Bromington Heights

by Trisha Kelly

  The buzzing of her doorbell made Rosie jump. “Perhaps Jane’s forgotten her key.”

  Anna leant back on the sofa. “Oh shoot, it’s him, James Sallow. Quick, lose that webpage.”

  Rosie pressed the buzzer on her intercom. “Hello, can I help you?” she asked, pretending she had no clue who she was talking to. Bear began barking at full volume and ran around the room in a tizzy.

  “Miss Wodehouse? James Sallow here. May I come in? I was hoping to talk with you for a moment.”

  Anna popped the cake inside the fridge before Bumble demolished it and Rosie pressed the buzzer.

  “Mr. Sallow, please ignore Bear, he will quieten down in a moment. What can I do for you?”

  James ignored the old antique pram in the hallway full of bits and pieces and glanced his eye around the walls, ceilings and floors, he was quite lost in space for a moment.

  “Full of life you know. It isn’t just Dorothea who lives here is it? William, her brother, has come home too. If I’m not mistaken, the two generations before that all enjoy your home. Especially the upper section. Do excuse me, prattling on, I was rather hoping you could fill me in a little on the local area. Your aunt tells me you have started a new business and you may be able to assist me. You see… there is going to be a murder, if we don’t do something to stop it.”

  Anna scooped Bear up in her arms, threw a treat out into the garden and closed the dog-flap before he could charge back in again. Bumble wasn’t fooled, not for a moment. There was no getting rid of her. The guest was intriguing, and the cat was sensitive to him. She rubbed herself around and around his expensive trouser bottoms, much to his dislike.

  The all-seeing master

  Jane was busy using her sewing machine, inserting the zip into her wedding dress. Some things she was a little sceptical about, second-hand wedding-dresses was not on her radar, nor second-hand rings. Watches, necklaces and bracelets were a different matter and she loved the blue glass bracelet Rosie bought for her a short while ago. She would wear it on her big day, and she’d taken the colour from it to use in her accessories.

  A blue garter, underneath her dress, and she had found two similar art nouveau bracelets for her bridesmaids. Their dusky pink dresses and her cream and antique rose colours were going to match wonderfully. The ladies were all taking so much time sorting out their 20’s style clothes, poor Walter was relying on Sybil and her sister, Betty to help him out with his Groom’s suit. Not that they minded, it gave them an excuse to go clothes shopping too.

  Jane had kept herself in a good trim shape over the years and the dress she was making had sleeves of transparent lace. It was a calf-length with a loose-fitting top slightly fitted under the bust and then it flowed. Three layers in a Great Gatsby style. She was topping this off with a fascinator made of satin and lace. One large cream flower centred among small antique cream roses, dotted with pinches of small blue flowers matching the colour of the antique silver bracelet. The 1920’s style was gorgeous.

  She had been busy all morning when she heard Bear making a right commotion in the garden downstairs. Maybe she’d pop down and see Rosie for a little while, stretch her legs. It was Saturday and she was sure her daughter, Anna, would be downstairs in Rosie’s ground-floor apartment too. No doubt the ladies were laughing and chatting and had forgot all about the noisy dog!

  Jane pulled her jet-black hair up into a bobble. Today was a casual day. She wore jeans and a tee-shirt. Once more supporting the LGBT community, just because. The rainbow sat proudly in the middle of the white background. Yesterday it was a green YoGA she wore. Year of Green Action tee-shirt supporting the environment and the upcoming green week in the UK.

  As she walked down the stairs, she had a funny feeling. Her intuition was never wrong and before she tapped on No.1 she knew someone else was inside, somebody interesting she had never met. There was no answer even though she could hear loud chatter. The door was ajar, so she followed the noise into the kitchen.

  “Hello everyone,” Jane cooed. “Is it coffee time? Your door was open, Rosie. Hello, Mr…?”

  “Sallow. Please, call me James.

  “Mum, James is a guest here and he is a…”

  “Medium. I can see it in your eyes. I felt it as I walked downstairs. I’m Jane,” she smiled. The bride-to-be had a feeling they were all about to have a very interesting conversation.

  “Ah, a fellow sensitive.” With unspoken words the pair summed each other up within a few, short seconds.

  Jane was a colourful character, not gay, just an empathic human being, supportive of all around her. She’d led an interesting life and seen sorrow. A handsome young man had followed her into the room. Someone still very close to her. However, James did not want to spook his company by relaying exactly how many spirits had made their home in Wodehouse.

  “I think congratulations are in order, Jane.”

  “Thank you; have you girls been gossiping?” Jane smiled. They both shrugged and shook their heads.

  “Not us!” Anna poured the tea perfectly, through a strainer. The posh sugar lumps sat in a bowl with silver tongs and the full-fat milk was ready in the jug.

  “Would anyone prefer coffee?” Anna asked.

  “No,” came the chorus in reply.

  “Would you both like a slice of cake? We’ve had ours!” Rosie smiled and removed the shutter on the dog flap. Bear wasn’t going to be quiet until he’d said hello and had a good sniff of everyone, especially their new guest.

  “I really shouldn’t, but oh my, that looks divine. What’s a couple of pounds between friends!” James laughed.

  Jane’s tummy grumbled. “Just a little slice or I won’t fit in my…”

  “Gorgeous, antique dress. Nonsense, Jane, go ahead.”

  James wasn’t as pompous as the two friends first took him for. Everyone was well impressed with his knowledge. It was like sitting in a room with a mind reader.

  “Don’t let out all of my secrets; I do want some of it to be a surprise!” Jane smiled. “Hello Bear, have you come for a cuddle?” Within two minutes the small dog curled himself on her lap and fell fast asleep.

  “That was the nicest cup of tea I’ve ever tasted. May I be so bold as to ask for another?” James offered his cup to Anna.

  “Help yourself,” she laughed. He really had to get over his desire to be waited on! Not only did he oblige, he topped up everyone else.

  “Now. There’s something I must tell you and ask you, at the same time. But first, will it be possible to extend my stay?”

  “How long for? Let me check our bookings.” Rosie went and fetched her small pocket notebook. “I can offer you an extra four nights in the room you have. I’m afraid we’re all booked up after that.”

  “I can pay you double,” James removed his wallet from his pocket.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. They do let rooms in the pubs by the harbour,” Rosie suggested.

  “How long were you looking to stay for?” Jane asked.

  “Possibly a month. Maybe six weeks.”

  “I can ask around. I might be able to help you.” Jane was not going to commit herself. With one month to go and finishing touches to add to all three dresses she couldn’t offer up a room at Walter’s. But she did know of someone who might be willing to rent a small cottage for the short-term.

  “Are you thinking of staying in the area?” Rosie fished.

  “The thought crossed my mind. I was pulled here for a reason and then I thought, why not have a browse during my stay? I must admit, I’ve fallen head over heels for a property. I viewed it as I was coming to the area, but now, well, I just know she will be mine.”

  “She?” Anna raised her eyebrows.

  “Yes, she. The old property has a feminine aura, much like this one. Bromington Heights. Do you know it?”

  Anna’s tea went down the wrong hole and came out of her nose.

  “Are you alright, dear?” Jane automatically rubbed her daughter’s back.

  Ro
sie wanted to laugh. She knew exactly why Anna had gulped at the wrong time. After all, they’d just seen the price tag on that property not twenty minutes before.

  After a bit of coughing, spluttering and watery eyes, Anna composed herself. “Bromington Heights. Can’t say I’ve heard of it,” she fibbed.

  “Adorable. Anyway, book me in for the week would you, dearie?” James shifted in his seat. “We only have two weeks you know, before the attempted murder.”

  Jane gasped. “Attempted murder?”

  “Oh yes, and we must do everything we can to prevent it. So you see, it’s important I stay close by. We shall have to work as a team. With some help from your Great Aunt Dorothea of course.”

  “How do you know all this?” Anna asked.

  “I had a dream, all very vague. But my premonitions are never wrong. I don’t know who the potential murderer is, or who the victim could be, I just know the date. 10th August, I saw it as plain as day.”

  “Two weeks before my wedding day,” Jane grimaced.

  “Oh, and there’s more. Rosalyn Wodehouse, better known as Rosie. This is your first real case. You have two weeks to find the potential murderer. That much, Dorothea did tell me.”

  “Well, can’t she just tell you who it is?” Rosie asked.

  “She won’t do that. Never will, her role in your new job is to guide you, but you must work everything out yourself if you are to fulfil your dream.”

  “Terrific. My fiancé will think I’ve totally lost the plot now when I tell him we have a psychic guest who has spoken with my dead great aunt, there will be a murder two weeks from now, unless I find someone who nobody knows who wants to kill someone anonymous.”

  “Precisely, I’m afraid! Well, thank you for the splendid tea and cake. Now it’s my turn to stretch my legs. I’m going down to the harbour to have a look at what I couldn’t see late last night. Lovely to meet you all.” James took his light jumper and draped it over his shoulders, put on his designer sunglasses and left. The three ladies watched him disappear across the road.

  “Apart from all this murder malarkey then, come and have a look in the pram, Mum. We have some wonderful material and accessories.” Anna led a startled Jane out of the room and Rosie was beginning to wonder if it was wise to wait so long before looking at Dorothea’s prophecies, locked in the basement chest.

  Hearing the sound of her friends taking bits and pieces upstairs, lost in wedding chatter, she decided to go down to the basement. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little peek. Being mindful to lock herself in, Rosie undid the chest. Much to her surprise there was another small bundle of papers which she hadn’t noticed the last time.

  ‘Bromington Heights’. She pulled the red ribbon apart and the papers uncurled. It was a history of the old buildings, together with the details of two previous owners. A few years ago, the buildings were purchased by a very wealthy Arab. He paid a handsome sum for the properties and by all accounts they were nothing more than a means to a profit it would seem.

  Maybe at some point he’d decided to refurbish parts of the building for himself and his staff. There were long-sitting tenants at the time who were protected by the law and had very long leases, with no intention of going anywhere. Maybe the Arab grew tired of waiting, did not move into the buildings and eventually decided to sell.

  Prior to this the previous landowner did a lot for the community. He provided jobs for both men and women some of whom lived in. That was about it really. There were some interesting blueprints, floor plans, which had changed over the years. The building wasn’t Grade II listed and there appeared to be a strange translucent mist in ariel photographs taken over recent years.

  Rosie made notes in her private notebook. There was nothing else to see, really. No talk of murders and the suchlike. However, she did know Bromington Heights would have something to do with her, she just didn’t know what. This much she would have to work out.

  Needle in a haystack

  Albert Winston was back in the confines of his cottage. After a fruitless search traipsing around charity shops, his books were nowhere to be found. So, he would have to improvise. Going against his argumentative nature, he decided to be nice to Gladys. No-one could accuse him of not being of sound mind when the time came.

  Two weeks. He knew it was around that date, so he’d set his mind to it, the murder would take place two weeks from today. It was written in the book, the middle of August, or thereabouts. He didn’t want to miss it and it was best to carry it out over a busy weekend. Three weeks could be too late if the prophecy was to take place.

  “Is that you, Albie?”

  “Yes, my dear. I got you rhubarb from the allotment and some fresh vegetables for our dinner tomorrow. I’m sorry I shouted at you this morning. Would you like a cup of tea? You must be parched.”

  “Have you taken a bang to the head? See, all that fuss over nothing. You soon got over your silly books.”

  Standing in the kitchen, Albie wrung his hands together. He so wished it was a woman due to die and not just any woman. Just for a moment, he considered rubbing the pieces of raw chicken inside the ham and mustard sandwich he was about to make his wife. With a considerable amount of willpower, he resisted. If she got sick, he’d be lumbered with looking after her all day long. Worse still, they might cart her off to a hospital. He had to make sure on the day of the murder she was fit and well and would swear on oath he had been at home all day with her. She was his alibi.

  “I said, can I have a piece of pork pie too? And some of those cakes you’ve put out of my reach. Can’t you hear me?” Gladys called. Nobody could blame her for being irate, she was very hungry and her legs were too stiff and swollen today to walk backwards and forwards. She was trapped inside a painful body with no means of escape.

  Albert absent-mindedly cut a piece of pork pie, and considered serving it on a large rhubarb leaf sprinkled with hemlock. Life would be so much easier without the burden of his wife to endure. He was convinced if she halved her body weight she would be as fit as a fiddle. He added a few drops of liquid laxative into the jam filling of the Victoria sponge, to help her on her way.

  He set the tray down on the tall table beside her. Albie got no thanks, Gladys didn’t even glance in his direction; her eyes feasted on the plates of food and she began to enthusiastically dig into her first meal for hours. Albert went upstairs to scribble notes, as much as he could remember from his books. Being a keen gardener, he was well aware which plants were poisonous, his preferred choice of weapon.

  Mind-games, Prophecies and Chess Pieces in Play. This was the book which had all the answers. The lost book, he scribbled the title. Of course, in Albert’s mind, the dawning of the summer’s day, in the middle of the eighth month, on the South-West coast, in the place where tragedy had recently struck, had to be referring to England. Yes, it was all leading up to this moment. He didn’t stop to think the writer could have been referring to the USA or Africa, maybe Australia. The writer had given no specifics. In his mind, Albert had wanted to kill Gladys for as many years as he could remember. That was his desire. Only, she was not his outlet; for it had to be a male, the book said it was. Maybe when he’d quenched his desire to snuff a life it would release him from his silent torture.

  He knew the estimated date of the killing; he remembered the personality of the victim. A person who flaunted their belongings. A King in the game of chess, to be taken down by a mere Pawn. Albie scribbled faster. Remembering what he could and making up the rest as he went along. Which all amounted to everything he’d ever dreamt of doing in one sentence. But, it felt better if he could say a writer instructed him to do it, writings from an ancient prophecy. The only difference being he would poison a King instead of the wife he wanted to expire.

  His other missing books touched on murderers and where evil people went after their death. Hauntings, Nostradamus and notorious killers through the ages. Untraceable poisons. Put together they formed a blue-print of his imagination and intent.
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  Albert spent the evening plotting and writing, before placing his finished work into a large wooden box on top of his wardrobe. The cleaner wasn’t allowed in his bedroom, he’d made that much very plain. His wife was not able to walk up the stairs and he’d only wished this is where he’d left his books. In his private domain. He didn’t just kill the fly which had been buzzing around his head for the last hour, he squashed it, rubbing it into the windowsill, marvelling at the small amount of liquid it left behind. Just a brown mush of nothing.

  ~

  Tuesday evening and she was still no further along. “Where do I start, Matt?” Rosie chewed on the end of her pencil. Her mind was drawing blanks.

  Matt pulled his fiancée close to him and kissed the top of her worried forehead. “How about right here?” He gently planted one of his feathery light kisses on her lips, the one that always left her wanting more.

  “Ha! No you don’t! Come on, be serious,” she pleaded. “I need a bit of a nudge with this.” Rosie tried very hard not to gaze into his dark, oh, so sexy eyes, or feel his hot breath on her neck; she was struggling to ignore the electrical current as his leg brushed against hers. Right on cue, Bear jumped up on the sofa and wedged himself in between them. The furry passion killer had been rolling in something horrible in the garden.

  Matt scooped him up. “A cold shower for us two, I think. Phew puppy breath, you’re coming with me!” Matt stopped at the bathroom door. “Maybe later? After I help you first of course,” he teased.

  “I love you, Sergeant,” Rosie replied. She did too, with all of her being. They had plenty of time for work and play, Matt had two days off now. Just as she was thinking about stirring the hot pot and checking the back garden for Bear mess, a loud bang from the kitchen startled her. “Is that you, Dorothea?” she called out.

  Bumble stood with her back arched, fur up, hissing at the kitchen shelf. By the looks of things, her cat had been disturbed and the dishevelled tea-towel and scattered cutlery suggested she’d scrambled across the worktop in a hurry.