by Angela Arney
‘Ha!’ muttered Louise, sounding unconvinced.
‘Wait until you’ve visited before you jump to conclusions.’
The house in question, Silver Cottage, was situated in a remote winding lane called Deer Leap Lane. It was a small house with a thatched roof, surrounded by a thick privet hedge; a country cottage looking as if it belonged on the pages of a fairy tale book. That, and the fact that it was on the edge of Stibbington, away from everything else, had attracted Lizzie. And despite Louise’s reservations, Lizzie thought Stibbington a dream of a place. Small and ancient, on the coast and yet in the New Forest, it clung to the banks of the meandering river Stib as it made its way out into the Solent opposite the Isle of Wight. It was the perfect mix of country and seaside, giving the impression of a place permanently on holiday. Quiet, it was true, but relaxing.
‘Mother,’ said Louise. Lizzie knew she was serious. Louise always called her Mother when she was being serious. ‘I rang because I wanted to wish you luck when moving out of the big house today. I don’t want to argue with you. And you know I wish I could be there in person, but the gallery has a private view tonight and I’ve got to get everything ready today.’ Louise’s job in the Fine Art gallery in Cork Street was a cross between receptionist, curator, and general dog’s body. Lizzie had always wished she’d opted for a better paid, more academic career, but Louise loved it.
‘Thanks,’ said Lizzie, immediately feeling guilty. ‘I know you’d help if you could, and I’m sorry I snapped. But I must dash now or I’ll miss the train to London. I’ll speak to you this evening when I get back to Stibbington.’
‘I shall be out. Private view, remember?’ said Louise. ‘And then tomorrow I’m off to Valencia at the crack of dawn to organize an exhibition there. I’ll ring you when I get back to London.’
They’d left it there, and Lizzie had come up to London feeling even more guilty. Louise’s intentions were well meant; she’d been trying to cheer her up. But on that particular day nothing could cheer her. She felt a failure. She, Lizzie the achiever, prizes at school, at university, a medical practitioner, an important member of society, had failed to hold her marriage together. That was the thing that really stuck in her gullet: failure. She couldn’t bear failure. It meant one had lost control.
The train rolled onwards through the open countryside of Surrey into Hampshire. It was pitch black now save for the occasional light from an isolated farmhouse. After Winchester where half the passengers disembarked, the remaining passengers sped on to Southampton. After that would soon be Piddlehurst, the nearest main line station to Stibbington. Lizzie waited until the serried arms of the cranes and floodlights of Southampton’s container port disappeared into the rain-lashed darkness, then struggled into her still wet raincoat. Collecting her bags and umbrella she waited in the corridor beside the door ready to leap out the moment the train drew to a halt. Silver Cottage and a glass of wine were high on her agenda.
It was only as she was collecting her car from the railway car park that she noticed the woman she’d trodden on had also alighted. Lizzie could see her, beneath the station lights, surrounded by several suitcases, talking to Piddlehurst’s one and only taxi driver. Unlocking the car door she wondered where the woman was going, then forgot all about her as she struggled to drive through torrential rain with a misted-up windscreen.
On the other side of Stibbington a car skidded to an abrupt halt. ‘Damn! That’s all I need. The water-splash is flooded again. Why the hell hasn’t a flood warning sign been put out? We could have taken the other road if we’d known.’ Black water lapped at the side of the car. and Detective Chief Inspector Adam Maguire swore again and said, ‘Grayson, you may have to push if this thing stops.’
‘Perhaps we should go back.’
‘Don’t be a fool, man. Are you suggesting we do a three point turn in this depth of water?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then we go on.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sergeant Steve Grayson slumped down in his seat wishing that he hadn’t begged a lift back home with his superior. Adam Maguire was dour at the best of times, had been ever since the death of his wife. But for the last few weeks he’d been positively vitriolic. Grayson thought he knew why. Boredom had a lot to do with it. All they seemed to do these days was toil with mountains of petty paperwork generated by the higher echelons of bureaucracy. Not a single interesting case had come their way in weeks. What was the point in being a detective, he thought moodily, if there was nothing to detect? Petty thieving at Stibbington’s weekly market didn’t rate as high as a gold bullion robbery, although the thieves were just as hard to catch. There was Mrs Armitage and her shoplifting, he supposed, not that anyone took much notice of that. She did it on a regular basis and her husband always paid up so the shop keepers never prosecuted; in fact Grayson thought they positively encouraged it. Sometimes he found himself praying that she would steal something really big, something that would enable them to charge her and get her to court. But Mrs Armitage perversely specialized in large pink knickers with elasticated legs and waists, bras big enough to put a baby in, and tights, with the occasional foray into men’s underpants, usually with sexy messages printed on them. Never anything expensive, and always very large; Grayson thought this even more bizarre as both Mr and Mrs Armitage were tiny, wizened creatures.
All this was a certain recipe for bad humour and on top of everything else there was the ever-present threat of closure hanging over Stibbington police station. Plans were afoot to move them all to Southampton where they’d be swallowed up into the huge new glass and concrete police headquarters. ‘We’ll be like ants in an anthill,’ Maguire had said. It was enough to depress anyone. Although I have a wife to go home to, reflected Grayson, not an empty house. However, that didn’t help now, not when he was stuck in a flood with a bad-tempered Maguire. Once again he cursed his old banger for letting him down thus forcing him to ask for a lift.
Maguire slipped the car into gear, edging slowly forward, and obviously thinking much the same, said, ‘About time you got yourself a decent car, Steve.’
‘We’ve got one good one, and I can’t afford another. Not on a sergeant’s pay.’ Grayson looked anxiously out of the window. ‘I hope Ann got through before the water-splash flooded. I don’t want her breaking down out here in the dark, not now that she’s pregnant.’
‘Not at any time,’ Maguire said gloomily. ‘Even country lanes are not safe places these days. Rape and pillage everywhere according to the popular press. Don’t know what the world is coming to.’
Grayson grinned. ‘Wishful thinking, sir?’ he asked wryly. ‘If you ask me, we could do with a bit of rape and pillage to liven things up; something to make a change from pen pushing.’
Maguire gave a ghost of a smile. ‘Too damned right.’ Then he changed the subject. ‘How is Ann, by the way?’
Just thinking of Ann had a cheering effect on Grayson. ‘She’s fine. She had the car to go into Southampton for a scan today. With any luck I’ll know the sex of the baby when I get home.’
‘What’s lucky about that? Better to have a surprise. More natural,’ said Maguire, sounding bad tempered again.
Grayson didn’t answer but wondered if Maguire regretted not having a family. Too late now. His wife was dead, poor thing, stricken with cancer in her early forties, and Maguire, although only forty-seven, seemed an old man to Grayson. He couldn’t imagine him with another woman.
The car started to move and they both breathed audible sighs of relief as it crept slowly out of the flood water. The engine coughed and the car juddered to a halt as Maguire jammed on the brakes to dry them. Soon they were on the tree-lined approach to Grayson’s road on the edge of Stibbington.
Maguire dropped him outside his house. It was an old police house. Grayson had bought it when Hampshire Constabulary were rationalizing their assets and restructuring the force, which, as Adam Maguire had cynically observed, was a fancy way of selling off police
property and making policemen redundant. But it’s an ill wind, thought Grayson now gazing with pride at the square, red-brick house, with its pocket handkerchief-sized gardens front and back. Ugly but practical. Not everyone’s cup of tea but it suits me and Ann.
Lizzie following Adam Maguire and Sergeant Grayson on her way from the railway station was not quite so lucky when she came to the flooded water-splash. Water seeped under the door of her low-slung Alfa Romeo, soaking the floor. It was a totally impractical car, but she loved its design and the roar of the engine. In the Alfa she felt adventurous, although tonight her spirit of adventure had been somewhat dented by the weather, and the fact that now the exhaust was coughing and spluttering worryingly. In her rear mirror she could see steam rising from the hot exhaust. She was uneasy. She remembered someone telling her that the water-splash, although normally only a trickle of water across the dip in the road, could flood badly, and was prone to flash flooding. Once, apparently, someone had even been swept away and drowned. Crossing her fingers, she prayed she wouldn’t be adding to the list of fatalities. The car coughed again, and Lizzie held her breath. If it broke down in London, which was not unknown as the carburettor was inclined to be temperamental, all she had to do was leave it, hop out and hail a passing cab. Here there was nothing and no one to hail, although her mobile phone was a comfort. Automatically, she tapped her raincoat pocket, feeling the reassuring bulge which was her contact with the outside world. However, the Alfa did get through the flooding, albeit reluctantly, with the engine sounding like a forty-a-day smoker, and Lizzie eventually saw the welcoming lights of Silver Cottage blinking through the rain.
She’d remembered to set all the timers – heating, lights, cooker – and the cottage was warm and bright, with an appetizing smell coming from the kitchen where she’d left a chicken casserole in the slow cooker. Dumping her bag and wet raincoat in the hall she poured herself a large glass of wine. She would have liked to have chatted to Louise, but as that was impossible she switched on the television and watched an American medical soap where all the doctors and nurses were impossibly glamorous and led incredibly active and complicated sex lives. It was so ridiculous that it cheered her up. Lizzie chuckled into her wine and chicken casserole. There was something very relaxing about being single, celibate, and able to watch rubbish without anyone disapproving.
For Adam Maguire walking into the house he’d once shared with his wife Rosemary, but now lived in alone, the reverse was the case. Nothing was switched on. The house was dark, smelled damp, and to make matters worse the dog had been sick on the kitchen mat.
‘Damn, Elsie Clackett,’ he muttered crossly. ‘Why will she always feed the dog when I ask her not to?’
The dog, an old golden Labrador, sidled up to him, apologetic, sorrowful-looking, and rubbed her sleek sides against his leg in apology. ‘It’s all right, Tess.’ Reaching down he fondled her silky ears. ‘I know it’s not your fault.’ He opened the kitchen door and shooed her out into the garden. The dog hung back, reluctant to go out. He gave her a shove. ‘I know it’s raining, but you go out and do what you’ve got to do. Then you can come back in.’ Smiling, he watched her broad golden back hurtle across the sodden lawn into the darkness as she made for the shelter of the bushes at the bottom of the garden. Then turning back into the kitchen he cleaned up the mat.
Later that evening sitting in front of the television, with Tess by his side, a pre-cooked dinner for one on a tray and a glass of whisky in his hand, he looked about him. The house was small, a typical two up two down forest cottage which had once accommodated a farm worker and his family. Now, such cottages were highly sought after by wealthy weekenders. Rosemary had wanted the house. Adam would have preferred something more modern, but she enjoyed being trendy, and Adam had always been happy to go along with whatever she wanted. Everything in the house was neat and tidy, thanks to Elsie Clackett, who came in twice a week to clean. Everything that should be polished was polished. Everything in its right place. In fact, everything was just the same as it had been the day Rosemary died. So why was it so depressing? What was different about the room, or indeed the whole house? He knew the answer: it was too tidy, and it was empty. There were no little touches of someone else’s hand; a vase of flowers, scattered magazines, a half-finished book lying upside down. He was living in a vacuum and had been ever since Rosemary had gone from his life. Passed over as Elsie Clackett said. ‘Passed over what?’ he always wanted to shout. ‘She hasn’t passed over anything. She’s dead!’ But the words remained in his head, known only to himself.
Everyone, relations, friends, colleagues, all said, ‘time heals’. But Adam doubted it.
Not feeling hungry he gave Tess most of the microwaved meal. She ate it all as usual. Casserole, cottage pie, sausages, whatever he gave her, she ate it. Tonight it was cottage pie and sprouts and she polished the plate, chasing the last sprout around and finally chomping on it with a smile of satisfaction on her whiskery face.
‘Dustbin,’ Adam said affectionately, and poured himself another generous measure of whisky. On the TV he switched over from the medical soap. He hated anything to do with hospitals since Rosemary’s illness. Idly, he watched a thriller flickering across the screen, then became irritated. Why was it on television all the detectives, usually middle-aged, ended up in bed with glamorous young women? Exasperated, he switched it off and put on a CD – Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, that should chase away the black bear sitting on his shoulder. ‘Music has charms to sooth a savage beast,’ he told Tess, who followed her master across the room.
She followed a tall, grey-eyed man, black hair streaked with silver at the sides, and a face which, although handsome, was much too thin, with deep lines either side of the mouth. Whenever he looked in the mirror to shave, about the only time he bothered to look at himself, Adam saw the lines and thought of Rosemary. ‘Laughter lines,’ she’d always said. But lately there’d not been much to laugh about, and sometimes in his blackest moments he wondered if he would ever really laugh again. Music washed into the room, the notes of the solo violin throbbing joyfully. Adam felt a little more cheerful, and poured himself another whisky. Definitely the last, he decided, and raised his glass. ‘Bring me an interesting case,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘Something to occupy my mind.’
Tess wagged her tail, anxious to please, and watched him intently.
While Lizzie, Adam Maguire, and Grayson were making their various ways home, the woman from the London train had asked Andy Watson, the only taxi driver to do regular duty at Piddlehurst Station, to take her to the House by the Hard at Stibbington.
‘I believe it’s a good guest house,’ she said.
‘Been recommended, has it?’ said Andy. He didn’t like Mrs Matthews, the owner of said guest house. She was very friendly with his wife. He didn’t like his wife much either but was stuck with her. One of the reasons he was always out and about with his taxi was because he’d do anything to get out of the house and away from Marge Watson’s nagging. ‘Don’t step there!’ ‘Mind that settee with those trousers!’ ‘You know that’s the cat’s chair!’ Anything, in fact, to stop him from settling down comfortably in his own home. This was the reason he was the only taxi outside the station on the black, wet December night.
‘No. I read about it in the Stibbington Guide Book and came down yesterday to get the feel of the place. I decided then to stay, so now I’m returning with my luggage. It’s an ideal spot for me.’
‘Ideal if you want to be stuck out on the end of the hard,’ said Andy putting the woman’s suitcases in the boot. ‘All right in the summer, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. But quiet. Very lonely this time of year.’
‘That’s what I want,’ said the woman. ‘Peace and quiet. I have a book to write.’
‘Well then,’ Andy opened the door for her. ‘Peace and quiet. That’s what you’ll get. As the saying goes it’s as quiet as the grave down there.’
CHAPTER THREE
The f
ollowing morning was Friday, and the first thing Lizzie thought about when looking out of the window at the cottage garden was that getting a gardener was a high priority. The privet hedge surrounding the garden gave privacy, but, and this was not something that had occurred to her before, it also grew. Now she looked at it more closely she realized that since she’d bought the cottage it appeared to have grown at least two inches. She felt vaguely surprised; weren’t things supposed to stop growing in the winter? And the garden itself, which was full of bushes and plants, all of which appeared to be of the dark green, crawling variety, seemed to be encroaching upon the house itself. There was no doubt about it. She needed a gardener, and soon. If she delayed much longer there was the distinct possibility that she’d have to carry a machete to hack her way through the undergrowth to get in and out of the house. Gardening was unknown territory to Lizzie, but she’d envisaged, when she’d bought the house, that she would eventually have a typical cottage garden full of old-fashioned flowers. It would be crammed with pansies, lupins, hollyhocks, and roses, a cheerful, brightly coloured place of relaxation. She looked out of the window. Anything less cheerful was difficult to imagine. The whole scene was dank, dark, and very, very wet.
Last night she’d felt surprisingly content, but now in the cold light of dawn she suddenly felt very alone: on her own in a town she didn’t yet know, with a house and garden she hadn’t fully sussed out. Plus a job in a country practice where most of her patients, as far as she’d been able to make out, were in their eighties living in isolated cottages. A far cry from the drug addicts and unemployed people she’d been used to dealing with. Perhaps Louise was right, she thought uneasily, and she was going to find Stibbington too quiet and dull.
On the other side of Stibbington down by the estuary, unfazed by the bad weather, Emmy Matthews busied herself in the kitchen of the House on the Hard. It was early morning, and there was no sign yet of her one and only guest, a female, but she bustled about nonetheless preparing a full English breakfast. Strange woman, she thought, popping up out of the blue like that, staying one Wednesday night, then leaving early Thursday morning before breakfast saying she’d be back that evening. At the time Emmy hadn’t believed her. In fact thought it merely a ruse to get away politely; people were like that, saying one thing and meaning another. Besides, she’d paid her for the single night. People who paid like that didn’t usually come back. But, true to her word, Mrs Jean Smithson, that was her name, had returned with her luggage and announced that she had made up her mind and would be staying for at least a week. Maybe more.
