by Susan Lewis
Eddie suddenly started straining at the lead, and as Dumbbell, his girlfriend, abruptly popped from the bushes like a cork, a twig full of catkins snagged in her coat, Carla released him to go and play. Glancing over the hedge Carla saw Dumbbell’s owners, Beanie and Lloyd Lamar, through the uncurtained windows of their cottage, Lloyd downstairs, watching the evening news, Beanie upstairs apparently piling fresh laundry into a cupboard.
She walked on, away from the village now, towards the old wooden footbridge that crossed the stream – the same stream that flowed and bubbled its way down to the spot where her mother had died. It was rare she could look at that stream and not imagine it running with her mother’s blood, and tonight was no different. It was horrible. So painful and frightening to think of how something as simple as a fall had had such a disastrous result. She knew that the police had dealt very sensitively with the investigation that had necessarily followed, though Sonya had handled it all, so quite how large a role Detective Inspector Fellowes had played personally, Carla didn’t know. She imagined he’d been a rock for Graham, which Carla was thankful for, because even now she could see the sadness in Graham’s eyes, and almost feel his loneliness. She’d even wondered, once or twice, if he was ill, for there were times when he looked so tired and drawn that she was sure it was caused by more than the mere overwork he claimed.
Not even wanting to think about how awful it would be were she to lose him too, she crossed the bridge quickly, calling out to Eddie to smother the sound of the rushing water. Both dogs came scooting up behind her, growling and rolling in the grass, then bounding on along the path to where it ran between the back of Graham’s house and the enormous apple orchard that belonged to a nearby farm. Large though it was, the old rectory looked so cosy and welcoming in the misty dusk, with lights burning in the downstairs windows and smoke curling from one of the tall redbrick chimneys. She’d only ever been inside once, when Betty was away on one of her regular hikes across the Pennines, or maybe it was the Pyrenees. Betty did a lot of walking, usually with her sister who lived somewhere up north. The house inside was exactly as Carla had expected: the sitting room dominated by a big old fireplace with an antiquated mirror above, rows and rows of bookshelves stuffed with classics, first editions, every conceivable type of encyclopaedia, and a wealth of other books, some of which had subjects Carla had never even heard of. The leather sofa and chairs were rubbed raw in places, the once expensive, but now threadbare rugs lay unevenly over the polished floorboards, and a lovely shiny brass fender embraced the hearth. The kitchen was in the classic old farmhouse style, with a long wooden table in the middle, the original range, lots of copper pots, all kinds of dried herbs and chipped wooden cabinets. It seemed such a shame that Betty was so shy, for the house cried out for people, and the one occasion Carla had visited, with her mother and Richard, they’d had a most entertaining evening feasting on the banquet Graham himself had proudly prepared, while cooking up all sorts of outrageous plots for his future books.
Looking over at the house now, she could see Betty and Inspector Fellowes in the kitchen, chatting and … Carla frowned in surprise, for Betty had just turned round and it looked as though she was crying. Inspector Fellowes, with his big, awkward hands and large physique was attempting to comfort her, then Graham appeared, and seemed to try to take over, but Betty pushed him away and Graham looked helplessly at the inspector.
Though intrigued to know what was happening, Carla pressed on, rounding the back of the church and grittily ignoring the cemetery. It was none of her business and she didn’t want any of them to look out and spot her, as though she were prying. So she gazed out at the patchwork countryside to where the bushes were turning into large grey clumps in the darkness and the trees were stretching bare arms up to the moon. She inhaled deeply, loving the woodsmoke scent of autumn, and the wonderfully safe feeling she got from being in a place that she knew so well. What a godsend this village and its people had been this past year, but even so, she hadn’t treated them properly. She had, now she really thought about it, probably shown little grace in refusing their invites, and even smaller consideration in backing away from their kindness and concern. Her heart began to sink with dismay as it all started coming back to her: the way she’d consistently refused the special bottles of wine Teddy Best brought her from France, to help cheer her up; her spurning of Beanie’s offer of a free membership to the gym she owned over at Frome, to get her out a bit more. Even Perry and Fleur had stopped asking her to their UFO vigils, an honour, according to Graham, that was bestowed on very few. Just how much generosity had she thrown back in everyone’s faces? Certainly more than she wanted to think about, and much more than anyone deserved. But her life was turning around now, and the very least she could do to make up for all the offence she must have caused was to invite everyone to a party at the pub for the first night of transmission. Who cared that she didn’t have any money, she’d find a way of paying; in fact, what was there to stop her taking it out of the budget she already had? After all, in its way it would be a launch party, and as such would be utterly qualifiable for a tax deduction.
Half an hour later, more resolved than ever to throw this party, she was standing at the bar, informing Jack and Sylvia of her plans. Their response couldn’t have been more heartening, for Sylvia literally threw out her arms in joy, and Jack, in his more muted way, said, ‘Just give me date, time and numbers, and the place’ll be yours.’
‘Damn right it will,’ Sylvia confirmed, taking a tall glass from the shelf behind her. ‘We’ll have to talk about catering,’ she said decisively, an impressive collection of gold bracelets clattering up and down her fleshy brown arms as she served Carla’s drink. ‘There’s lots of stuff we can offer. Canapés and nuts and the like. Or we can do hot food, you know, chilli, or roast chicken, or toad-in-the-hole. Oh, it’s a great idea. And doesn’t her hair look lovely, Jack? Haven’t seen you looking so good in ages. Where d’you get that done, then?’
‘Monte Carlo,’ Carla responded with a grin.
‘What!’ Sylvia cried. ‘You mean the Monte Carlo! How posh. D’you hear that Jack, she’s been to Monte Carlo. Never takes me anywhere like that,’ she added to Carla. ‘All I get is bloody Butlins or Benidorm, and these days it’s hard to tell the difference.’
Carla laughed. Obviously Faith had managed to miss the pub when delivering Saturday’s round-up of the gossip.
‘Anyway, let’s get back to this party,’ Sylvia said, her hazel eyes sparkling with glee. ‘We haven’t had a good do here for ages, so we’re going to make this one a bit special, aren’t we Jack? And to think your programme’s going to be on at last. We’ll make sure our telly’s working properly and we’ll put it up in a place where everyone can see it. Oi, Teddy,’ she called out, as the bell over the door jangled and Teddy Best came stomping in from the cold, ‘did you hear that? Our Carla’s going to have a party to celebrate her programme, and weem all invited. That includes you, you old skinflint, so you can give us a good price on some of that grub you got over there in that shop of yourn.’
Teddy’s florid face was beaming. ‘A party!’ he echoed. ‘Reckon I d’like the sound of that. And don’t you be calling me no skinflint, Sylvia Clifford, cos I always gives you a good deal on everything, and well you know it. Give us a pint, Jack. And what’s our Carla having?’
‘I’ve already got one thanks, Teddy,’ she answered, twisting round on the bar stool as he came towards her. ‘Let me get yours.’
‘All right, pint it is then. So what’s this party all about? Changed your hair, I see. Very nice. Got a birthday coming up, have you?’
‘I just told you, her programme’s going out,’ Sylvia said, rolling her eyes.
‘That right? Well, that’s some good news, innit? Your programme, eh?’ And winking at Sylvia he added, ‘What do you make of that then, us lot going to a showbiz bash? Reckon I’ll have to get out me best togs for this one.’
‘And those bracers you’ve got that light up,’ Sylvi
a reminded him. ‘But you’ll have to remember to keep quiet while the programme’s on so we can all watch it. Oh, here come Fleur and Perry. Hey, you two! Want to come to a party?’
Fleur’s vague blue eyes blinked, as though she hadn’t entirely grasped where she’d just landed. Beside her Perry was quietly wrestling with a dry umbrella. ‘Party?’ Fleur said. ‘Oh yes, we love parties. And yes, we love Eddie too,’ she added, as he trotted over to greet her.
Angie, the young solicitor who lived next to the pond, told Fleur about Carla’s invitation while Perry ordered their drinks, and offered to provide some moody lighting for the special night. His kindly old face was glowing with the delight of being able to contribute, and Fleur’s generally abstract manner seemed to be anchoring itself on all the ideas of what she might do.
Then as everyone else started arriving and were informed of the plan, they got into a kind of competition about what they could bring, or arrange, or stage, or generally add to the occasion, which Carla insisted had to include Maudie Taylor, even if she didn’t end up coming.
‘Oh, I think she will,’ Graham predicted, having turned up in the midst of it all. ‘She might not be the life and soul, but I can’t see her missing such a great opportunity for a moan. And she likes a spot of the old rum, does Maudie. Remember last Christmas?’
Everyone, except Carla, laughed, for everyone but Carla had been there.
‘Started making eyes at the Reverend, she did,’ Sylvia explained. ‘Christmas Eve it was. Never thought the old bag had it in her. But she’s a bit fond of our Reverend, is Maudie.’
‘’Bout the only one she is fond of,’ her husband grunted. ‘She was in here giving me grief about serving kids under eighteen yesterday,’ he went on. ‘Course I never did, but try telling her that.’
‘Try telling her to mind her own business, is what you want to do,’ Joe Locke recommended.
‘Listen to you,’ his wife Gayle chided, ‘you upped and ran away when she came over to have a go at you about the bonfire smoke the other day.’
‘Did not!’ he protested. ‘I just went to get me amulets and elixirs.’
‘What’s that?’ Jack wanted to know.
‘For my devil worship,’ Joe explained. ‘She thought that was what the bonfire was about, and I wasn’t about to disappoint her, was I?’
‘You’re terrible,’ Angie laughed. ‘She really believes you’re into all that stuff, you know.’
‘He’s so bloomin’ knowledgeable about it all, I reckon he might be,’ Sylvia commented.
Gayle laughed fondly as they went on teasing him, until finally she told them, ‘He’s got this book in the shop, The Satanic Bible, and he sits there reading it all day for the sole purpose of tormenting Maudie Taylor.’
‘She was up at the church nagging on about them squatters again yesterday,’ Teddy told them, showing Jack his empty glass as a signal for another. ‘Ask me, it’s just an excuse to go and talk to the Reverend. Poor bloke. Don’t know how he stands it. Going to have one on me now, Carla?’ he offered.
‘Why not?’ she cried.
It was a good while after Joe Locke had put a third gin and tonic in her hand that she remembered Graham had something to tell her, so, insisting everyone excuse them, she dragged him over to their usual table and plonked herself down.
‘So, come on then, what is it?’ she teased.
He looked anxiously into her eyes, perhaps regretting mentioning there was anything at all. Then, seeming to realize he was alarming her, he said, ‘I know it’s none of my business, but has Richard asked you to meet him?’
Her smile instantly drained, as her heart gave a violent kick against her ribs. ‘No,’ she answered. ‘Why do you ask? And by the way, it is your business.’
The momentary softening of his expression relayed his appreciation, then he was troubled again, as he said, ‘Do you know if he’s still driving a BMW?’
Carla’s skin was prickling. ‘No. Why?’
‘Well, there was a silver BMW outside your place on Sunday, and Betty says the man who got into it looked just like Richard.’
Carla almost reeled at the way her insides responded, and for the moment all she could do was feebly echo, ‘Betty?’
‘She was outside clipping the hedge when she saw him,’ Graham answered. ‘She thought he could have been there for a while before she noticed him, because she wasn’t looking that way. Then, when she spotted him, she came in to tell me. The car was already driving away by the time I got there, so I didn’t see him myself, but she’s pretty certain it was him. Has anyone else mentioned it? I wondered if anyone else saw him?’
‘No-one’s said anything,’ she responded, looking over, but hardly seeing her neighbours all grouped at the bar.
‘He didn’t leave a note?’
She shook her head.
‘Does he have keys to the house?’
Carla looked surprised.
‘Betty wasn’t sure,’ he explained, ‘but she thought she saw him closing the front door.’
Now Carla was more alarmed than curious.
‘She could have got that wrong,’ Graham said, in a hasty attempt to reassure her. ‘It’s hard to tell from our place, with us being at a bit of an angle. Maudie Taylor didn’t say anything? She usually doesn’t miss a trick.’
‘I haven’t seen her since I’ve been back, but we both know if she’d seen him she’d have been over to tell me by now.’
Graham puffed out his cheeks and contemplated his drink. Obviously he too was baffled. ‘No more emails?’ he said.
Carla shook her head. Then, remembering that she’d just sent one herself, she told him what it had said.
His eyebrows rose as he nodded approval. ‘Sounds like a good move to me,’ he said. ‘Find out what he’s really up to.’ Then after a pause, ‘Did you ever work out what that quotation from the Philosophical Dictionary might mean?’
Now that there was a chance Richard had been to see her, Carla didn’t feel quite so embarrassed about confessing that she thought he was trying to tell her he’d made a mistake in marrying Chrissie. So she explained how she’d come to the conclusion, watching Graham closely as he listened, occasionally nodding, but saying nothing until she’d finished.
‘Mmm,’ he grunted when she did.
‘In other words,’ she said, putting it more succinctly, ‘anyone, no matter how clever or principled, can find that they’ve made a mistake, even in doing what they thought to be the right thing.’
‘Oh, indeed they can,’ he confirmed with a smile. ‘And what about any other possible meanings?’
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t been able to come up with any others,’ she admitted. ‘Why? Do you think it means something else?’ She desperately hoped he didn’t, because her explanation was the only one she really wanted.
‘You know the man far better than I do,’ he answered. ‘But going with what I do know, I think there’s a good chance you’re reading it correctly.’
Carla’s face softened with relief, and again she was smiling. ‘So what should I do?’ she asked.
He took some time to think about that, before finally saying, ‘I don’t think there’s any more you can do until he responds to your last email, do you? It’s a direct question, so let’s hope you get a direct answer.’
‘Do you think I should ask him if he was here at the weekend?’
Again Graham mulled the question over. ‘You could,’ was his response. ‘But why not wait to see if he tells you himself, when he sends his next message?’
Carla nodded, as all the possible reasons for why he might have come began playing through her mind.
‘You still don’t know his telephone number to call him?’ Graham asked.
Embarrassed, she shook her head. ‘He could always call me,’ she said.
‘And he hasn’t?’
Again she shook her head. Of course, he could, for there was nothing to stop him, but in truth she wasn’t sure she was ready to deal with th
at yet, so maybe she should just feel thankful he hadn’t.
Downing the rest of his drink, Graham said, ‘I’d better be getting home. Poor Betty was a bit upset with me earlier because I asked her to put off one of her walking trips until after Christmas. Selfish really, but I seem to work better when she’s around.’
‘So is she going?’ Carla asked, standing up too.
His eyes were merry as he said, ‘There’s no stopping you women once you’ve made up your minds. And she enjoys spending time with her sister. So yes, she’s going. Probably at the weekend.’
‘So how’s it going with Inspector Fellowes?’ Carla asked, after they’d said goodnight to everyone and stepped out into the bitter night air.
His answering look was almost comically dubious. ‘He’s a good man. Even more of a stickler for detail than I am, but we’re making progress. A couple more months and I might have a first draft you can look at, if you like.’
Carla was surprised, and highly flattered. ‘I’d love to,’ she told him.
His eyes shone with pleasure. ‘OK, time to go,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry about Richard having keys to the place, because I’m quite convinced Betty got that bit wrong.’
It was a reminder Carla could well have done without, as she and Eddie hurried back to the cottage, eager to get out of the cold, for even if her mysterious visitor had been Richard – and the silver BMW made it very likely, as it was the make of car he always drove – she was still extremely uneasy about the idea of anyone else having keys to her house. Except Betty probably had got it wrong, because certainly nothing was missing, or disturbed, and …
She stopped suddenly. Her heart was filling her throat and a horrible heat prickled over her skin. Sensing something was wrong Eddie looked around and growled, having no way of knowing that Carla’s alarm was being caused by the FedEx delivery card she’d read out to Avril earlier. It had been on her desk, along with the rest of her mail, and she had absolutely no recollection of picking it up from the mat and putting it there herself. And as far as she knew, Sonya hadn’t come to the house at all over the weekend.
