The Postscript Murders

by Griffiths, Elly

  ‘Like Sheila Atkins?’

  Jelli gives her a look that could also be described as old-fashioned. ‘Yes. Those golden-age writers are sometimes described as cosy. I wouldn’t agree myself. Some of those authors are dark as hell. Even Agatha Christie.’

  Dark as hell. It’s a phrase that, in the circumstances, strikes Harbinder as singularly ill-chosen.

  They don’t discuss the case on the train home because they are surrounded on all sides by jaded-looking commuters. Neil gives up his seat to a woman with grey hair who looks even fitter than him. Harbinder keeps hers, though she dreads seeing someone genuinely in need, a pregnant woman, say, even one wearing an irritating ‘Baby on board’ badge. The two people opposite are reading the Standard and the headline is ‘Bestselling Writer Found Dead’.

  As the train lurches through south London, Harbinder thinks about Dex and his secret new project. Did someone kill him to prevent The Murder Consultant being written? Did the same person kill Peggy, and maybe Weronika Challoner as well? She gets out her phone and checks her messages. Does she dare have a quick game of Panda Pop? She glances at Neil but he has his headphones on and seems in another world. She’d never live it down if he saw her popping those bubbles. She checks that the sound is off but, as she does so, a text flashes up.

  On our way to Aberdeen! Will keep you posted. Nx

  Chapter 17

  Edwin: the Miners’ Arms

  Edwin makes a flask of coffee and some sandwiches for the journey. He knows that they’ll stop at service stations but you never know when you might need some caffeine and a ham sandwich. He’s brought a bag of mint humbugs too. He waits by the front door, so that Natalka won’t have to ring the bell. It’s very early, still dark, but there’s a freshness in the air, a sense of the town waking up. He can smell the sea and hear the waves hissing over the shingle. He shivers although he’s wearing his winter coat and a tartan scarf in honour of Scotland. He spent some very pleasant summers at the Edinburgh festival when he was with the BBC.

  He sees Natalka’s headlights sweeping through the gates. She gets out to help him with his case, which is a neat wheelie thing from his frequent-flier days.

  ‘You travel light,’ says Natalka. ‘I like that in a man.’

  She has a way of saying things that charges the words with innuendo, which has its effect even if you are eighty and gay. Edwin laughs rather wildly.

  ‘Shall I get in the back?’ he says. ‘Benedict should have the front seat. He’s got longer legs.’

  ‘No, sit in the front,’ says Natalka. ‘You can change over when we stop for a break. First come, first served.’ There it is again.

  Benedict is waiting by the power station, carrying a Gladstone bag and a large packet of Haribo Sours.

  ‘I’ve got humbugs,’ says Edwin, by way of greeting.

  ‘Great,’ says Benedict. ‘I’m looking forward to this. We can play word games.’

  ‘God give me strength,’ says Natalka.

  They play Who Am I?, which lasts until the M25. It’s not a complete success. Benedict’s choices are too obscure and religious (St Thérèse of Lisieux, Thomas Cranmer, Padre Pio), Edwin’s too old-fashioned (Marlene Dietrich, James Mason, Jacqueline du Pré) and Natalka’s too modern (Dua Lipa, Stormzy, Jameela Jamil). They stop at a café near Oxford for a late breakfast or early lunch. Natalka goes outside to vape, leaving Edwin and Benedict finishing their food. Benedict seems to be eating his wrap maddeningly slowly. Edwin tries to make his sandwich last but he has still finished a good five minutes before Benedict. Maybe he was taught to eat slowly in the monastery. To distract himself from Benedict’s eating, Edwin says, ‘Have you thought about what we’ll do when we actually get to Aberdeen?’

  They have booked a Travelodge in Aberdeen, although Edwin has found a more picturesque-sounding B&B in the North Pennines for tonight, slightly off their route but worth it, he thinks. Benedict has been in charge of researching the festival. Now he puts the printed-out pages of the brochure on the table. Edwin is glad that he’s not having to look at them on a screen. He has printed out the route, although Natalka is using her iPhone to navigate. It makes Edwin feel nervous if he can’t see where he’s going, or where he’s been.

  Benedict swallows his last mouthful and takes a long drink of water before replying. ‘J. D. Monroe is on a panel at four o’clock tomorrow,’ he says. ‘The subject is “Deadlier than the Male?”. Apparently it’s about whether women crime writers are more violent than men. There are two other writers on the panel. Susan Blake, who writes the DI Mike Malone books, and a YA author called Becki Finch who’s written a book about a homicidal vampire called Trevor.’

  ‘Goodness,’ says Edwin, feeling rather overwhelmed. ‘You’ve done your research.’

  Benedict looks delighted with the compliment. Edwin supposes that he doesn’t get many. ‘I’ve bought us weekend passes so we can attend all the talks,’ he says. ‘And I’ve been looking through the authors attending the festival. There are a couple of others who mention Peggy in their acknowledgements. Lance Foster is one. He wrote a book called Laocoön. He’s on a panel on Wednesday morning called “Is Hamlet a Crime Novel”?’

  ‘Clearly not,’ says Edwin. ‘Considering it’s a play.’

  ‘I think it’s probably making the point that lots of literary classics are about murder,’ says Benedict.

  ‘Of course The Mousetrap is from Hamlet,’ says Edwin, remembering an amateur production in Richmond, with a rather interesting Mr Paravicini.

  Outside, they find Natalka walking up and down between the parked cars.

  ‘Would you recognise a Ford Fiesta?’ she asks them.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ says Edwin. ‘All cars look the same to me.’ This isn’t quite true. He’d driven a Fiat 500 when he lived in Brighton and he still smiles at the thought of its snub-nosed little face.

  ‘I would,’ says Benedict unexpectedly. ‘My dad used to quiz us on the makes of cars.’

  ‘Well, look out for a white Ford Fiesta,’ she tells them. ‘It can be another travel game.’

  ‘Why?’ says Edwin. ‘Was that the car that Peggy saw outside her house?’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Natalka, getting out her car keys. ‘Come on, let’s hit the road.’

  Now Edwin is in the back seat and he finds himself drifting off at times. One minute he’s chatting about Dex Challoner and speculating on whether he was killed by an ex-lover, the next he’s in a barge with François floating down the Seine and his mother appears dressed as Marie Antoinette . . .

  He wakes up to hear Natalka saying that their route tomorrow will take them past Gretna Green.

  ‘Shall we get married, Benny? Edwin can be our witness.’

  Benedict laughs but Edwin thinks that he can detect something wistful in the sound. Could Benedict be sweet on Natalka? She’s far too wild for him, of course, but stranger things have happened.

  They stop at Tebay services, which are surprisingly picturesque, complete with a duck pond and farm shop. Edwin has a sudden longing for tea and cake. That’s how I know I’m old, he thinks. Because sometimes it does take him by surprise. He sees a wizened old man in the mirror and wonders whether a geriatric burglar has broken in. His hands, with their veins and liver spots, appal him. He thought that his voice was still the same but, the other day, in the chemist, he heard a querulous bleat asking for Gaviscon tablets. Could that really be Edwin Fitzgerald, who was once described by the Radio Times as ‘mellifluous’? Get a grip, Edwin, he tells himself. You’re on a road trip with two young friends. You’re spending the night in a B&B and then you’re going to Scotland, one of your favourite places on earth. What’s more, you’re on the track of a dangerous criminal. You’re a detective, almost a crime fighter. He sits up straighter.

  Benedict brings him tea and a rather delicious-looking scone . He divides the scone into three. Natalka e
ats hers in one bite. Benedict does his irritating nibbling again. Edwin tries not to look. It’s quite exhilarating, being annoyed by someone, especially a friend. It’s been a long time since he’s spent so much concentrated time with other people. And, apart from those two years with Nicky, he has never shared a house with anyone. It’s about time he became less precious, he tells himself, dusting crumbs off his lap. All the same, he’s glad that Benedict has finished eating.

  The next part of the journey is the most exciting. They leave the motorway and pass through grey stone villages where children are leaving school for the day and yellow-coated crossing attendants put up imperious hands to stop the traffic. It’s quite a shock to see people going about their ordinary lives and something about the children, clutching bookbags and projects made out of cardboard boxes, makes Edwin’s eyes grow misty. He’d been at an all boys prep school. Very elitist and snobbish, no doubt, but also the happiest educational experience of his life. He’s in the front seat again now, partly because he’s meant to know the way to the B&B.

  ‘It’s near Rookhope,’ he says, trying to sound like he knows what he’s talking about.

  ‘There’s a W. H. Auden poem about Rookhope,’ says Benedict from the back seat. Edwin has no doubt that he will soon remember the poem.

  They leave the houses and abandoned factories behind them and start to drive through truly stunning scenery; moors purple with heather, rocky outcrops that look like hands pointing to heaven, sudden waterfalls, dry-stone walls. They climb higher and higher. Edwin’s ears pop and he can hardly hear Natalka singing along to a swoony ballad on the radio. The wilder the countryside gets, the more exhilarated she seems.

  They pass stone arches that seem to be rising out of the ground, as if they are the remnants of an underground city.

  ‘It’s the Rookhope chimney,’ says Benedict. ‘Apparently it used to carry poisonous gases from the lead smelting works higher up on the moors.’

  ‘Poisonous gases,’ repeats Edwin. Suddenly the stone archways seem menacing rather than picturesque. He thinks of underground lairs, of Smaug the dragon hiding his treasure, of travellers who disappear on lonely moorland and are never seen again.

  ‘In one mile,’ intones Natalka’s phone, fixed to the windscreen, ‘you will arrive at your destination.’

  ‘There are no houses anywhere,’ says Natalka. ‘What’s this place called again, Edwin?’

  ‘The Miners’ Arms,’ says Edwin. He’s starting not to believe in the B&B himself now. He’d booked it partly because he’d liked the name. He imagined burly arms, callused hands clenched around a pitchfork or a pint of beer. He’s always liked forearms.

  ‘In Rookhope,’ says Benedict suddenly, in what Edwin recognises as his poetry voice.

  ‘“In Rookhope I was first aware

  Of Self and Not-self, Death and Dread . . .

  There I dropped pebbles, listened, heard

  The reservoir of darkness stirred . . .”’

  ‘Very cheerful, Benny,’ says Natalka. The reservoir of darkness. The words echo in Edwin’s head, adding to the dizzy feeling. He thinks of the spaces beneath them. Old mining tunnels. Caverns measureless to man. Death and dread.

  ‘I think this is it,’ says Natalka.

  There’s nothing else it can be. A row of three cottages, facing the moors, with the hills behind them. As they get closer, Edwin sees the welcome words on a roadside sign, ‘The Miners’ Arms, Public House, B&B, Free wi-fi.’

  ‘Cosy,’ says Natalka.

  They ring the doorbell and are met by a flame-haired woman wearing an orange minidress and black boots. The effect, in the dark hallway, is enough to make Edwin take a few steps backwards.

  ‘Edwin Fitzgerald?’ he says at last, making it a question the way the young people do. ‘I booked some rooms online.’

  ‘Oh, hallo.’ The vision shakes his hand. ‘I’m Jess. I run the place. Welcome to the North Pennines.’

  ‘It’s very beautiful,’ says Edwin, stepping into what looks like an old-fashioned parlour. ‘But you must feel quite isolated here.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ says Jess. ‘I’m from Leeds originally. I like the quiet.’ There’s a laptop on the table and Jess scrolls with an expert finger. Her nail polish is also orange.

  ‘Yes, here we are. Two rooms for E. Fitzgerald. A twin and a double.’

  Edwin can feel himself going red, something that probably hasn’t happened since he was a teenager.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I booked three rooms.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Jess. ‘The website is a bit confusing. The twin room comes up as two. The trouble is, we’re full tonight. We’ve only got four rooms and backpackers have taken the other two.’

  Edwin turns to Natalka and Benedict.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ This setback, coming just when he thought he’d reached the journey’s end, suddenly seems like a disaster.

  ‘Where are the backpackers from?’ asks Natalka.

  Jess looks at her in surprise. ‘I didn’t ask. They’re usually from Holland or Germany.’

  Natalka takes a turn around the room. The cheery ballad-singer has gone. She looks almost manic.

  ‘I’ll take the double,’ she says. ‘You and Benny can share the twin.’

  Edwin can’t work out if Benedict looks relieved or disappointed.

  ‘What’s up with Natalka?’ Edwin says to Benedict when they are alone in their room. Thank goodness, it’s large and comfortable, with two beds covered in patchwork quilts. Edwin lets Benedict take the one by the window. As he does so he has a clear flashback to choosing beds in the dormitory. That’s the second time he’s thought about boarding school today. Maybe this journey is taking him back in time, as well as northwards. Maybe, by the time they arrive in Scotland, he’ll be a schoolboy again, all spots and buck teeth, carrying a clarinet case.

  Benedict puts his Gladstone bag on the bed.

  ‘She seems fine,’ he says.

  ‘She seems on edge to me,’ says Edwin. ‘All that stuff about spotting Ford Fiestas. And she practically bit that nice landlady’s head off about the backpackers.’

  ‘A bit tired from the journey, that’s all,’ says Benedict.

  Edwin gives up. At least they won’t have to resort to his battered packet of ham sandwiches because the pub does food in the evenings. He’s tempted to lie on his bed for a rest but knows that, if he does so, he’ll fall asleep in an instant. Benedict is clicking his way through the TV channels.

  ‘Ooh,’ he says, in a pleased voice, ‘Murder, She Wrote.’

  Edwin settles down in an armchair to watch.

  When he wakes, it’s dark outside and someone is knocking on the door.

  ‘Edwin! Benedict!’ Natalka’s voice sounds high and impatient. ‘Wake up! I want supper.’

  ‘Coming!’ says Benedict. ‘Just give us a minute’. Benedict gets off his bed and Edwin wonders if he’s been dozing too. Edwin goes to the bathroom to wash his face with cold water. He checks his reflection in the mirror. A bit crumpled but not too bad for someone who’s been travelling all day. In the bedroom, he swaps his cardigan for a tweed jacket. Benedict is anxiously flattening his curly hair and brushing imaginary specks off his jumper.

  ‘Do I look OK?’ he says.

  ‘Beautiful, dear boy.’

  But, when Edwin opens the door, he’s taken aback by the vision in front of him. Natalka has changed into different clothes, tighter jeans and a figure-hugging pink jumper. Her blonde hair is loose and her blue eyes glitter, enhanced by mascara. Edwin thinks that he can hear Benedict breathing hard in the background. Even he’s not immune. He’s always liked being around attractive women.

  ‘You look lovely, my dear.’

  They go downstairs in procession, Natalka followed by the two men. The tiny bar seems very full but, on closer inspection, this effect is ach
ieved by just four people. These must be the backpackers and they all seem to be Dutch. Edwin watches Natalka and sees her visibly relax, her shoulders dropping. Benedict is watching her too.

  Jess gives them menus and tells them that her husband, Jay, is the chef. Edwin asks how long they’ve been at the Miners’ Arms.

  ‘Two years,’ says Jess, opening the bottle of red wine they have ordered. ‘The place was quite run-down when we arrived. These used to be miners’ cottages. There was a whole row of them but the others were demolished. You can still see their gardens, honeysuckle and apple trees, although everything else has gone. It makes me sad to think about them sometimes.’

  Edwin thinks about them too. The ghost cottages with the gardens still in flower. He shivers although the room is warm. But it’s a good evening. Edwin’s steak and kidney pie is delicious and he drinks more wine than usual. Benedict has risotto and Natalka orders steak. Afterwards they drink brandy by the fire. It’s noticeably colder here than in Sussex.

  Somehow, the conversation gets onto marriage. Edwin says that he wouldn’t have married Nicky, even if it had been legal at the time.

  ‘Why not?’ says Benedict. ‘I’d love to get married.’

  He sounds almost belligerent. Edwin realises that they are all slightly drunk.

  ‘I can’t imagine being contracted to another person like that,’ says Edwin. ‘It would make me feel claustrophobic.’

  ‘I was married once,’ says Natalka. ‘It’s not all that.’

  Both men stare at her.

  ‘You were married?’ says Benedict. ‘When?’

  ‘After uni,’ says Natalka. ‘It was the only way I could stay in the UK. I think he was called Daniel.’

  ‘You think?’ Benedict sounds like he’s about to cry.

  ‘OK. He was called Daniel. Dan. He was nice enough.’

  ‘Would you get married again?’ asks Edwin. ‘If Mr Right came along.’ He tries to put ironic questions marks around ‘Mr Right’.