with a gap in their programme, so they asked us if we would put together a concert, you know, fill in. And we thought the proceeds could go to Honeysuckle Farm, what d’you think?’
‘That would be wonderful! Pat will be delighted—’
‘Blimey! That’s something I’d buy a ticket for,’ Ricky exhaled, ‘to see Pat looking delighted.’
‘Don’t be rotten.’ I frowned. ‘What’s the favour?’
‘Well, as it will be near Christmas,’ Morris rattled on excitedly, ‘we thought we’d end the show with our potted pantomime—’
‘Oh, great!’ I loved their potted pantomime. The two of them played all the different roles and the whole thing lasted just ten minutes.
‘So will you help us backstage with the quick changes?’ Ricky asked.
‘Of course.’
‘We thought that we might do it again for our Boxing Day party—’
‘You are coming, aren’t you?’ Ricky interrupted.
Of course I was coming. No one in their right mind would turn down an invitation for their Boxing Day party. The food and entertainment were legendary. ‘Can I bring Elizabeth and Olly?’
He waved his fag airily. ‘Bring who you want.’
That stopped me for a moment, because the person I would have liked to have brought to their party was Nathan Parr. He had been on his way to meet me on the night that he was murdered. When police dragged his body from the wreck of his car, they’d found a red carnation pinned to his lapel. A thing is only worth what someone is prepared to pay for it and for the things Nathan valued he had paid with his life. I would like to have known him better, sorry that now that could never happen. I would never even see for myself what he looked like without that pirate hat.
My thoughts must have been written on my face because Ricky suddenly reached out a hand to cover mine. ‘Don’t be sad, sweetheart.’
I smiled at him, at both of them. ‘I’m OK.’
‘Talking of Christmas,’ Ricky went on, in a very obvious attempt to distract me, ‘have you thought about what you’re doing in the shop? It’s November already. You retailers have got to start thinking about these things. You’ve got to make a bid for the Christmas shoppers, you’ll have to put some decorations up.’
‘Pat and Sophie have got lots of ideas,’ I admitted, sighing, ‘but I haven’t really thought about Christmas.’ The only decision I had made was that I was going to take over Gavin’s bookshelves. I was determined to have a bookshop in Old Nick’s, and if no one else was interested in renting that unit, I would fill it myself.
‘Well, we’ve had a wonderful idea, haven’t we, Maurice?’
Alarm bells began ringing. Mentally, I braced myself.
‘We can turn your back room into a winter wonderland − Santa’s Grotto – bring in the parents with small kids − put on a bit of a show.’
‘Well, I really don’t think—’ I began.
‘Maurice will be Santa, won’t you?’ he rattled on. ‘And I can be Professor Yule, in charge of the reindeer—’
‘Reindeer?’
‘Hasn’t Pat got a reindeer?’
‘No. She’s got a llama …’
‘Well, that’ll do.’
It was only at that moment I realised they were winding me up. I didn’t let on that I knew. ‘What a wonderful idea,’ I agreed. I selected a scone and helped myself to jam and a dollop of cream. I put the cream on first – this is Devon, we do things proper − then the jam. Then I took a big bite, sat back and let them prattle on.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks go to Jenny Donaldson at Gnash! bookshop in Ashburton, for opening my eyes to th
e scope and beauty of the graphic novel. I’d also like to thank the Devon Bat Group for their very informative website, and for being there for the bats. I’d get nowhere without my agent, Teresa Chris, the team at Allison & Busby, and my husband, Martin, who locks me in the study and pours tea through the keyhole.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEPHANIE AUSTIN graduated from Bristol University with a degree in English and Education and has enjoyed a varied career as an artist, astrologer, and trader in antiques and crafts. More respectable professions include teaching and working for Devon Schools Library Service. When not writing, she is involved in local amateur theatre as an actor and director. She lives on the English Riviera in Devon where she attempts to be a competent gardener and cook.
stephanieaustin.co.uk
By Stephanie Austin
Dead in Devon
Dead on Dartmoor
COPYRIGHT
Allison & Busby Limited
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London W1F 8AN
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First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2019.
This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2019.
Copyright © 2019 by STEPHANIE AUSTIN
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–2447–5