BODY ON THE ISLAND a gripping murder mystery packed with twists (Smart Woman's Mystery Book 2)

by VICTORIA DOWD

  He shook his head and ambled painfully towards the chapel.

  While he was inside, I tried not to let my mind wander and settle on the scene in that small, stone room. I moved a little closer towards Jess, watching her carefully all the time and making no sudden movements.

  ‘Hey,’ I said gently.

  She didn’t respond. She just leaned back against the chapel wall, the knife still firmly in her hand.

  ‘I know how it feels to lose someone suddenly . . . if you want to talk . . . you know.’

  She looked at me, her eyes bulging and rubbed red. ‘We were going to get married. We were going to have babies.’

  I frowned. ‘Are you . . .’

  ‘No, we just talked about it. And now it is too late and there are no plans to be made and no future.’

  I thought about putting my arm around her but then remembered the knife. I held back my hair as the wind dragged it over my face.

  ‘It may seem like that now and that pain won’t go away, but it will hurt in a different way, a way you won’t want to let go of.’ I looked at her. ‘You’ll want to keep the pain because it will be yours.’

  I looked over at Spear. He was watching us intently. Watching the knife.

  Angel walked past, wearing the boy’s boots. He glanced down at Jess. ‘These are warmer anyway.’ He threw his head back and walked away.

  ‘Keep the pain safe, Jess.’ I nodded to her. ‘Just one thing, where did you get that knife? I can’t imagine you brought that with you.’

  I saw Spear move towards us. He was about to speak, but Jess looked up at him. He paused and I widened my eyes as if cautioning him to wait.

  She looked into my face and I could see all the anger, the resentment already starting to brand itself deep into her and I recognized so much of it. ‘It dropped from his pocket,’ she said. She didn’t seem capable of lying at that moment but then lies can find a way through the smallest of cracks and, when they do, they take root.

  I looked at the knife and then glanced at Spear. He paused and frowned at me. He took another step towards us, but I gave him a small shake of my head. Now was not the time to try and take it off her. She was too unstable, too unpredictable. We’d have to wait.

  CHAPTER 15: THE HOUSE

  ‘We need to split up,’ Spear said with a new sense of purpose. I nodded to him in agreement.

  ‘Of course,’ Mother sighed. ‘That will achieve maximum danger.’

  ‘No, it’s standard—’

  ‘Standard for fools, maybe. But we’re trying to avoid death. Now, you listen to me, boy,’ (I’d estimate Spear’s age to be about thirty-five) ‘I’ve survived—’

  ‘We,’ Aunt Charlotte interrupted. ‘We survived.’

  ‘We survived,’ Mother continued, ‘being stranded on a book club holiday where people lost their minds and four people were murdered.’

  ‘Oh, wait a minute! Wait, wait wait,’ Angel’s face lit up. ‘I didn’t put it together on the boat. I get it now! I know who you are. You’re the Slaughter House Five!’

  Spear looked at me in confusion. ’Is this what you meant down on the beach? The Slaughter House?’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘Five?’ Aunt Charlotte asked.

  ‘I’m included,’ Bridget said. ‘But Mr Bojangles wasn’t deemed important enough.’

  ‘You told us that he’s dead,’ Mother said.

  ‘But he survived the house so he should still be included in the number.’

  ‘“Slaughter House Six” doesn’t have the same ring as “Slaughter House Five”,’ I offered quietly. I didn’t look up, but I could tell Spear hadn’t looked away.

  Mother cleared her throat. ‘We prefer the brand the “Smart Women”,’ she explained. ‘You may remember my interviews about the incident—’

  ‘Smart Women?’ Bottlenose woke up. ‘That doesn’t seem to fit you.’

  ‘It’s our surname. I’m Pandora Smart, my daughter is Ursula Smart . . .’

  ‘Oh, you’re all family?’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘Mirabelle and Bridget aren’t.’

  Mirabelle sighed. ‘This again.’

  ‘And the dog?’ Angel laughed.

  ‘Look, can we just get moving? We need to find food and water.’ Spear was turning away.

  My throat seemed to tighten at the mere mention of it.

  ‘Let’s put the Smart family together—’

  ‘Like the circus?’ Bridget smiled.

  ‘Ladies,’ Spear held up his hands, ‘I’ll go with Angel and Jess. Bottlenose, you go with the Smarts. You and Dog Woman—’ He pointed at Mirabelle and Bridget — ‘You can . . . you . . .’

  ‘Oh, I see, I’m in with the dog woman now, am I?’ Mirabelle shot. ‘I’ve been Pandora’s dearest friend for many years. I’m her daughter’s godmother—’

  ‘I hate you,’ I said.

  ‘Irrelevant. I still hold the title — godmother. I’m your godmother and I refuse to be lumped in with the dog woman. I’m going with Pandora. Charlotte, you go with Dog Woman.’

  ‘I’m Pandora’s sister!’

  ‘She hates you.’

  Spear looked around us all. He’d been shipwrecked and lost a wife. He didn’t look ready to take this fight on. His shoulders dropped. ‘OK, well, Dog Woman, you come with me. Hated Fairy Godmother, go with Bottlenose. The Wicked Stepsisters stick together and you can take Cinderella here as well.’ He nodded towards me. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. What was quite obvious though was that we made a very frightening fairy tale.

  ‘And who are you, Prince Charming?’ Bridget picked up the dog in readiness.

  Angel laughed. ‘No, no, that is me, I think you’ll find, you wicked witch.’

  ‘Just go with whoever you like. Packs on Backs!’ Spear shouted.

  ‘What if you don’t like anyone?’ Bridget asked.

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have come.’ Mother turned to leave although she had no idea which direction to go. ‘And for your information, Mr Spear, we haven’t got any packs to go on our backs. You threw mine in the water.’

  Mirabelle moved closer to Mother to ensure she was included in her group. ‘She’s right — and the rest went down with the ship.’

  ‘OK, OK, wagons roll, that’s all I meant.’

  ‘We’re walking,’ Angel added. ‘Some of us in dead man’s shoes.’

  Jess stared at him and clutched the knife closer to her chest.

  ‘Let’s just go.’ Spear looked utterly defeated. He set off as if no one was with him and the rest of us ambled along behind as if we weren’t following anyone. It seemed to work.

  * * *

  The upside of being with Spear was that there was a possibility that he knew what he was doing. The downside was he probably knew exactly how to kill a person and dispose of the body. I watched his hands tense at his sides. Were they the hands I’d seen on someone’s head? Was Green Eyes his wife and he’d mercilessly seen an opportunity to get rid of her? Angel had made reference to her not being perhaps the most loyal wife and Spear had reacted so violently.

  Mother certainly hadn’t wanted me to let him know what I’d seen, or what I thought I’d seen. Was she trying to protect me? Would he kill me in the night if he thought I knew something? For that matter, would he kill us all if he thought I’d told the rest of them? I watched him now, imagining him as a murderer, ruthlessly killing us all.

  This wasn’t helpful. It was just as possible that Mother simply didn’t believe me, as usual, and didn’t want us to look like fools. It was obvious she didn’t trust Spear though.

  The facts were stark. We were shipwrecked on a desolate island with two dead bodies, a woman wielding a knife who might very well have killed her fiancé and a man who might also have pushed his wife under those ferocious waves and now suspected I’d seen him do it.

  I ambled along, stumbling on the uneven ground, imagining those fingers, with their chewed-down nails, buried into his wife’s scalp, grindin
g her head into the water.

  Spear stopped and looked back at me. He was squinting into the pale, translucent sun.

  ‘You OK back there, Ursula?’ His voice seemed tinged with suspicion but then perhaps it was just my own exhaustion finding new ways to be scared.

  ‘Fine, yes, fine thanks,’ I called with a fake cheeriness. His eyes lingered for a moment then he turned and continued walking through the long scrub.

  I looked towards the distant islands. The more I watched those other lands, the more remote it felt here. Bottlenose was right, this was an island for the ghosts, not the living. There were only two ways this could end, either the island let us leave or we cease to be the living.

  The ground was marshy as though the land was trying to pull us in. Every step was arduous, my calf muscles ached, and I struggled to keep my breath even. The mist was falling down over the crags and hills, as though a net was drawing closer. There was a brutal beauty here in this landscape, but we were in no place to start appreciating this cold, rough land. The sands still sang in strange discordant notes as the wind travelled over the dunes, and the sea curved round us in eel-black waves. Whichever direction we looked, there was the water. Even the air was wet. It caught in my chest and settled there. The rush of the wind and the constant tumbling of the waves on the shore brought no peace. There was no calm in this place. Or perhaps there was simply no calm in me.

  I couldn’t settle my thoughts and every time something began to form, my body would ache or a shot of cold would travel through me and the idea was gone. Still those green eyes floated in front of me, the killer with their back to me. Repeatedly, I imagined him turning and a new face looking at me each time. Spear, harsh and aggressive, his wife disappearing below the surf. Jess struggling with her boyfriend but finally fighting back. When did she get the knife? It surely couldn’t just have fallen from Spear’s pocket. There was one thing I’d learned so far, and that was that these survivalists were obsessed with belts and holsters. Spear was no exception. Had she actually taken it earlier? Did she plan it?

  I watched Jess wander out with the other group — Bridget, Bottlenose and Angel. The dog circled the group in excitement as if this might be a fun new game. It wasn’t. It was becoming increasingly clear that this was a game not all of us might survive.

  I watched them walk away and turned my view to Mother, Aunt Charlotte and Mirabelle bickering their way across the dunes like a group of middle-aged women who’d landed on the set of Lawrence of Arabia. Spear was quite far ahead now, striding out as if he’d never hurt his leg at all. I thought of the man who had ambled towards us, crippled in the darkness. He had a new vigour to him now, a purpose. As we left the chapel behind with its two new young inhabitants, I could hear the distant sound of whistling — one of Bottlenose’s sea shanties. How could he remain so cheerful surrounded by such bleakness and death? The tune faded and the chapel sunk into the landscape. The other group dwindled into the distance. We seemed more alone than ever.

  * * *

  When we first saw the house, it wasn’t fear we felt but exhaustion and relief. It was workhouse-grey, desolate and long-abandoned. The windows were empty eyes seeing nothing. No one had looked out from this house in many dark years. The roof of a small building at the front had collapsed. Moss grew in the jagged stone crevices of the remains as if the island was slowly growing up through the building and taking it back. This house was dying. Weathered as a gravestone, crusted lichen grew along its surface and through the cracks. The house seemed to sit in its own shadow, a dark light around it, much darker than the rest of the sky, as if the light wouldn’t come any closer.

  ‘Oh, thank God, someone lives here!’ Aunt Charlotte announced. ‘I must eat!’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us about this before?’ Mirabelle looked at Spear.

  ‘No.’ He was shaking his head. ‘I don’t think anyone lives here anymore. The last people to live here were two sisters.’

  ‘Well, when was that?’ Aunt Charlotte asked.

  ‘About a hundred years ago, I think. People sometimes stop here. Researchers, photographers, that sort of thing. There might be basic provisions.’ He strode on but we hung back and looked at one another.

  Mirabelle looked suspicious. ‘He seems to know a lot about this place.’

  ‘An abandoned house?’ Mother spoke slowly.

  ‘With no phones,’ Aunt Charlotte added.

  ‘Totally isolated and nobody knows we’re here,’ I confirmed, more for myself than anyone else.

  We felt the wind circle us and pick through our hair. We watched Spear.

  ‘It definitely looks like the kind of place you might take someone to kill them,’ I said.

  They all looked at me.

  ‘Joke?’ I offered.

  ‘Well, he might have mentioned that there was somewhere to shelter last night,’ Mirabelle grumbled.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I said as reasonably as I could to Mirabelle, ‘he didn’t look capable of mentioning very much. He’d collapsed.’

  ‘He was certainly capable of fighting.’

  We watched Spear striding off confidently. He didn’t look incapable now.

  ‘I must say he does seem to know this place better than he let on.’ Aunt Charlotte shoved her hands in her pockets. ‘Even knew who used to live here.’

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ I looked between them in turn. ‘We’ve all been a bit preoccupied. We had two deaths to deal with and he did nearly drown.’

  Mother frowned at me. ‘Ursula, why are you so quick to defend the man?’ She watched me suspiciously. ‘Remember what Bob said about forming attachments and fixating.’

  I looked at her in astonishment. Mother has absolutely no idea of what should be kept private. Mirabelle let out a snide little laugh.

  ‘Bottlenose would have known about this house though, wouldn’t he?’ Aunt Charlotte asked. ‘He did at least know the name of the island.’

  ‘I’m not sure Bottlenose knows about much,’ Mother sighed. ‘Presumably there’s some sort of witch or phantom haunting the house that makes it uninhabitable.’

  ‘I’m happy to inhabit anywhere with anyone so long as we get out of this filthy wet cold.’ Aunt Charlotte strode on ahead.

  Mother gave me another one of her meaningful looks to make sure I knew she had her eye on me then followed on with Mirabelle.

  As we drew closer, the house looked as if it had been constructed from the same stones as the chapel and the graves of the ancient Druids Bottlenose had pointed out. It was so weather-worn, its edges blurred as though merging into the grey stone hills behind. There was little evidence of any life here — only one window had the remains of a curtain that flickered in the wind. Some of the panes were smashed or cracked, their eyes blinded by storms and neglect. The heavy wooden door had once been painted a muddied green that was peeled and warped, its hinges dark with rust. There was nothing on the door, no lock or letterbox, no knocker. There was no need for it here. The door was slightly open as though in anticipation and Spear had already gone inside. I looked above the door frame. There was some form of frayed ornament nailed up. As I looked closer, it was clearly a ring of plaited human hair no bigger than a small child’s head. The faded red strip of ribbon dangled from the end and flickered in the wind.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ Aunt Charlotte said, looking up at the knotted ring, ‘We can’t go in here, surely. It’s definitely haunted. Just look at the place!’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ Mother pushed her out the way.

  ‘Of course it’s ridiculous, Mother. I mean, what could possibly go wrong? A deserted house in the middle of nowhere and no way out.’

  She gave me The Look. And walked in.

  The wooden door was swollen from the peat-soaked air. It scraped across the slate floor. The first thing we saw was Spear’s pack looking out of place in the abandoned hall, resting among a pile of dry leaves. It hadn’t escaped any of us that he’d been careful not to throw his own ru
cksack overboard.

  It took some moments for our eyes to adjust to the half-light. A series of closed doors led off from the entrance, each with the paint split and peeling as if age was burning it off from inside the wood. There was a strange, undisturbed smell. The air was grey with dust. Thick layers of it coated the small remembrances of life — a side table with no marks in the powdered surface, a chair leaning into the corner as if it was cowering away. The sense of abandonment and loss ran through everything as if the house and everything in it was in mourning. Sadness drifted freely as though it owned the house now.

  Aunt Charlotte looked around. ‘I like what they’ve done with the place.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. It looks like yours.’

  Aunt Charlotte turned to Mother. ‘And you would know that how? You haven’t been since—’

  ‘Mum! Aunt Charlotte!’ I looked at them in disbelief. ‘We’ve just walked into Hill House and you’re bickering already. You’ll scare the bloody ghosts.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Aunt Charlotte folded her arms. ‘You know the name of the place and exactly where we are as well, do you? And that it’s haunted. You all seem to know an awful lot about this place.’

  ‘No doubt from chatting up Spear.’ Mirabelle didn’t miss an opportunity.

  ‘No, Aunt Charlotte, I meant . . . Never mind.’ I walked further in and looked up at the high ceiling.

  Every corner and light fitting was knitted with grey-white cobweb. It was so thick on the chandelier above us that it had formed a pale gauze all around it, as though it had been wrapped in a sheet when the house was abandoned. I took another step forward. As I slowly breathed in, I could taste the mildew. It was a sick air where it was easy to imagine all manner of spores flooding my mouth and lungs.

  Picture nails sat nude on the yellowing plaster. There were marks where old pictures had hung, outlines that had once had faces in them, long dead now. I still had the overwhelming sense that those blank spaces were looking down on us now.

  Spear came through the door straight ahead of us. I could just make out a kitchen behind him. As he walked, his thick boots seemed almost too heavy for the old boards. They groaned under his tread, sending up plumes of dust that sifted through the air. ‘Right,’ he was trying to sound efficient, ‘there’s no food and no electricity. There is running water though.’