by Carrie Marsh
“Really?” Laura said in a small voice.
“Really.” he confirmed.
She stared at him, blue eyes enormous.
“Not to worry, lass,” the doctor said reassuringly. He stood, and dusted his hands down his trousers. He looked exhausted. “You just do what you have to do, and ignore them. They'll come around to you, foreigner or not, you'll see.” he laid a hand on her shoulder.
Laura swallowed. His touch rocked through her like lightning, making her whole arm feel tingly.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Don't mention it,” Dr. Lucas smiled. He looked into her eyes with a look of such tenderness that Laura felt a lump when she swallowed.
Then he turned and walked away, following the body as two policemen carried it, decently shrouded and on a stretcher, from the room.
Laura wished the doctor was right, but even as she left the lobby, she noticed villagers walk away from her, giving her a wide berth. She hurried home and found Monty, standing waiting outside on the lawn.
“Monty!” she said. “There's been a murder at the hotel.” She was crying. “They think I did it...”
I don't believe it! You? How could they?
But they could. And they did. Laura could feel it.
“They do, Monty!” she cried.
Come inside, he said gently. Make some tea and think about it. Things will look better that way.
Laura, still sniffing, did as he suggested. She poured her own tea and then filled Monty's bowl with milk. He lapped it with relish.
Sitting in her own cottage, a cup of steaming, sweet tea between her cold hands, she did feel a little better. But nothing had really changed. A man was still dead. And she was still the prime suspect.
There was, she decided, only one thing to do. Find the real murderer. To clear her own name.
Laura swallowed hard. I'm a receptionist, she thought faintly. How in the world am I going to investigate a crime?
She didn't even know where to start.
But she had to try.
“Monty?” she said. “I'm going to be a detective.” she laughed shakily.
Good, Monty thought back, and blinked at her peacefully. I'm going to sleep now. Let me know if you think of anything.
Laura sat and watched the sun coming up and tried to plan a course of action.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEEPENING RESOLVE
“How can I be a detective?” Laura muttered to herself as she walked out of the kitchen.
Lunch service was going to be tense enough, without amateur sleuthing to worry her.
Half the restaurant has been closed off for police investigations, and policemen, blue-clad and unfriendly, walked in and out at odd intervals around the hard-board barrier. The atmosphere was grim, and Laura, sitting at her desk, felt horribly uncomfortable, remembering the body, propped up in the seat, just the previous morning.
How do you make people visit a restaurant when, only yesterday, newspapers all over the region have been displaying pictures of a body sitting in the window-seat?
Laura guessed lunch would be virtually unattended. She was surprised.
Half the village seemed to have been suddenly reminded that the Woodend Cottage hotel existed: Laura had never seen so many people trying to get into one room. For the first time since she started the job, having a table reserved started to mean something. With only half the seating, and everyone wanting to get in out of morbid curiosity, she was having to enforce the reservations.
“No, sorry...” she said nervously to a group of wealthy local farmers who had taken the other window table, “...I'm afraid you can't sit there. That table is reserved for Dr. Lucas...”
The three men continued talking, as if she was not there.
“Eh, Alfie...” one of the farmers said, “...how's the barley coming on?” The other farmer scratched his head and pondered a reply.
“Excuse me...” Laura said stiffly. She felt as if she had been slapped when they ignored her.
“It's not bad. The weather's treatin' it well...”
“Ahem!” Laura said loudly. “This table is reserved. Please move!”
“Eh, Bert...” one of the farmers said to his companion, “what's she saying?”
“She wants us to move,” Bert replied.
All three of them stared at her, and then at each other.
“An' why we gonna listen?” The third farmer said, “...she's not from round here.”
“Aye,” the first farmer agreed.
“And,” the third continued, darkly. “...we just seen what happens when you trust foreigners.”
They all looked at her, eyes narrowed. Then they looked back down at the menu again and continued as if she had never appeared.
Laura stared at them, horrified. It was one o' clock, and Dr. Lucas would be there any moment, and there were no free tables. What was she going to do?
“You will kindly move,” she began haughtily, “or I...”
“And?” The biggest of the three farmers interrupted. “You gonna murder us?”
Laura swallowed. She was too shocked to react.
Just then, another voice spoke from behind them.
“Excuse me, can I be of assistance? What is going on here...?”
“Doctor!” Laura whipped round, relief flowing through her like medicine. “Sorry...” she began, “we have a problem with tables and...”
The three farmers were already standing.
“Have a good lunch, doc...” one of them murmured, and the three walked across to the only remaining open table.
Laura stared after them.
“They wouldn't listen to me,” she said, very quietly.
Then she leaned on the chair back, shaking all over.
“Are you alright?” the doctor asked gently.
“Maybe,” Laura replied in a sad voice. The whole village seemed to suspect her! It was too much!
“Well,” Dr. Lucas began, “since I'm having lunch and the table is free, will you join me?” He gestured at one of the extra seats placed around the table.
“Oh...” It was a wonderful thought. “I don't know if I can...I'm working.”
“It's all right,” Dr. Lucas demurred. “Though I'm sure we could leave matters to Bethany and the other waiting staff?” he asked, gesturing at the waitress.
“Oh...” Laura said again. It was a possibility she had not considered.
“I would say “doctor's orders”, but I'm not sure it would be appropriate!” Dr. Lucas grinned.
Laura laughed, blushing deeply.
“Well...” she smiled, and then looked down at her hands.
“Come on,” he laughed, and she sat down, grateful to be off her feet for a moment.
As Dr. Lucas ordered a turkey sandwich and a coffee, Laura perused the menu.
“Another one of those, please, Bethany...” she said to the waitress, grinning.
The girl retreated to the kitchen, and Laura was left alone with Dr. Lucas.
“Well...” she began, clearing her throat. Then she dried.
“I suppose we haven't met, not really.” Dr. Lucas smiled. “I'm Howard. Howard Lucas.” he held out a hand. Laura took it and shook hands. It was warm.
“Thanks,” she said. Then blustered “Oh! Silly me. I mean, I'm Laura. Laura Howcroft.” she felt her cheeks warm with a blush.
“Laura,” the doctor repeated, and smiled. “That's a nice name.”
Laura felt that smile in every inch of her body. She smiled radiantly.
“So, you're all right?” Dr. Lucas asked, genially. “I mean, not suffering with the shock, or anything? The last two days have not been easy.”
“Not the shock, no... but...” Laura trailed off and looked down at her hands again.
“But people are treating you badly?” he guessed.
“Yes.” Laura sighed.
“Laura,” Dr. Lucas said, “I am so, so sorry.”
Laura stared at him.
“Do
n't be. I mean, it's not your fault!”
“I know,” he sighed, “but I feel bad for the villagers. They shouldn't be so rude. We should welcome newcomers, not accuse them of murder! It's ridiculous!”
“You mean, you don't think I did it?”
Dr. Lucas stared at her. Then he burst out laughing.
“Laura, I'm sorry for laughing, but that's funny! Of course, I don't!”
“Thanks.”
At that moment, the sandwiches and coffee arrived. Laura and Howard looked at each other. They did not even notice the food. Bethany put it down quietly and retreated.
“Well,” Dr. Lucas said, after what, to Laura, felt like years, lost in his eyes, “I guess we should eat something.”
As they ate, they discussed little snippets of their lives. Laura mentioned that she came from Cambridge, and she discovered that Dr. Lucas had qualified at Edinburgh. They laughed about his student years, and he seemed interested to hear about her studies.
“...I guess there are some cross-overs between food science and medicine...” Laura chuckled, after relating a story about food-poisoning in the class.
“Yeah!” Howard grinned. “And, besides bacteria and stuff, the human body has some “recipes”, too.” Laura frowned, and he added, “like the levels of different chemicals in the blood. It's not so different to a recipe – we expect some amount of this and some amount of that, and it all adds up and...” realizing he was rambling a little, he sighed. “Sorry – I'm tired. I guess this case has worn me out, too. “I spent most of this morning looking at the blood analysis we got back from pathology,”
“You poor thing,” Laura said sympathetically.
“It's actually pretty straightforward, if you interpret it along with what the pathologist has noticed...”
“Mm?” Laura, setting her coffee-cup aside, was fascinated.
“Yeah. It looks like he just simply went into a coma and died. Nothing stands out in the results.” He sounded frustrated.
“Oh.” Laura blinked. “So, no murder?” she asked hopefully.
If there was no suspicion Mr. Ramley had been killed, then people would surely stop accusing her?
“It's not that simple,” Howard explained. Laura's face fell, and he continued. “I am waiting to hear from Nigel Ramley's own doctor in London, but I suspect he has no history of diabetes, or anything else that might naturally cause coma. And besides,” he sighed. “The bloods don't show an abnormal glucose level...so no diabetes.”
“Oh,” Laura said again. “You mean...”
“I mean, it's far from clear that the death was natural,” Howard explained. “It could have been suicide – an overdose, say – or murder, or simply accidental – an interaction of two medicines he took. Going into coma can happen for lots of reasons. The trouble is, there's nothing odd in the blood. Yet. Maybe we should do another set of tests...” He trailed off, thinking.
“Oh.” Laura's brow twisted with a frown. “But, if there's this big question mark over his death, then...”
“Then the villagers are going to talk about it for a few weeks, and make life difficult, pointing fingers at people,” Howard agreed, nodding.
“So,” Laura said, suddenly feeling calm and resolute, “there is only one thing I can do.”
“And what is that?” Howard asked, interested.
“Find out if it was murder, and who did it.”
Howard looked at her, and then laughed.
“What?” Laura asked defensively.
“You are a remarkable woman,” Howard said, still smiling.
Laura felt the smile reach all the way down to her toes and kindle something deep inside her.
“Thanks,” she said shyly.
“Not at all,” Howard replied. He was gathering his things, making ready to leave, and Laura felt a sudden stab in her heart. She did not want this to end so fast!
“I think,” Howard continued as he stood, taking his jacket from the back of the chair, “that we could work together on this.”
“Right,” Laura agreed instantly.
“Anything you hear or see here in the hotel, you call me,” he said, and wrote his number on a Post-it to pass to her.
“Thanks,” Laura said again.
“Cheerio, then,” he said cheerfully. “Keep in touch, and remember – don't worry about them,” he said in a stage-whisper, inclining his head towards the other guests.
Laura grinned, and nodded. “I won't.”
She sat with the Post-it in her hands long after he had gone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
INVESTIGATIONS
“Monty,” Laura whispered to the cat who slept on her knee.
Mm? His mind-voice was drowsy, almost asleep. It was dark outside, a honeyed light filling the cottage, spilling from the overhead lamp.
“Am I falling in love?”
Maybe. Monty said gruffly. It's late. Can I get some sleep?
Laura glanced at the clock.
“Eleven p.m. Already?”
She must have dozed off. She looked across at the kitchen table, where her laptop was open. She had just been doing a search for “Causes of coma”.
Blinking to clear her thoughts, she scanned down the list. Mostly, it listed what Howard had already told her. She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and scrolled down. Monty stood up and jumped off her knee.
I'm going to bed, he said. One can't get any sleep around here. He yawned and stretched theatrically, looking over his shoulder accusingly. Don't work too long, he added gently as he walked into the bedroom.
“Diabetes, autoimmune disease, heart attacks...drug use...” Laura frowned as she read the list. None of that made sense! This man had been healthy as far as they knew.
“I guess, we'll only know when Howard hears something back from the doctor in London...” she said, and sighed.
I'll leave the medical stuff to him, she decided. I'll concentrate on the people stuff.
The people stuff was what she was good at, and she worked at the hotel, literally at the site of the murder. If anyone had any insight – any new people in the hotel, any strange incidents involving the dead man – Laura would.
“I am going to do this properly,” Laura decided.
It was more than just to clear her name. She was interested. And, she thought, happily, Howard was also involved. That made it very interesting.
“So,” Laura said to herself, returning to the kitchen table with a notebook and a pen to write with, “Let's make a proper page about this.”
She headed the page: “Facts about Mr. Ramley” in looping handwriting. She sat back, thinking.
“Mr. Ramley. He was from London. He may have had some chronic illness – we don't know yet. Enemies in the village? Friends? What was his reason for being here?”
She sighed as she wrote down the questions. Most had no answers she knew.
“He had a meeting,” she remembered. She didn't know about what.
She leaned back in the chair and contemplated the ceiling, thinking.
“How am I going to do this?” she asked herself. “I mean, who am I? Amy out of Brooklyn nine-nine?” She laughed. “I guess, why shouldn't I try? If anyone will have noticed something, it's me. I work at the hotel. I know if anything untoward happened...” she paused. Then she laughed.
“Untoward? You're kidding. That day before Mr. Ramley was found in the dining-room was probably the most untoward thing ever!”
She started writing.
“Things that happened at the hotel. One: Something was stolen from someone's room. I still don't know what or from whom, or who took it. Two: The cook saw a ghost, and...” She laughed. “Hell! If Amy from Brooklyn nine-nine had to deal with this, the show would have stopped long ago. I mean – who sees ghosts? This is the twenty-first century...”
Laura put down her pen.
“Amy also couldn't hear her cat speaking,” she grinned wryly. She could hear him snoring in the next room, a strangely comforting sound.
“Okay,” she sighed. “So, if I see the good doctor tomorrow,” she said, “then I can tell him that all we have to report is some ghosts, and...” she paused.
Ghosts. The cook – Mrs. Poole – wasn't the only one who saw a ghost. Farmer Hogarth also saw one, Laura remembered.
“I don't know how, or if, ghosts are connected with murders,” she said. “But I know one thing. I am visiting Farmer Hogarth tomorrow.”
With that thought in mind, Laura pushed back her chair and headed off to the bedroom.
“Monty...?”
Mm?
“Move over a little, please? I can't fit...”
Staying up late, leaving me all alone...now waking me up, Monty grumbled. What next?
He stood up groggily and walked to the other side of the bed.
“Thank you,” Laura said, and slid in under the cover.
Sleep well, Monty said gently.
“Goodnight,” Laura said sleepily.
Soon they were both asleep. Laura slept more deeply than she had since the body was found. It was good to be doing something about it.
CHAPTER NINE
TRACKING A GHOST
Laura, sang as she drove the ancient convertible she had bought after she qualified.
“The road is long ahead...”
It was her break, and she was driving up the hill to the Hogarth's farm. She felt strangely happy.
Not strange, she thought, smiling. Not strange at all.
She had texted the doctor that morning, a simple message: Checking to see if number is right. Had ideas. Visiting Farmer Hogarth.
He had replied a minute later: Yes. Awesome. See you soon?
Since the reply, Laura could not stop smiling.
“...the road is long and wi-inding...” she sang again, turning the corner.
The fields surrounding the narrow, winding farm-road were golden or green, the scent of fresh air mixed with warm earth and mown lawns. A breeze blew through the window, ruffling Laura's hair.
“Oh,” Laura said, surprised, and slowed. There ahead of her was a sign: “Hogarth Place.”
