by Ali Carter
‘And you Daniel.’
‘God bless Hailey.’
‘Yes, God bless Hailey.’
I went on through to the kitchen.
‘I’m going to head off now, thank you so much Archie for having me.’
Charlie and Archie, the only ones in the kitchen, stood up and there followed a moment’s silence. None of us quite knew what to say.
Archie reached to take the bag from my hand and moved towards the door.
‘Bye Susie.’
‘Bye Charlie.’
In came Charlotte as we turned to go.
‘You’re off?’ she said. ‘Thank you for being so kind Susie, I know we don’t know each other well but you’ve been a great comfort to me.’ I blushed as she kissed me warmly goodbye.
Primrose, Stanley and Tatiana were in the hall.
‘Don’t leave yet,’ said Archie. ‘I’m just going to see Susie to her car and I’ll be back.’
‘Arch,’ asked Primrose. ‘Where’s your visitors’ book?’
‘In here.’ Archie pulled out the drawer of the hall table. ‘Let Susie sign her name first.’
‘Lovely writing,’ said Primrose, making up for the fact she was leaning over my shoulder taking in the names of those who had previously been to stay.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Bye everyone.’ Stanley leant in to kiss me, followed by Primrose and then Tatiana.
‘I’m terribly sorry for what you’ve been caught up in,’ said Archie as we approached my car.
‘It’s okay, I’m just so sorry for what’s happened. I’m staying very nearby at Pluton Farm Stables so please call me if there’s anything I can do.’
‘That’s very kind.’
He put my bag in the boot and opened the driver’s door. I kissed him on both cheeks and got in.
‘Susie?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry to have to ask, but if anyone contacts you about Hailey’s death please don’t give a comment. The local press can be cruel.’
‘Of course,’ I said as the headline ‘Affluent Local’s Aristocratic House Party Comes to a Dead End’, popped into my mind. ‘I won’t say a thing.’
I drove down Fontaburn Hall’s drive and the insecurities of being amongst unfamiliar company that I’d had in my stomach over the same ground yesterday were now dampened by death. I felt tied to these people, their characters had left marks on my memories and I was convinced with a little bit of digging I could find out more than the camaraderie that lay on the surface of these childhood friends.
It can’t be the first time since 1539 someone’s died in one of these beds but I’ll bet you it’s under the most mysterious circumstances there’s ever been.
I drove slowly down a Norfolk country lane with a huge weight on my mind and lack of direction as to where I was headed. In front of me the horizon dragged on and on, as if exhausted by the thought of never ending and I battled hard against the low skyline that was trying its very best to give me a flat feeling of depression.
I could never settle here. My two key prerequisites when choosing where to live (aside from good light for painting) were: 1. to be able to walk out my front door, straight up a hill and see the sea, and 2. nip in and out of London by train inside of an hour.
I feel so lucky to have found my dream home, Kemps Cottage, which came with the added bonus of no neighbours, allowing me the freedom to garden in last season’s underwear. Privacy is something I hold close, a luxury people with big houses and land don’t have. As soon as you introduce cleaners, keepers, farmers and handymen you no longer control your personal space. You just can’t wander around naked, leave the bathroom door open, wear pyjamas all day, and let the washing-up pile grow.
Thoughts of home put me in my kitchen staring at an uninterrupted view of a particularly beautiful sweep of Down-land and I had a sudden urge to go for a walk. So, when a brown sign appeared up ahead, advertising the UK’s Largest Manmade Lowland Forest, I took its turning.
The information sign in the wood-chip car park showed various ‘trails’ (yet another unnecessary addition of a US word into the English vocabulary) through 18,730 hectares of native trees. The one thing you don’t want to do in a forest is get lost, so against my better instinct (which likes to roam free) I decided on the sensible option of a circular route with a café half-way. I popped a pencil and sketchbook into the pocket of my dress and set off, with a spring in my step for these tall trees had at last rid me of seeing the horizon.
There were an awful lot of other people on the path I’d chosen. It was a continual weave, in and out, of parents and pushchairs. My swifter-than-them pace was dictated by the speed of my thoughts.
I felt very sorry for Hailey’s death, but there had been an intense tightening of my insides when I overheard Sergeant Ayari saying, ‘There’s a scene of crimes officer and a detective chief inspector on the way,’ and a thrill of excitement had rushed through my body. It’s not that I’d taken a dislike to anyone (other than maybe George) over the weekend, it was more, if my assumptions were right, that here was a mystery to be solved and I was perversely glad to be a part of it. Having once helped in the conviction of a murderer before, I rather fancied my chances at playing amateur detective again. I could exploit my skill as an artist; the acute observation needed in painting provided good practice in honing my sleuthing skills. Art would help investigating and vice-versa. Hailey’s death had taken the struggle of drawing Canny’s horses off my mind. So, as far as I could see, there was nothing to lose.
Shafts of daylight streamed down through the trees ahead and if it wasn’t for the squealing children ragging around there’d be something rather mystical about this place. Instead I turned my mind to the mystery at Fontaburn Hall and began trying to identify some salient facts.
It worked in my favour that I’d been an outsider at the weekend, as I could freely observe each character unencumbered by never having met them before. Certain details came to mind: George’s enjoyment when he rubbed Charlotte’s tummy, Daniel’s extraordinary knowledge of plants, Tatiana’s willingness to help and how it juxtaposed with her title of Princess. However, it was Archie and Vicky’s relationship that still preoccupied me most. I agreed with Primrose. Victoria Ramsbottom was a bit frosty, but what really made me think was, how come Archie had defended his cook as if she were one of his house party? His tone implied they had a relationship beyond that of employer and employee. Not necessarily sexual but definitely close. And this was something I was determined to get to the bottom of.
I had my sketchbook in my pocket to write down my thoughts at lunch. I never go anywhere without a sketchbook and have piles of used ones under the desk in my studio. All of them are full of scenes and objects that have caught my eye as well as thoughts I’ve had at one time or another. I’m sure if you flicked through some of my scribbles you’d say ‘I could have done that’. But it’s not just about the drawing; time spent with the subject allows one to capture sensual memories even in the simplest of sketches. And it’s these emotional nuggets that spark an idea to pursue.
I don’t have an answer to Hailey’s death yet but I know if I keep tabs on my thoughts, record details of the atmosphere and individuals’ reactions then much like my drawings, these ‘emotional nuggets’ could well ‘spark an idea to pursue’. Exhilarated by the challenge that lay ahead, my speed picked up through the trees and I drifted into thoughts of Toby coming to the end of Peddars Way. I’m so excited he’s coming to stay. If there’s one person I’d choose to see right now it would be Dr Toby Cropper. I trust him implicitly and he’d tell me if my instincts were right. Putting his good looks and company aside, he’s the best tried-and-tested accomplice I could hope for. He has all the medical knowledge to weigh up one theory or another and if it wasn’t for him I doubt I would have had the confidence to get to the bottom of Lord Greengrass’s murder in Dorset.
My telephone buzzed in my pocket.
One new message: Toby Cropper.
Hi Susie, hoping to be with you about four p.m. if
that’s okay? X
I did a little jump for joy. Toby was coming to stay with me!
Great! See you later x
I knew him well enough to assume four p.m. meant more like five p.m., but I shouldn’t dilly-dally just in case he was uncharacteristically punctual.
As I pounded the path I recalled conversations and observations from Fontaburn Hall and found myself coming up with two interpretations of every situation. Was Tatiana’s willingness to help actually a disguise for something else?; did Stanley come across dull to deflect from his motives?; had the alarm been set off on purpose?; did George really fall asleep downstairs?; was Primrose in fact insecure?; had Daniel met Hailey before?; were Charlotte’s emotions genuine?; could Charlie have had a fit of psychosis?; was Archie oblivious to it all? I was getting in a right tangle and knew the only thing for it was to reach the café and write it all down.
At the sight of the signpost my tummy began to rumble – immense hungover hunger had set in. The place was buzzing. Every table was occupied both inside and out with families taking advantage of the clear day after last night’s storm. Despite pessimistic predictions as I joined a long queue, there was actually plenty to choose from at the counter. They even had my favourite: an egg mayonnaise sandwich made with bloomer bread.
‘Cutlery over there,’ said the broad-in-the-beam till lady as she pointed at a small stand to my left.
It was nice of her to show me but: who eats a sandwich with a knife and fork?
I held out my hand for the change.
‘Don’t hover around waiting for a seat,’ she said bossily. ‘You’ll have to find an alternative outside.’
In view of the café, I perched at the bottom of a tree trunk on a surprisingly comfortable kerfuffle of surface roots. The sandwich needed salt but other than that it tasted pretty good. And the sour sweetness of my Sanpellegrino limonata did what it could for my system, suffering as it was under all the alcohol I’d drunk last night.
Turning over a fresh page in my sketchbook I began writing notes, knowing if I laid them out neatly they’d be easy to make sense of down the line.
Death by…
– Alcohol
– Unknown medical reasons
– Poisoned: botanical; mushrooms; chemical
– Drugs
– Suffocated
Conventional motivations for murder…
– Jealousy
– Revenge
– Harboured grudge
– Love
– Lust
– Money
Things that I’d picked up on for better or worse…
– Daniel’s knowledge of plants
– Daniel not answering my question of what Archie’s job was
– Archie not wanting to mix business (porcelain) with pleasure
– Allusions to who had fooled about with who in the past: Archie and Primrose; George and Charlotte
– George’s questionable faithfulness, tapping his thigh for Hailey and then Tatiana settling on it, rubbing Charlotte’s tummy
– Archie’s defence of Vicky
– Tatiana’s willingness to help
– Vicky’s initiative to turn down beds
– Vicky leaving early
– Tatiana overly anxious (thunderstorm)
– Charlotte going to bed
– George forgetting whisky
– English drinking game
– Man in PJs
– Burglar alarm
I turned the page.
Hailey’s room…
– Lampshade skew-whiff
– Dress and underwear on separate sides of bed
– Very warm
– Water glass
Loose ends…
– The possible missing photograph frame
– George and Charlotte’s secret
– Is it really alcohol poisoning?
– What made Sergeant Ayari initially suspicious?
Now the individual elements of the puzzle were down I knew I really should wait for what I was sure would come – revealing news from Hailey’s autopsy. Nevertheless, on the route back to the car I couldn’t stop myself picking over the disparate pieces, trying to identify a good-enough motivation for Hailey’s death. But by the time I reached my car the thoughts and theories in my head were as tangled as the tree roots I’d perched on at lunch.
I thumped my fist on the bonnet, got into the driving seat and took off, wishing I’d come up with ‘one sound theory’.
Back at Pluton Farm Stables the radio was playing some familiar pop music and Lucy was taking a baking dish out of the oven. ‘Ah, Susie,’ she turned and without a free hand to move the straight blonde hair falling in front of her face she spoke from behind it, ‘it’s nice to see you and good timing. I’ve been driving myself mad trying to remember Mr Wellingham’s first name.’
‘Archibald.’
‘Archie, yes, that’s it.’ Lucy flicked her hair back. ‘I knew it was something to do with a building.’
Statements like this are why I love Lucy’s company.
‘Dinner’s done for when we want to eat it,’ she said, and in surprise I exclaimed, ‘But it’s only three thirty.’
‘I like to cook well in advance, so if it goes wrong there’s plenty of time to knock something else up.’ Lucy prodded her finger into the baking dish and tasted the red mush that came out. ‘Looks like we’re safe for tonight!’ She grinned as I flopped down onto a chair and Red-Rum jumped onto the table.
‘Did you have fun?’
I gave her a brief overview (without mentioning burglars or death) but Lucy wasn’t actually interested in hearing about it. She was one of those rare people these days, what with Facebook, glossy mags and the trendy blend word ‘Biopics’, who genuinely couldn’t care less about the aristocracy. Even the aristocracy like to know what their fellow aristocrats are up to. There had been a lot of it last night: Primrose obsessing over how so and so decorated their house, Daniel wanting to know the cost and landscaper of hoojamaflip’s garden, Charlotte asking for the ins and outs of the latest scandal and George voicing his opinions on women sitting in the House of Lords.
The thing about posh people and those with buckets of money is most of us can’t live with them and can’t live without them. The very fact there is a high readership for a magazine titled The Haves and Have Yachts suggests within most of us there’s a greedy sensation derived from dreams of owning luxury goods. And hand-in-hand with materialistic fantasies comes the enjoyment of reading about scandalous infidelity and glamorous rumours of entitled folk. I must admit, even I glance occasionally at the Daily News’s sidebar of shame.
‘Want some tea?’ asked Lucy.
‘Yes please.’
The cat purred as I stroked the hyper-sensitive spot between his ears and slowly but surely his back legs bent as he sat down on the table.
‘What about a crumpet?’ asked Lucy, as she filled the kettle through its spout. ‘I’ve been horsing around all day and am starving.’
‘No thanks, I’m fine.’
‘I like your dress by the way, and the one you had on yesterday, never seen you before in fancy clothes.’
‘Thanks.’ I smiled at Lucy, who was wearing hip-hugging jodhpurs and a slightly too small blue T-shirt with the Eiffel Tower on it. Her pale white stomach winked at me without an ounce of self-consciousness.
‘That was another topper of a storm last night; the horses were wailing in their stables – but you know what, Susie?’
‘What?’
‘They’ll be as good as gold this week. No more storms on the way.’
‘That’s great news. I’m not sure I’d have coped if they continued like last week.’
Lucy didn’t pay my comment any attention. She clearly didn’t know what it meant not to cope.
‘Lucy,’ I said, steering my thoughts away from guessing what it was in her upbringing that made her s
o tough. ‘You know I mentioned a friend might come and stay?’
‘Yes,’ she said generously.
‘Well he’s arriving this afternoon and I’m sorry I didn’t let you know sooner.’
‘Don’t matter not telling me, my house is your house while you’re here.’
‘You’re so generous. He’s called Toby and he’s very nice and easy to have around.’
‘Ah yes. The man. How great!’
Not one bit of me wanted to go further into my personal life with Lucy, and as much as I really hoped Toby would be mine one day, I knew there was nothing I could do to ward Lucy off. ‘He should arrive any minute…’
Knock, knock, knock came from the other side of the kitchen door. Red-Rum leapt up and my heart jumped.
‘Speak of the monster,’ said Lucy.
I got up and undid the latch.
‘Toby!’
‘Susie!’
He gave me a kiss on both cheeks. My heart was racing.
‘Lucy meet Toby, Toby meet Lucy.’
Lucy stepped forward, I couldn’t believe it, she pushed herself up on her tiptoes and yes, I was right, she reached and planted a kiss on Toby’s cheek. He was thrilled. I could tell by that thing he does when he’s flattered, he sort of smiles and dips his eyes at the same time.
‘Welcome,’ said Lucy. It was, after all, her house.
Toby had one small canvas satchel flung over his shoulder.
‘Is that all you brought?’ I asked.
‘No! I’ve a bigger case in the car. This one smells better.’
Lucy giggled.
‘Well if you want anything washed it’s easy.’ I immediately regretted sounding like a mother who’s exchanged her light-hearted sparkle for a routine of forward planning and domestic tasks. And very quickly, before Toby had time to answer, I changed the subject. ‘How was your walk? I wish I could have come too.’
‘You would’ve loved it, Susie. It was completely beautiful. Great scenery for a painter. You must go.’ He pulled a chair out from the table and by the way he sat down I could tell his legs were tired.
