She sat down on a low wall to catch her breath and looked at the pretty cottages and well-kept properties nestling behind an avenue of mature lime trees. Some of the houses dated back to the seventeenth century and many had dates inscribed in stone lintels above their doors. Hattie looked at the uncommonly wide main street, which ran from the church and cloisters at the bottom of the hill, to the castle entrance at the top. She felt as though time had stood still.
‘Don’t sit on the wall, it’s far too hot.’
Hattie turned to see who was speaking and saw a young woman standing in the open doorway of a substantially built terraced house. Tall and slim with white-blonde hair, closely cropped, Camilla was striking in appearance.
‘You must be Hattie?’
‘And you must be Camilla.’ Hattie hauled herself to her feet.
Camilla walked forward and held out a thin white arm to take the bag, but Hattie held back. She had no intention of a quick transaction and, wiping the perspiration from her brow, asked Camilla if she might have a glass of water.
‘Yes, of course, this heat is draining.’ Camilla turned and Hattie followed her into the house. ‘Have a seat,’ Camilla said and disappeared.
Hattie studied her surroundings.
The house was surprisingly large inside with tall ceilings and spacious rooms. She could see through to a bright and sunny kitchen where Camilla could be heard opening a fridge and clinking ice into a glass. Furnished to an expensive taste with high-end antiques and fabrics in expensive muted shades, Camilla’s home was as luxurious as her stepmother’s and Hattie wondered if Marjorie had, in happier times, been involved in the décor.
‘Here we are.’ Camilla appeared with two glasses on a tray and a crystal jug of iced water. She placed it on a polished side-table and poured.
‘Thank you,’ Hattie said and took a long drink. ‘I needed that.’
Camilla sat down. ‘Why has Marjorie sent you?’ She nodded towards the bag.
‘Marjorie mentioned to me, over coffee, that she’d been sorting through Barry’s things and had intended to drop one or two off for you. As I was coming to Butterly today, I offered to save her the journey.’ Hattie leaned forward and shoved the bag across the floor. ‘Just a few bits and pieces that she thought you’d like.’
‘What I’d like is not in that bag,’ Camilla said. ‘I’d like my father back, not buried ten feet under, in that ghastly churchyard in Hollywood.’ She sighed and, with a sense of resignation, sat forward and began to rifle through the bag. Pulling out a variety of items, Camilla studied each one. ‘His chessboard,’ she whispered, eyes misting as she touched the hand-carved pieces. ‘Dad taught me to play with this set.’ She placed it on the table then reached for a photograph in a silver frame. It showed a little girl beside a fat pony. ‘Hercules, a birthday present on my eighth birthday. Dad led me around the field every day until he was confident that I could ride on my own.’
Hattie watched Camilla unpack the bag. She looked on with interest when Camilla came to Barry’s silver watch. It looked expensive, alongside a thick gold neck chain and a signet ring with a ruby stone. Hattie was surprised that Marjorie had parted with such valuable possessions, given the ill-feeling between the two women. Finally, Camilla held a hardbacked book in her hand and stroked the cover before opening it and running her fingers over the well-turned pages.
‘Poems by Robert Frost,’ Camilla said. ‘Dad loved this one…’ She began to read from The Road Not Taken, but stopped after the first few lines. ‘I’m sorry, it’s too upsetting, we used to read it together.’
Hattie took a sip of the ice-cold water and wondered whether it was a good moment to ask questions. ‘I didn’t know your father,’ she began, ‘but Barry is very highly spoken of in Hollywood.’
‘You’re new to the village but it’s nice to know people speak kindly of him.’
‘I’m sure he was a very admirable man.’
‘He was until he met the witch.’
‘You mean Marjorie?’
‘Yes.’
‘I take it that you don’t get on very well?’
‘No, I never have and never will.’ Camilla began to fidget and glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece.
‘It must be very hard for you,’ Hattie spoke softly. ‘I’m so sorry that you lost both your parents under such upsetting circumstances.’
Camilla looked up. She raised finely shaped eyebrows and pursed her red lips. ‘Dad was driven to his death by the witch, Marjorie, just as Mum was.’ She clenched her fists, pressing her nails into the skin of her palms until her knuckles showed white.
Hattie was conscious that further questions might cause suspicion but decided to press on.
‘Marjorie told me that Helen was upset when Barry left.’
‘Upset?’ Camilla spat the word out. ‘She killed herself and was found dead in the garage, lying across the seat of her car with a hosepipe through the window and the engine running. Camilla shuddered. ‘I think the word “upset” is an understatement.’
‘Did Helen leave a note?’
Camilla stood and folded her arms across her chest. ‘The police didn’t find anything. Anyway, why are you so interested in our business? You didn’t even know them, what’s it got to do with you?’
Hattie was in two minds whether to come clean, but remembered that Marjorie was her client, not Camilla.
‘I’m sorry, you’re right, it isn’t any of my business.’ Hattie placed her empty glass on the table and stood up too.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’ Camilla reached for the poetry book and caressed it between her fingers. ‘It was kind of you to come over.’ She moved to the door, opened it and looked out. ‘Did you manage to park close by?’
‘No, I’m miles away.’
‘Such a nuisance on market day.’
‘I thought I might have a wander around the castle.’ Hattie looked towards the keep which could be seen towering in the distance.
‘It’s not open to the public but you can walk in the grounds.’
‘Oh, I thought it was?’ Hattie lied.
‘It used to be, but not now. The building houses offices for a private company. I work there.’
‘That’s nice, what a lovely place to work and so handy too.’ Hattie smiled. ‘Right on your door-step.’
‘My house goes with the job.’
‘Been working there long?’
‘Five years.’ Camilla paused and frowned. ‘Look, I really must get back to work, I’m on a lunch-break.’
‘Of course, nice to have met you.’ Hattie stepped onto the path and when she reached the low wall turned to wave, but Camilla had already closed the door.
11
Harry Knowles liked to think of himself as a chameleon when it came to policing his patch, a man who blended in with his surroundings. This had its good points and served him well as a shadowy observer of situations, swooping in when least expected to utter the phrase he liked the most, ‘You’re nicked!’ Not that he had much opportunity to use the words, for very little happened when Harry was on duty and this he put down to good law enforcement by himself and fellow officers.
Some would say that Westmarland was a sleepy place, where not much happened, other than chasing visitors for speeding fines or litter-dropping on the pristine streets of the tourist towns and villages of the county. But others, like Harry, found a crime around every corner and made it their duty to investigate each lost kitten and any stolen bike.
But that morning, the station at Marland was as quiet as a tomb. Harry paced around the reception area and straightened posters on a noticeboard then wandered over to the main desk and tidied scattered pens and miscellaneous memos. He glanced over to the corner of the room where Constable Derek Jones sat with his feet perched on a stool, sipping from a large mug of tea. The local paper was spread out before him and he studied the crossword. The constable was in shirtsleeves, the buttons of his uniform shirt straining over a paunch. Podgy fingers reached for a bis
cuit from a half-consumed pack and he dunked absentmindedly as he contemplated clues.
‘Pinging call as they search for food around Bassenthwaite,’ the constable said, ‘eight letters, third letter, “Z”.’
‘Buzzards,’ Harry replied with little interest and he stared out of the window.
It was another hot day and the streets of Marland were filled with holidaymakers in bright casual clothes. Families wandered about, shopping for tasty Westmarland Sausages for their camp-side barbeques and local fudge as a take-home treat. Harry sighed as he watched the world go by. He was bored and longed for some action, something to set the streets alight and prove his worth in his new position. Anything to liven up his day.
Suddenly, the front door was flung open and a woman bustled into the station. Hot and harassed, she swept up to the front desk and drummed her fingers on the counter. ‘Anyone home?’ Hattie called out.
Derek whipped his feet off the stool and ambled to his feet. ‘What can we do for you, madam?’ he asked as he straightened his tie and wiped crumbs from his mouth.
‘You can make me a brew and shove those biscuits over here,’ Hattie said. ‘Is Harry the Helmet at home?’
‘Morning, Hattie,’ Harry called out, wishing that Hattie wouldn’t be so familiar. ‘What can we do for you on this lovely sunny day?’
‘I want to have a word, somewhere quiet.’ She glanced at Derek. ‘Haven’t you got something to do?’ she asked as Derek stepped forward. ‘Crime won’t crack itself, constable.’
‘Step into my office,’ Harry said. ‘Two teas, when you’ve a moment, Derek.’ He guided Hattie along a dingy corridor and into a small room, where he pulled out a chair and Hattie sat down beside a rickety table. Pulling a chair up for himself, Harry rubbed his hands together. Perhaps Hattie had something interesting for him to get his teeth into.
‘So, you’re back?’
‘State the bleedin’ obvious,’ Hattie replied. ‘Hardly needs a copper to suss that out.’
‘Sorry to hear about Hugo.’ Harry looked at Hattie. She was still attractive and vivacious, and he had no doubt that Hugo had enjoyed their married life.
‘He went down smiling.’
‘I’m sure he did.’ Harry thought of the many times he too had gone down smiling in Hattie’s company.
Derek appeared with tea and biscuits, laid out on a china plate, and as soon as the door closed behind him, Hattie began to update Harry on her living arrangements and neighbours in Hollywood and how she found it strange that there had been three suicides over the years.
‘So, now you’re Miss Marple?’ Harry sat back and smiled.
‘Aye, I might be.’ Hattie hated that repeated reference. ‘Seems to me that someone needs to do a bit of poking about in these parts.’
She explained how Marjorie had asked her to delve into Barry’s death and in so doing, Hattie had learnt about the suicides of Helen Delaney and Mary Yarwood. ‘Helen’s daughter says her mother was distraught when Barry went off with Marjorie, which is why she topped herself and Mary, I’m told by her successor, was mentally ill.’
‘I remember each case,’ Harry said, ‘all very sad. There was nothing mysterious about their deaths and they happened over several years.’ He frowned. ‘I can’t see any connection.’
‘What do you know about John Hargreaves?’
‘He’s wealthy, busy and gives generously to police charities.’
‘Do you ever hear any gossip about his care homes?’
‘The police are called if a resident dies but it’s always above board. Nancy, the manager at Marland Manor, is very efficient.’
‘The staff don’t seem to like her.’ Hattie remembered the scowls behind Nancy’s back.
‘She runs a tight ship.’
‘I don’t trust John Hargreaves.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No, but I have a gut feeling about him.’
‘He’s married to Venetia; they live in a big house on the Carlisle side of Marland.’ Harry was thoughtful. ‘I went there once when she reported a break-in, terrible snob, made me take my boots off at the front door.’
‘Was it a genuine robbery?’
‘If it was, we never got anyone, but there was a broken window at the back, no fingerprints though, some jewellery missing. I expect the insurance paid out.’
‘Do you think Venetia faked it?’
‘She could have done, I suppose, but why would she? John’s wealthy, she’s hardly short of money.’
‘So we’re led to believe but Barry’s death doesn’t add up.’ Hattie frowned. ‘Camilla’s contesting her dad’s will. Marjorie is as poor as a church mouse, as the house is mortgaged to the limit, and the only way Marjorie can get out of her financial mess is if Barry’s life insurance pays out.’
‘The company won’t pay out on a suicide?’
‘Not if the suicide happens within six months of the policy being taken out.’
‘I can see why she wants you to investigate.’
‘So, you’ll keep your copper’s ear to the ground and let me know if you think of anything that might help?’ Hattie shuffled back in her chair and stood.
‘For you, Hattie, anything,’ Harry said as he opened the door then escorted Hattie through the building. ‘I’ll call in for a cup of coffee when I’m next in Hollywood.’
‘Aye, I’ll look forward to it.’
Harry stood at the steps of the police station and watched Hattie disappear amongst the bustling tourists. Me too, he thought and, with a wistful smile, turned and went back to his job.
THE LEMON DROP CAFÉ in Butterly was busy that afternoon. Cream teas and ice-creams were popular in the hot weather and families, weary from the heat, grouped around tables with hungry children, to be revived by the Lemon Drop’s specialities. Hattie was pleased that she’d worn a short-sleeved dress in the oppressive atmosphere, the cotton was cool against her sweltering skin. She walked through the café and stepped into the newly opened courtyard, where tables nestled in clusters beside the River Bevan.
A woman sat at a table in a corner, under the shade of an umbrella and waved when she saw Hattie. Grace Dent was in her early sixties, with grey curly hair, cut short. A robust woman with a large body, her skin was wrinkled and Hattie thought that Grace hadn’t aged well.
‘Hello, I’m Grace!’ the woman called out and shuffled her chair so that Hattie could sit beside her. ‘Come and settle in the shade, it’s cracking the flags out there.’
Hattie sat down and placed her bag on a spare chair.
As Grace ordered, Hattie turned to the river where the banks were shaded by tall reeds. She resisted the urge to kick off her shoes and jump over the railing, tuck her dress in her knickers and paddle in the cool, clear water as it babbled by.
Their tea arrived and Grace rattled the china into place, then picked up a pot and poured them both a cup. ‘Alf and I grew up together, but we’re not related.’
‘He told me that he had a sister.’
‘Aye, well, that’s how it is but we’re not close.’
‘I’m intrigued.’
‘I’m adopted, we’re not blood relatives. I’d been in care until I was ten. Alf’s family had a farm and
fostered kids from broken homes.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Alf was a baby when I came to live with the family.’ ‘Well, I never,’ Hattie shook her head, ‘you learn something every day.’ She reached for her drink. ‘I knew that Alf had a sister and now at last, I’m meeting her, and I have to say, it’s a pleasure.’
The waitress arrived with a plate of scones and dishes of jam and cream.
‘Enough of me,’ Grace said. ‘Tell me about yourself. Alf says you’ve settled in?’
‘I’m slowly sorting things out, there’s a lot to do at the cottage.’
‘Yes, he says it’s a shite-hole.’
Hattie had murderous thoughts about her handyman, who habitually referred to her home in less than
glowing terms.
Grace pushed Hattie’s tea towards her. ‘You’ll have it lovely in no time.’ She sliced a scone and spread it thickly with jam and a spoonful of cream. ‘So, what can I help you with?’
‘I’d like to speak to you, in confidence, about Marland Manor. I’d be grateful for anything you can tell me.’
‘If Alf says you’re sound then that’s good enough for me. I won’t tell anyone that I’ve spoken to you. My lips are sealed. Fire away.’
‘I want to know a bit about the business and the owner. I understand that you’ve worked there for a long time?’
‘I’m part of the fixtures and fittings, been there for donkey’s years. I’m classed as a carer, but I do lots of jobs about the place.’
‘Is it a good place to work?’
‘Well, I don’t do it for the money.’ Grace took a sip of her tea. ‘They pay minimum wage and work you hard.’ She inclined her head. ‘But I do it for the old ones. Someone has to make sure that they’re well-looked after. Most of the residents don’t know what day of the week it is, but they’re people and individuals too.’
‘You must get fond of your charges?’
‘Aye, there’s one or two that melt your heart, left alone by their families or with no one to look out for them. I really should retire but the residents are part of my family.’
‘Are most people totally dependent on the service when they arrive?’
‘They are or they wouldn’t be there, needing the facilities.’
Hattie looked thoughtful. ‘Does Marland Manor have many long-term residents?’
‘Not really. I often think that just as they seem to be improving, they suddenly take a dip in health, it’s sad really.’ Grace said.
‘How do you get on with Nancy?’ Hattie asked as she bit into a scone.
‘She’s a right madam.’
‘You don’t like her?’
‘As I said, I work there for the old people. If it were left to the way the management treat the staff, there wouldn’t be any employees.’
Hattie raised her eyebrows, fascinated yet alarmed by this snippet of information. ‘But you must have enough qualified staff to care for everyone?’
Hattie Goes to Hollywood: Shenanigans, fun & intrigue in a new mystery series! Page 10
