The Dead Girl's Shoes

by Arney, Angela

  The Dead Girl’s Shoes

  Angela Arney

  © Angela Arney 2017

  Angela Arney has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2017.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  EPILOGUE

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  Prologue

  ‘Come on my little darling.’ The small grubby dog was lifted from the ancient pram and put down on the damp grass, where he proceeded to give his ears a good scratch. ‘We’ll soon have this place nice and snug for both of us.’ The dog sat still, looking on expectantly, whilst his mistress, Nellie Barnaby, spread an ancient tarpaulin out at the back of the hawthorn thicket. ‘No one will disturb us here.’

  Five minutes later, the den was to the satisfaction of Nellie, and the dog and woman both settled down to eat their supper. A couple of steak and kidney pies from the forest pub, The Turf Cutters Arms. True, they were yesterday’s pies. Pete Beeson, the landlord, could afford to give them away, but the pastry was still crisp and the steak and kidney well cooked and juicy. The pies went down well, with a drink of water for the dog and three quarters of a bottle of scrumpy cider for the woman. After that, there was nothing else to do but settle down for the night and sleep.

  *

  Apart from an old dog fox, coming their way and sniffing them out, nothing disturbed them until just gone midnight. It was then that there were voices. Loud voices. Angry voices. Tearful voices. A crashing of the dense hawthorn branches. The pair hidden in the thicket moved further back, huddling together and keeping silent. Finally, there was a crash. Someone or something had fallen. Then silence and more tears. Loud, noisy tears. Nellie pulled her knitted hat down over her ears. She didn’t want to hear tears; there had been too many tears in her life. All she wanted now was peace and quiet, and after a while, peace and quiet returned. That was after she’d heard the old car drive away. She knew it was old because of the noise the engine made as it coughed into life. It wasn’t a smooth, modern engine purring into action; it was rough, and struggled reluctantly before being driven off. For a while afterwards, she and the dog lay together alert, listening. But all remained quiet and they drifted back to sleep.

  In the morning, Nellie boiled some water on her primus stove for a cup of tea, and shared a stale ham roll with the dog also courtesy of The Turf Cutters Arms. It was when they were leaving the den that she found the shoe. It lay beside the mound of flints at the roadside. The flints were relics of days gone by when the surrounding chalky fields were ploughed and the flints collected and disposed of by dumping them at the side of the road. The shoe, only one and for the left foot, was a soft black leather ballet type pump. An expensive shoe with daisies stitched across the front, and it fitted the old woman perfectly. She put it on with glee. She needed a left shoe as the ancient trainer on her left foot had a hole in the sole and let in water. The leaky trainer was left behind, stuffed beneath the undergrowth surrounding the hawthorn bush by the mound of flints. She didn’t worry about odd shoes. She and her dog went on their way through the forest lanes, following the ancient tracks of travellers.

  Chapter 1

  Jemima sat on her bed and re-read the letter she’d written. Yes, it said everything she wanted to say. Folding it carefully, she put it in her haversack. Tonight was the perfect opportunity to give it to him, and he would have to read it. They could talk later. Meanwhile the copy had to go somewhere safe. Somewhere safe, but where? Under the mattress, of course. As good a place as any. Slipping the single sheet into an old brown manila envelope, she put it carefully beneath the mattress on her bed.

  After straightening the mattress, she pulled the duvet cover back smoothly, and plumped up the pillows on the bed. Now she was set to leave. She’d already dressed for the job lined up that evening, a black skirt and a white frilly blouse, and her new black shoes with the daisies on. The shoes were a little flashy for a waitress, but she loved them. Then, taking one last look in the mirror before picking up her haversack, she closed the door behind her. Now she needed to get to Salisbury railway station and pick up the lift hired to take her and the other students to the event. A people carrier was taking eight of them into Avinton village where they were to be employed as waitresses and bar staff for a Thursday evening function at the Country House Hotel. Jemima was looking forward to the extra money. It was a lucky break for the eight students. Always broke when it got near to the end of term, the money would come in useful. Darius Motley, an ex-Salisbury student, now a business man working with Louise Browne, the daughter of Lizzie Browne the new local GP, had fixed it for eight of them to be employed for the evening at, what Jemima thought, was a very good rate of pay.

  On her way out, she noticed her cousin Ruth’s room was empty. They shared a house in Salisbury, and Ruth was also booked as one of the waitresses. Her boyfriend Tom wasn’t there either. Probably in the students’ bar, thought Jemima, his usual spot if he wasn’t with Ruth. But there was no time to look for Ruth, not if she was to get the bus. She’d have to look after herself.

  *

  Dr Lizzie Brown was dog tired that Thursday evening. Kicking off her shoes, she lay on top of her bed with a reviving cup of tea and thought back to the practice she’d left a year ago. She’d swopped a busy inner city job in Whitechapel, London, for a country practice in Stibbington.

  She’d decided to make a clean sweep of her life, and leave everything behind, including her failed marriage. Mike, her ex, had found the charms of a woman half his age more attractive than that of his wife of twenty odd years, who was in her mid-forties. So what! She wouldn’t think about that! Their marriage had gradually petered out over the years so she wasn’t heartbroken, and now there was the bonus of their one and only daughter, Louise, visiting her more often. Lizzie knew the attraction. It was her country cottage on the outskirts of Stibbington. Silver Cottage, Deer Leap Lane, a small house as charming as its name, plus there were no rows or atmosphere to contend with between her mother and father now that they lived apart.

  Yes. This was a new start. Although she’d mistakenly thought it would be an easier job, with no patients in high rise flats, and not the grinding poverty of city life where most of her patients existed on State Benefits. But she’d been wrong. It wasn’t easier and there was a different kind of poverty; often a poverty of the spirit, of loneliness and isolation. That was why she’d stayed up very late the previous night with a dying patient. There had been no need to stay with Martha Granger in the hospital, as there were plenty of people about. But there was no one special, and Lizzie had cared for the old lady ever since she had moved to Stibbington as a GP, and had built up a friendship with the spirited elderly woman. Martha had no living relatives now, and at 92 years old had outlived all her friends; Lizzie didn’t want her to die with strangers at her bed
-side, so had sat with her until she had taken her last breath in the early hours of the morning. It was on Thursday the fifteenth of May, just as the first rays of the sun crept in through the blinds of the hospital room, that Martha died. Later, Lizzie managed to grab a couple of hours sleep before she was back on duty at Honeywell Health Centre. Now, at the end of the day she felt exhausted, and not in the least bit enthusiastic about spending the evening standing with a glass of wine in her hand talking to people she didn’t know.

  The bedside phone rang. It was Louise. She was excited and worried at the same time. ‘Mum, what time are you coming tonight?’ Lizzie didn’t answer straight away and Louise rattled on. ‘Try and be here early. It’s important we get a good crowd. I’m counting on you to rustle up a few more people for me as you live here now.’

  The early night receded into the distance. She had promised Louise that she’d attend the launch of a new perfume, Black Velvet. A glitzy event. Not something she was interested in, but this was Louise’s first big event in her new job, and Lizzie wanted to support her. She was visiting Hampshire from her London base, where she now worked as an event’s organizer for Star Events, a new firm jointly set up by Louise and her friend Darius Mottisley. It was taking place at the Country House Hotel, a very up market hotel set in its own extensive grounds, with a deer park, deep in the New Forest, near to Stibbington.

  The new perfume was based on a famous and ancient rose, also named Black Velvet, which grew in the walled garden of the nearby stately home, Avon Hall. Louise had worked hard and organized a glittering evening. Many from the British up and coming fashion houses, and High Street Fashion stores, as well as minor celebrities from the film and theatrical world had promised to attend. In fact, everyone who Louise and Darius thought might prove influential and either stock or promote the new perfume.

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can be,’ said Lizzie, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  ‘Good. Bring that lovely policeman you and I met last year. What’s his name? Adam something.’

  ‘Adam Maguire. And he’s not that lovely and do stop trying to pair me up with him. And before you ask, I did invite him, but he declined. Said he preferred walking his dog. But before you complain, I also asked Phineas Merryweather, the local pathologist, and his wife to come and they accepted with alacrity. Phineas said he’d try to bring along a couple of his Rotarian friends, so that will swell your numbers.’

  Louise was pleased. ‘Good. See you there Mum, no later than seven o’clock please, and wear something sexy with high heels. Not those dreadful flat country shoes you’ve taken to wearing.’

  Lizzie put down the phone and looked down at her aching feet. High heels! She hadn’t worn them for months, but tonight she’d suffer for Louise’s sake.

  *

  The crowd was young and trendy, and most were, almost without exception Lizzie noted, in their early twenties. They were buzzing with energy. Lizzie wasn’t buzzing with anything, she still felt tired, and her feet were killing her. She should never have worn such high heels, but Louise had told her to dress up, and ‘look glam’ as she’d put it, so she had.

  She was now standing next to the inventor of the perfume, Simon Villiers, by profession a chemist so he told her. He was a rather gloomy young man, and she guessed him to be in his late twenties. He had definitely had too much to drink, and was unsteady on his feet. He told Lizzie that his family, or to be more precise, his father, owned Avon Hall.

  ‘Now, of course,’ he said moodily, ‘we need to open the house and grounds to the paying public, in order to pay for the upkeep. We’re all suffering, although it is my father’s fault,’ he added. ‘He lost a lot on the last stock market crash. He invested in all the wrong things.’

  ‘What do you mean, you are all suffering?’ asked Lizzie with some asperity. He struck her as a very spoiled young man. ‘You still live in the house don’t you? And I understand the house and gardens are very beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ he admitted. ‘But these days there are strangers gawking everywhere. There’s absolutely no privacy.’ When Lizzie remained silent, he rambled on. ‘Not that I care about the house that much,’ he said. ‘I’m really only interested in the walled garden, and not just the roses. There are other old-fashioned herbs and plants in the garden, and some of them are very rare. I have a laboratory at the back of the house and I’m researching for a new antibiotic, based on the plants there. What the world needs is a new kind of antibiotic. If I could invent that I’d be financially secure and could tell my father to go to hell.’

  At this point, Phineas Merryweather and his wife Audrey came over. Phineas, as usual, was bubbling over with bon viveur. ‘Great champagne,’ he said, waving his glass in Lizzie’s direction. ‘Where’s Adam? I thought you asked him.’

  ‘He turned the invitation down, he said he preferred a long walk with the dog,’ said Lizzie, pulling a face. ‘Mind you, I don’t think he’d have been buying perfume in any case. Who would he buy it for?’

  ‘He might have bought some for you,’ teased Audrey. ‘A thank you present for your help with that case last year.’

  Lizzie laughed. ‘He’s forgotten all about that.’

  ‘Audrey is always hoping there will be a romantic liaison between you and Adam,’ said Phineas. ‘But I’ve told her that neither of you are the romantic type.’

  Lizzie laughed again, and slipped an aching foot out of one of her shoes, wishing it were nearer to the end of the evening. ‘Quite true, Phineas. Anyway I don’t know him very well.’ She changed the conversation quickly. ‘Can I introduce you to Simon Villiers?’

  Phineas turned towards Simon. ‘I understand you are the chemist responsible for the new perfume, Black Velvet.’

  Simon nodded. ‘Yes, I could have chosen any of the roses in the walled garden, because they all have wonderful perfumes. Have you ever visited when they are all in flower?

  Both Phineas and Lizzie shook their heads.

  ‘Well, you should,’ Simon continued. ‘In a couple of weeks’ time, late June, the roses will be at their best. But I chose Black Velvet because it has the most exciting history as well as a strong perfume.’

  ‘How interesting,’ said Lizzie, trying to rouse herself. ‘What is the history?’

  ‘Legend has it that it was used to kill an ancestor of mine. My great, great grandmother, in fact. Apparently, she was a fearsome woman, and led my great, great grandfather a hell of a life. She loved the perfume of Black Velvet and always had the roses in the house when they were in season, and wouldn’t let anyone except herself pick them.’

  ‘Really,’ said Lizzie, trying to concentrate on his story and not her aching feet.

  ‘That, of course,’ said Simon, leaning in closer to them, ‘was her downfall.’

  ‘Really,’ said Lizzie again, at the same time casting a surreptitious eye on her watch. It was nine o’clock now; surely, it was nearly the time when she could make a reasonable excuse and leave? Louise would understand.

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon, nodding his head slowly. ‘That was her downfall. My great, great grandfather smothered the rose bush with arsenic powder, especially the thorns, and of course, she was scratched as it’s a very thorny rose. She eventually died of arsenic poisoning. A horrible death,’ he added with relish. ‘But Horace Villiers got away with it.’

  Phineas looked at him. ‘Couldn’t you have chosen a rose with a happier history?

  Simon didn’t reply. Instead he snapped his fingers at a tall blonde waitress who was passing. She came across, rather reluctantly thought Lizzie, and Simon said, ‘bring me a bottle, not a glass, a bottle mind you, of a good red. I don’t want something indifferent. I want a good year and a good label.’ She didn’t answer as he added, ‘and be quick about it.’

  The blonde waitress sashayed off, and Phineas looked appreciatively after her. ‘Good looking girl,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that your cousin, or is it your sister?’

  ‘She’s my cousin, and she’s
certainly in a bad mood tonight. I think that she must have…’ His words were interrupted by the wine arriving, brought by a young male waiter. He placed it on a small table by the side of Simon and opened it. ‘Jem asked me to bring this over,’ he said.

  ‘Doesn’t want to be seen waiting on me, I suppose,’ said Simon with a sneer in his voice.

  The waiter didn’t reply, merely poured a glass of the wine, and then put the bottle back on a side table and left. Lizzie was aware of an atmosphere between the two of them, and thought Phineas sensed it as well. As for Simon, he lapsed into silence and drank a glass of the wine without comment. Afterwards, he clasped the bottle to his chest, and without offering any to either Phineas or Lizzie, wandered off unsteadily to a group of young people on the other side of the room.

  ‘That young man could do with a few lessons in manners,’ said Phineas. ‘I’ve never met him before, but the Villiers family is like that.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘Toffee nosed,’ said Audrey. ‘The mother and father think that just because they’ve got money they can say and do as they like; although the two girls are not so bad. Everyone likes Jemima and Ruth.’ She nodded towards the blonde waitress now on the other side of the room. ‘She’s the pretty one, she’s the cousin left orphaned and penniless when her parents were killed. And there’s the other one, Ruth, over there. She’s Simon’s sister, Jemima’s cousin. A plain Jane, but a good natured girl. She and Jemima are like sisters, and she’s not a bit snooty, even though she will inherit a fortune.’

  ‘We don’t know that, Audrey,’ interrupted Phineas. ‘We only know the gossip.’

  *

  Although she was longing to escape, Lizzie had to hang around to say goodbye to Louise, who was going back to London that night.

  Eventually she managed to get her daughter to herself. ‘A very good evening, dear,’ she said, hugging Louise. ‘And a great success I should think.’