Wychwood--Hallowdene

by George Mann

  Daisy looked a little taken aback, but then she smiled again, and this time there was something more genuine about it. “Okay, you’re on.” She set about sorting out the tea and cake.

  Elspeth checked the messages on her phone. There was nothing from Peter. She wondered how he was getting on with the Abbott case. She’d call him later; let him know how the chat with Daisy worked out.

  Nearby, Christian was also busying himself on his phone. He was standing by the till, leaning with his elbows on the countertop, his phone held up before him. At first Elspeth thought he was pointing it at Daisy as if taking a photo, but then she saw his thumbs dancing back and forth on the screen and the intense look on his face, and she decided he had to be playing a game. She supposed it was hardly busy.

  Daisy returned a couple of minutes later carrying a wooden tray, bearing a large pot of tea, two cups and saucers, and two slices of lemon cake. She placed them down on the table, untied her apron and sank into the chair opposite Elspeth. She issued a long, heartfelt sigh.

  “Been a hard day?”

  “You could say that,” said Daisy. She rocked forward, placing her elbows on the table. “Look, I wanted to say thanks for yesterday. You were a real lifesaver, standing up to the old man like that. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem at all,” said Elspeth. “I’ve never understood what drives men to behave that way.”

  “I’ve never understood what drives men, full stop,” said Daisy. She laughed, and reached for the teapot. “It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that. It was starting to become a real problem. He even followed me home one night. I’m appalled by what’s happened to him, but he won’t be missed.” She poured the tea and then sat back in her chair, rubbing absently at her bandaged hand.

  “You okay?” said Elspeth.

  “What? Oh, yeah, fine,” said Daisy. “It’s nothing really. Cut it opening a can of beans.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, I know. Been giving me gyp all day. Stupid really. It’ll be gone in a couple of days.”

  “So, what do you do when you’re not working here,” said Elspeth. “Aside from inexpertly opening cans of beans?”

  Daisy laughed. “I paint.”

  “Oh, you’re an artist?” said Elspeth. She splashed some milk into her cup.

  “I try,” said Daisy. “I’m not sure I’m very good.”

  “I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourself. What sort of thing do you do?”

  Daisy thought about it for a moment. “Well, there are the watercolours. Landscapes, mainly; views of the village and surrounding area. But those are just for money, really. Sally helps me out, stocking a few in the shop.” She waved at the shelves. “But my real passion is portraiture and mixed media.”

  “Mixed media?”

  “Art and music,” said Daisy. She seemed to have forgotten all about her hand, and was leaning forward, enjoying the opportunity to talk about her passions. “I’m working on a new sequence at the moment. Portraits of women in different guises, each of them set to a different soundtrack.”

  “Interesting. So what comes first, the music or the painting?” said Elspeth.

  “It depends. I take my inspiration from the subject. Sometimes there’s a little refrain that grows like a seed while I’m painting. Other times it’s as if the painting is silent, right up until the end, and then something clicks and it all comes alive. I think there’s something fundamental about the link between music and art. One inspires the other in a kind of constantly repeating circle.” She was watching Elspeth intently, waiting to gauge her reaction.

  “I think I can understand that,” Elspeth said, after taking a sip of her tea. “I think it’s the same with music and words. They both inspire a tone, a mood.”

  “Exactly!” said Daisy. She broke off a piece of cake and nibbled on it thoughtfully. All Elspeth wanted to do was take the whole piece down in one bite. She cut it in half and tried not to reveal how hungry she was as she took an enormous mouthful.

  “I’d love to see some of your art, sometime,” she said, once she’d wolfed down the other half. “Do you ever exhibit?”

  Daisy laughed. “God, no. Nothing like that. But you’re welcome to come by the cottage. I’ve got a little studio set up inside. Maybe you could even pose for one of the portraits, if you like?”

  Elspeth felt suddenly embarrassed. “Oh, well, I don’t know about that. I’m sure you’ve got specific things in mind. But I’d definitely love to come by, thanks.”

  “Great. How about tomorrow night, once I get off here?” She looked at Elspeth hopefully, and Elspeth couldn’t help but notice there was an undercurrent to the question, a subtext that spoke of loneliness. It wasn’t desperation – Daisy was too smart, too cool for that – but Elspeth sensed that she was looking for something, even if it was simply an opportunity to share her art.

  Abigail would be on her way back to London in the morning, and Elspeth had made no specific arrangements with Peter, who would likely still be tied up in the Abbott case. She knew what he’d say about her visiting the home of a potential suspect. And this after she’d just assured him that she’d stay safe. Still, she didn’t sense any danger from Daisy – more just a young woman who needed a friend.

  “Count me in,” said Elspeth.

  “Great,” said Daisy, dabbing at the crumbs on her plate with her thumb. “I’d be interested to see what you make of it all.”

  “Maybe I could even do a piece for the paper,” ventured Elspeth. “A local spotlight, or something.”

  “The paper? Oh, God. Listen to me going on. I’ve just talked at you about me, and haven’t asked about you at all. I’m so sorry.”

  Elspeth laughed. “Don’t be. It’s kind of my job, after all, getting people to talk.” She told Daisy about her work for the Heighton Observer, and the reason she was there in Hallowdene in the first place.

  “Oh, you must talk to Sally,” said Daisy. “She’s one of the organisers of the fayre.”

  “I will.” She glanced over, but Sally was nowhere to be seen, and the elderly couple were putting their coats on. Christian was watching them from his perch by the till, his brow furrowed. He looked away when he saw Elspeth looking. “Well, I suppose I’d best be off,” she said, downing the last of her tea. “But it’s been lovely to chat.”

  Daisy smiled. “See you tomorrow, then, about six?”

  “I’ll be here.” She stood, reaching for her bag. “Oh, and what do I owe you?”

  Daisy waved her away. “I think this one can come out of my tips.”

  “Well, thanks,” said Elspeth. “I’ll bring a bottle tomorrow or something.”

  “Perfect.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  There was something reassuring about being back in Wilsby-under-Wychwood. There was stillness here, a sense of calm. Everything seemed to slow down to a more reasonable pace of life.

  Maybe it had something to do with the trees, the gentle sighing of their branches in the evening breeze, the distant chattering of the birds. Maybe they had a soporific effect, relaxing her. Or maybe it was just the same feeling that everyone had when they felt truly at home. Elspeth had grown up here, after all, and the place had left an indelible impression on her. For a while, the Carrion King case had confused all of that, leaving her feeling unsettled, all those homely emotions intermingled with fear and treachery and doubt. But that was gone now, and those complicated feelings had passed with the killer’s sentencing. Now, she was pleased to find her memories of galumphing through the woods as a gleeful child remained largely untainted.

  She still thought of Rose, from time to time – her would-be friend from the Heighton Observer, the agony aunt who’d been so brutally murdered. Elspeth wished she’d had time to get to know the woman better. More than that, she wished she’d been able to act, to stop her killer from doing what he did to her, while she had sat in the audience of a play with Peter, unsuspecting.

  Images of Rose’s b
ody still haunted her, permeating her dreams. She hadn’t spoken to Peter about it, or her mum. What would they say? That perhaps she wasn’t really cut out for reporting on murders? That she’d have to keep away from such things in future?

  She knew it wasn’t that. This was more personal. With most of the victims, she hadn’t known them, so she had been able to assume some level of cool detachment, but with Rose, the killer had reached into her own life, and broken something.

  Still, all of that was over and done with now. She only hoped that Daisy really hadn’t been involved in Nicholas Abbott’s murder. She’d really taken to the young woman, and if she turned out to be responsible for his murder – however much he’d provoked her – Elspeth didn’t know how well she’d cope with the blow. That said, having met Thomas Abbott, she had a sense that he was a far more likely candidate – the way his mood had suddenly flipped, right before her eyes… Anger such as that could be dangerous.

  “This really is lovely,” said Abigail, shaking Elspeth out of her reverie. “You made it sound as if you’d grown up in The Waltons or something.”

  Elspeth laughed. “You haven’t met my mum, yet.” She led Abigail to the door.

  Inside, it was quiet, with just the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, and the creaking of the old house. Elspeth had always found something familiar in that groaning, like an old man, yawning and stretching as he welcomed her home. She could smell something spicy wafting from the kitchen, and led the way through the study to find her mum, Dorothy, standing over the stove, stirring a pot of what she presumed to be curry.

  “Hi, Mum,” she said, dropping her bag on the table. “This is Abi.”

  Dorothy beamed and came over to shake Abi’s hand, then gave Elspeth a peck on the cheek. “Hi, love. Nice to meet you, Abigail. Hope you’re hungry.”

  “Famished,” said Abigail, slipping off her coat and handing it to Elspeth, who hung it up carefully, rather than tossing it over the back of a chair like she usually would.

  “We had lunch in the Rowan Tree,” said Elspeth, coming back through from the hall. “It wasn’t up to much.”

  “Well I hope this curry fares better,” said Dorothy, peering at the cookbook she’d propped up on the countertop. “I’m trying something new. You’re guinea pigs.” She sounded dubious.

  “You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble,” said Abigail. “Not on my account.”

  “Well, to be truthful, there’s this fella at work who keeps going on about curries, and I thought if this worked out, I might invite him over next week.”

  “Mum!”

  Dorothy shrugged. “Well, why not?” She tested the curry from the edge of her wooden spoon, and looked slightly taken aback at its ferocity.

  Elspeth rolled her eyes. Abigail laughed.

  “So – tell me, how’s the story coming along?” said Dorothy. “I haven’t been over to Hallowdene for years. Not since you were a little girl. Do you remember—”

  “Yes, I remember, Mum,” said Elspeth, cutting her off.

  “Remember what?” asked Abigail, her voice dripping with innocence.

  “Oh, I took Elspeth to the fayre one year, and she was terrified. She spent most of the day clutching my leg and refusing to look at anything.”

  “I was six! And they were all wearing those horrible masks and carrying an effigy through the streets.”

  “You were seven,” corrected Dorothy. “But yes, I suppose you’re right. Looking back, it’s not really in very good taste, is it? I shouldn’t have dragged you along.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Abigail. “It’s just a bit of fun. Like Guy Fawkes or something. People celebrating tradition, coming together for a party.”

  “I suppose that’s what I used to think, too. We all did. It was just a bit of fun. But now, I can’t help thinking about that poor woman, lynched for being a witch. Perhaps it’s time to let go of tradition,” said Dorothy. This was the first time Elspeth had heard her give an opinion on the subject, and she was surprised to find herself in agreement.

  “It does seem a little macabre,” said Elspeth. “Especially now they’re digging up her grave, too.”

  “I meant to ask you about that,” said Abigail. “Was it terribly grisly?”

  “Not really,” said Elspeth. “Not compared to some of the other things I’ve seen. It was just a skeleton, really, with a few trinkets. Nothing to get worked up about.”

  “It would give me the creeps,” said Abigail. “And I edit books about murderers.”

  “Me too,” said Dorothy, fishing plates out of the cupboard. “If you’re ready, I’ll get this dished up.”

  They chatted as they ate, about Abigail’s job in London, about the nights out she and Elspeth had enjoyed, about Andrew and everything that had gone on when Elspeth had discovered he’d been cheating on her.

  Elspeth found herself wanting to change the subject. She took another swig of water. The curry was hot. “This is lovely, Mum.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Abigail.

  Dorothy looked a little red in the face. “I think I might try to tone it down a little bit if I make it for Nigel,” she said.

  “Might be a good idea,” said Abigail, fanning herself, and smiling. “Unless you want to scare him off.”

  Dorothy laughed, and Elspeth sighed, grinning despite herself.

  * * *

  After dinner, Elspeth helped Dorothy with the washing-up, while Abigail made a few calls from the other room, catching up with her other friends from London.

  “What do you know about the story of the Hallowdene Witch, Mum?” said Elspeth, slotting plates back into the rack in the cupboard.

  “Just what everyone else knows, I guess,” said Dorothy. “Why?”

  “I was just wondering if you had any insight, that’s all. I was thinking about what you said, about it all being in bad taste.”

  “Some things should be left buried,” said Dorothy.

  “That’s odd. That’s exactly what I overheard someone else say at the tearoom. That no good ever comes from digging up the past.”

  “Wise words, if you ask me,” said Dorothy.

  “So you think there’s something to all this talk of a curse, then?”

  Dorothy shook her head. “No. That’s just silly superstition. I know all that business with Carrion King might have made it seem as if there was something supernatural going on – and for all I know, there might have been – but this really is just a bunch of daft folk wearing masks. I can’t believe in witch’s curses.”

  “Then why are you so hesitant about them excavating?” said Elspeth.

  “Because whatever else people say about her, that woman was a murderer. They dressed it up as witchcraft but if all the stories are true, she brutally murdered another woman in the woods. That’s why I don’t think we should be digging her up, or making her into a tourist attraction. It’s in such bad taste.” She drained the soapy water from the sink. “I used to think it was all just a laugh, like your friend Abigail. But after all that business with the Carrion King… I just think she should stay buried and forgotten.”

  Elspeth screwed the tea towel up into a ball and dropped it on the work surface, and then bundled her mum up into a big hug. “I’m all right, you know. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Of course I have to worry about you, Ellie. That’s my job.”

  Elspeth came out of the hug to see Abigail standing on the kitchen threshold, looking a little awkward. “Just wanted to let you know we’re all set for the day after tomorrow.” She waved her mobile phone.

  “What’s happening the day after tomorrow?” said Dorothy.

  “Oh, it’s just a party that Abi’s got us invited to in London.”

  Dorothy looked surprised. “London? Well, don’t you go giving her ideas,” she said to Abigail. “I won’t have you stealing her away again.” She smiled. “You off to the pub?”

  “Yeah, off to meet Peter,” said Elspeth. She grabbed her bag. �
�Thanks for dinner, Mum.”

  “See you, love. Don’t be a stranger.”

  As they walked through the quiet streets, Abigail seemed unusually quiet. “You really love it here, don’t you?” she said.

  “I suppose I do,” said Elspeth.

  “I’m not trying to steal you away, you know, with all that talk of jobs and stuff. It’s just, I miss you, Ellie, and I want what’s best for you. You upped and left so quickly after Andrew…” She trailed off. “Well, look, I’m not trying to persuade you. That’s what I’m trying to say. It’s just another option to consider.”

  Elspeth smiled. “I know, you silly sod. But thank you.”

  * * *

  The rap at the door was loud and insistent. Frowning, Daisy tossed the tea towel onto the work surface and hurried to answer it. She had no idea who it could be. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Her stomach churned at the thought it might be the police. Had someone come forward to say they’d seen her in the vicinity of Nicholas Abbott’s house the previous night?

  Steeling herself, she opened the door to find, to her surprise, Christian Jameson standing in the front garden, kicking the bottom step with the edge of his shoe. She heaved an audible sigh of relief. “Christian! I, um, wasn’t expecting to see you.” He’d never been to call on her before, except to run errands for his mum. “Is everything okay? Does Sally need something?”

  He looked up, meeting her eye. “No, no. Nothing like that. I was just passing and I, well, I wondered if you fancied going for a drink. I’m headed to the Rowan Tree.” He swallowed, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

  Daisy didn’t know what to say. She leaned against the doorframe. “Oh, sorry, I’m expecting a call from a friend shortly. Maybe another time.”

  He looked crestfallen. “Okay. Yeah. Another time.” He started to turn away.

  Daisy felt as though she’d kicked a puppy. She really didn’t want to get into this now, but she supposed she owed it to him – or to Sally, at least – to see if she could get to the bottom of it. “Look, something’s clearly on your mind. Is everything okay?”