by Poppy Blake
‘Can you tell us a bit about the Myth Seekers club?’
‘Before Rick arrived in our midst a few of us would meet up every month to talk about current topics in the myth-seeking world. We had the occasional aficionado come to speak to us from one of the other clubs – there’s only a couple in the north of England – and it was all very civilized and relaxed. We didn’t have a formal written constitution or elections for posts on the committee and such like. I dealt with whatever paperwork there was. I collected the subs and paid the rent for the hire of the hall to the parish council. It worked. We were trundling along nicely, minding our own business, not upsetting anyone. I’m a founder member and Brad joined a couple of years later and was appointed our official trip organizer, but we didn’t have the funds to go very far. Not until Rick joined and flashed his cash – then we went to all sorts of wonderful places; Rome, Athens, Marrakesh.’
‘Are there many myths to seek in Marrakesh?’ asked Rosie, happy to see Phil’s eyes light up at her question.
‘Yes! It’s a fascinating place. You wouldn’t believe the things we…’
‘So, along came Richard Forster to spoil the fun, is that it?’ interrupted Matt, keen to divert Phil from a long-winded soliloquy on the marvels of North African folklore.
‘Well, not at first. Rick’s an accountant with a large practice in Manchester city centre. He’s loaded so he offered to donate an injection of cash to boost our admittedly meagre funds. As well as chairperson and secretary, I was also the Myth Seekers Society’s treasurer. Not a great appointment to be honest as I’m rubbish with figures.’
Phil paused to shove his tortoise-shell glasses up the bridge of his nose and shoot a quick glance in Rosie’s direction, before he resumed his nervous habit of scrapping the skin from the sides of his thumb nails.
‘Rick’s money meant we could do more: take more trips, invite professional speakers, even print up a few flyers to encourage new members. That’s how Emma heard about us and got together with Brad. Turned out they’re both adrenalin junkies – speed cycling, snowboarding, marathon running – so they had lots in common. But after a while Rick started to take over. He appointed himself as our chairman and he insisted that every meeting had to start with a carefully crafted agenda. He typed up the minutes and we even had to vote on written resolutions. Okay, it meant we got lots more done but the whole atmosphere changed; it was more formal, less enjoyable.’
A wistful expression rippled across Phil’s freckled face as he remembered happier times.
‘And it wasn’t just me who objected to the changes, ask the others. Most of the old-timers drifted away and there’s only me and Brad and three others left from the pre-Rick days. But we’ve attracted ten new members who seem to accept the way things are. However, it isn’t our club anymore, if you know what I mean. We missed the times when our get-togethers were really just an excuse for a chat, a break from our domestic obligations, and maybe a sneaky pint afterwards.’
Phil’s hand trembled as he patted down his neatly cropped mousy hair. Watching his gesture, Rosie got the distinct impression he was struggling not to shed a tear for the loss of his beloved club which had been hijacked by the new boy. But after a few steadying breaths Phil was ready to continue.
‘I’m afraid I was Rick’s first target in his crusade of humiliation. I’ve been researching a book on obscure Welsh myths for years and he scoffed at my “jerky” writing style, telling me that no one would be interested enough to publish it. I’ve already self-published one book – okay, it’s not brilliant, but that’s no reason for Rick to humiliate me in front of the other members, is it?’
‘So why didn’t you leave too? Why stay and subject yourself to regular sessions of verbal abuse?’
‘Because I happen to love the club. It’s my baby. I suppose I thought some of the things Rick introduced were improvements, especially the foreign trips which I know he subsidized. I also know Rick paid for this weekend out of his own pocket, Rosie. There’s no way we could have afforded a posh holiday site like this from our funds. It was his idea to come here and to combine our myth-seeking activities with the luxury accommodation for the women. Helen and Steph both love home-baking and afternoon teas in quaint little cafés – it’s that Great British Bake Off fiasco. Rick said it would keep them out of our way so we could enjoy the trip without feeling guilty. Pff, guilty? I don’t think Rick Forster has an empathic bone in his body.’
Rosie felt a squirm of sympathy for Phil. He seemed to be one of the good guys, and after all, she had witnessed first-hand the way Rick had laid into him at the camp. He would have her support if he wanted to dish out some of his tormenter’s own medicine. Maybe he had intended to kill Rick for muscling in on his beloved club, but, like his writing style, his aim was ‘jerky’.
‘It’s no secret Rick taunted me about a lot of things. Steph and I don’t have the level of funds Rick and Helen are blessed with. But we’ve managed to raise three fine young men and we’ve been happy. Rick has been married twice before and, as far as I know, has never had children. I suppose he sees me as plodding and dull; an anorak, I think he calls me. Steph says he’s a cowardly bully who is insecure in his own skin. She’s forever telling me to stand up to him, to tell him where to go, but I have to think of the club’s interests, don’t I? If Rick left there’d be no more trips to exotic locations so I made the decision to just grin and bear it.’
Rosie tried to offer Phil a supportive smile but he was more interested in picking invisible fluff from the knee of his combat trousers. ‘Phil, can I ask you how you felt when you woke up yesterday morning?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s just that both Mia and I felt a little fuzzy-headed, as if our brains had been stuffed with cotton wool.’
‘Actually, yes, yes, I did feel a bit woozy, like my feet were encased in concrete, but I’ve never camped out under the stars before. I prefer a sheet of canvas between me and the elements. I just put it down to a bad night’s sleep.’
‘I don’t suppose you saw anyone leave the camp after you turned in for the night?’
‘No. I was flat out until you woke us all up, Matt. I was … well, I was annoyed that we had missed seeing the sunrise through the arch. It was the only reason I agreed to do the wild camping thing in the first place. I was furious when I found out Rick had gone ahead and had somehow engineered the whole debacle. But then I shouldn’t really have been surprised, should I? It was the sort of thing he would do. It’s all about him. It’s always all about him.’
‘And where were you when you heard Mia scream?’
‘I was with Emma and Brad. They’d asked me to take a photo of them with the priory in the background. I was lining up the shot when I heard the commotion. We all rushed into the cloister and there was Rick, lying on the ground with an arrow imbedded in his ankle.’
‘I know you would have mentioned it if you had, but did you notice anything unusual or suspicious during our trek to the site?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. I’ve scoured my brain for every bit of information, but there’s nothing. Look, Matt, Rosie, I make no secret of the fact that I loathe the man, but I didn’t wish him any harm and I certainly don’t know how to use a bow and arrow. Poor Helen, she must be really upset. Steph asked her if she wanted to share our lodge last night so she didn’t have to sleep alone, but she turned us down. She’s a braver person than I am, that’s for sure. What if that crazy archer is still out there, training his arrow on us right at this very moment?’
Phil leaned forward, wringing his hands as he made a supreme effort to corral his emotions. Rosie watched on, her heart twisting for this man who had been repeatedly bullied by Rick Forster and who therefore had to be one of their chief suspects.
‘Okay, I think Steph will be out of the shower by now. I’ll inform her, and Helen and Emma, of your generous offer of a morning in the kitchen, Rosie, and we’ll be across in half an hour or so.’
‘Great,
and look on the bright side, Phil. Rick’s going to be out of action for a couple of months whilst his ankle heals, so maybe you should recommend he appoints a new interim chair?’
‘Yes, yes, I never thought of that. I suppose I should.’
And as Phil pulled the French door shut behind him Rosie could have sworn she saw the tug of a smile at his lips.
‘It’s him!’ she exclaimed.
Matt rolling his eyes at her and grinned. ‘How did you deduce that, Miss Marple?’
‘He has the strongest motive. We both saw with our own eyes the way Rick treats him – it was embarrassing to watch. Phil put up with it for so long; he was ousted from his beloved club, taunted with insults about his lack of funds, called nasty names, humiliated in front of the other members about his book, powerless to retaliate. Well, I’d shoot Rick if it was me! You can only push a person so far before they snap.’
‘Mmm, possibly. So, say he does have a motive, what about opportunity?’
‘Well, that’s easy. Phil knew what Rick planned to do, so he spiked our coffee with a few of Steph’s tablets to make sure we slept through everything, followed Rick up to the priory, missed with the first arrow, scored a hit with the second, then hid the weapon and jogged back to the camp to pretend to wake up with the rest of us.’
‘I agree with you that Phil Brown is the sort of person who could spend many hours pondering over the finer details of how he would go about murdering Rick if he had the courage. But plotting it and carrying it out are two completely different scenarios. There’s no evidence at all to suggest it was him.’
‘He’s definitely hiding something though.’
‘What? And why?’
‘It’s just the way he couldn’t meet my eyes when we were taking about how he felt about being pushed out as chairman and being given the poisoned chalice as treasurer. I’d have thought Rick was the ideal candidate for that post, being an accountant. So why did he let Phil keep that job?’
‘Okay, I’ll give Phil a call and ask whether he minds letting us have a look at the accounts and the minutes of the committee meetings Rick made them do. At least Rick’s meddling in the admin of the Myth Seekers Society has produced something useful.’
‘Why don’t you try to call Rick again? He’s had plenty of time to mull over the events at the priory whilst being confined to a hospital bed. Maybe he’s remembered some vital detail, or reconsidered his initial reaction that it was Phil who shot him and can shed some light on someone else being the culprit. The more information we have about the actual shooting the better, don’t you think?’
‘Great idea – if he’ll take my call. I’ve tried three times already today. He’s clearly holding me responsible, even though it wasn’t me who actually held the bow!’
Matt removed his phone from his back pocket and selected Rick’s number. He waited, his eyes lingering on Rosie’s, but there was no reply and his call went to voicemail. He cut the call without leaving a message.
‘I didn’t think…’ Before Matt had finished his sentence, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and then at Rosie. ‘It’s a text from Rick.’
‘What does it say?’
She waited whilst he read it, taking in the way his jawline tightened and his eyes narrowed before he shook his head disconsolately and handed her the phone.
‘‘Matt, I’ve spoken to my solicitor who has advised me not to speak to you until the police have completed their enquiries in case our conversation jeopardizes any subsequent legal action. Rick.’ Oh, Matt. I’m so sorry.’
‘Well, at least I know why he’s been avoiding me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Rosie, I think I should go back to the centre to get on with some paperwork of my own.’
As Rosie watched Matt make his way from the café, her heart cracked at the dejected way he carried his body. A surge of irritation spread through her veins at Rick’s decision to involve his lawyers so promptly, swiftly followed by an overwhelmingly intense desire to put on her metaphorical deerstalker and hunt down every last clue until the mystery was solved and things could go back to normal. A world in which Matt Wilson wasn’t brimming with his habitual enthusiasm and cheerfulness wasn’t a world she wanted to live in.
Chapter 12
‘Hi Rosie, what do we have planned for the Windmill Café bake-off this morning?’ asked Mia, hanging up her crimson duffle coat and unfolding her apron – that day’s was embroidered with what Rosie thought were gentlemen’s moustaches but in fact turned out to be bats; at least the design was in keeping with the season.
‘I thought we’d make a few batches of date and walnut scones and peppermint and dark chocolate chip cookies. What do you think?’
Rosie met Mia’s eyes, and the smile disappeared from her face as she saw beads of tears sparkling along her friend’s lower lashes. ‘Mia, what’s wrong?’
‘Oh, nothing really.’
‘Mia, something’s happened. I can tell from your expression.’
‘It’s Mum. When I told her last night that it was me who found Rick she ordered me to stay at home today. She’s convinced there’s a serial killer stalking the area with a quiver full of arrows searching for his next victim. Nothing I could say would make her change her mind, but I admit I might have made it worse by telling her we’re almost certain it’s one of the people we’ve got staying in the lodges. She says the Windmill Café is turning into an adventure playground for crazy people and she doesn’t want me to help with the Autumn Leaves Hallowe’en party on Saturday.’
‘If you want to go home then it’s okay by me, you know that, don’t you?’
‘No way! Rosie, I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here with you and bake, bake, bake! But it means we’ve got to redouble our efforts to find out who did this or everyone might react like Mum and decide not to come to our party – and we can’t let that happen, not after all the work we’ve put in!’
‘Actually, I did wonder whether we should cancel the party.’
‘No! Rosie, you can’t do that! Please, let’s just give it another couple of days. We solved the poisoning mystery, didn’t we? We can do this too!’ Mia pleaded.
‘It’s Tuesday. Do you think we can do that by Friday? I’m not sure we can…’
‘Hi Mia. Hi Rosie. Oh, what a wonderful smell. Any chance of a quick coffee before we start baking up a storm?’ asked Brad, stamping his feet on the mat before entering the café kitchen. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night and I feel like a runaway juggernaut hit me straight on. Emma, darling, you really need to see someone about your snoring!’
‘Pot and kettle, Brad, pot and kettle,’ giggled Emma, standing on her tiptoes to deposit a kiss on his lips. ‘Mmm, are these lemon drizzle cupcakes?’
Rosie took a few moments to scrutinize the young woman. Today’s outfit would not have looked out of place on an Olympic athlete; black Lycra leggings, vibrant green running vest, and a pair of very expensive trainers. Her hair had been styled with a smidgeon of gel, and she looked fresh and raring to go and her youthful vitality made Rosie feel exhausted. She gulped down a mouthful of her rich, dark coffee, closing her eyelids for a few second to savour the taste and to allow the aroma to spiral into her nostrils and the caffeine to do its work.
‘Hello, everyone. Steph said we were having a baking lesson this morning?’
‘Oh, hi Helen, yes, we are. How’s Rick?’
‘Complaining vociferously, but there’s nothing unusual there. Unfortunately, his operation has been postponed until tomorrow so you can imagine what he said about that. He was so rude to me on the phone this morning that I told I’m not going to visit him today and you know what he said? He said, good, he could do with some peace and quiet. So here I am, ready and willing to experiment with anything that has sugar and buttercream in it.’
‘Well, we’re glad you’re here. We’re just waiting for Phil and Steph to get here, but why don’t you put one of our Windmill Café aprons on and grab yourself a coffee?’
‘Thanks.’
Rosie couldn’t prevent her mind from scrolling back to the previous morning. The cookery class was the perfect opportunity to have a chat with Helen to see if she could persuade her to volunteer any information about who she had been meeting. Mia was right, if they didn’t sort this mess out quickly, people would choose not to come to their Autumn Leaves party – even though the incident had happened miles away from the Windmill Café – and that would be a tragedy.
By the time Phil and Steph had arrived and put on their peppermint aprons with the little white windmill logos, the sun had climbed over the treeline in the east and had gilded the terrace outside the French doors with a welcome glow. The curlews and the larks were well into their morning melody but the calm of the grounds belied the turmoil within Rosie’s heart. Maybe Mia’s mother was right and there was a murderer watching them from the woods.
Just as she always did in times of trouble, Rosie submerged herself in the rhythm of baking, of rubbing cubes of butter into flour, of adding milk a dribble at a time, of moulding the mixture into thick scones and baking them in the oven. The scent of warm sugar floated through the café and settled her emotions, so she embarked on an extra lesson on how to make the best shortcrust pastry for pies that they went on to fill with a compote of blackberry and apple and stewed pumpkin and cinnamon.
Everyone was laughing and having fun, and surprisingly Phil turned out to be a maestro at making pastry, beaming when everyone declared his efforts to be melt-in-the-mouth delicious, unlike Emma’s soggy-bottomed attempts. Spirits were high as they turned their attention to the peppermint cookies, and Rosie found herself sharing a countertop with Helen, remembering her intention to engage her in innocent chatter. She briefly wished that Matt was at her side to guide her, but she grabbed her confidence by the scruff of the neck and launched in.
