The Windmill Cafe Part 2 Autumn Leaves

by Poppy Blake

  ‘Well, you saw how Rick went on with Phil last night. He’s exactly the same at our meetings. Rick only joined the Myth Seekers Society ten months ago but he made sure he stamped his personality on our little club straight away. We’d plodded along in our own sweet way for years. Phil was our chairman, our treasurer and our secretary. No one else wanted the responsibility, or the hassle and paperwork that went with it, but Phil likes that sort of thing. We managed one expedition a year and a couple of local jaunts. It was fun, everyone was a real enthusiast. It was a break from the daily grind to five o’clock, if you know what I mean.’

  Brad paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he gathered his courage to continue. It was obvious to Rosie that Brad was missing Emma’s more forceful presence; his girlfriend might be petite in stature but she made up for it in strength of personality. Nevertheless, he inhaled a deep breath and continued with his story.

  ‘Then Rick arrived on the scene. He organized a formidable schedule of guest speakers – himself included – and sourced videos made by myth seekers from all over the world. He even set up a blog for us all to post our research on. In the beginning, we loved it. We got to learn loads more about myth-seeking, and the trips he arranged were excellent. We went to the Isle of Man in the summer to visit the famous Fairy Bridge and it was Rick’s idea to come here to Norfolk so he could continue his research into the local legends, including the one about the Black Shuck. His theory is…’

  ‘Brad, is this relevant?’ interrupted Matt, trying hard not to roll his eyes at Rosie.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. What I mean is, the club changed. All of a sudden Phil found himself side-lined. Rick took over as chairman, appointed one of the newer members as secretary and Phil was left in the thankless role of treasurer. Every meeting was an opportunity for Rick to lord it over everyone else – he even gave himself the title of King Myth Seeker. He had polo shirts embroidered with the society’s emblem and demanded we all wear them to the meetings. He was a true enthusiast, though. He researched every detail and shared all his findings with us. I loved it, but I’ve never seen anyone so obsessed with the research and after a while it all started to get too technical.

  ‘In the end I just stuck it out for the subsidized trips. As well as the trip over to the Isle of Man, the group have been to Rome, Marrakesh and Athens in the last twelve months. I’d never be able to afford any of that on my salary. Emma and I are extreme sports enthusiasts too – wild climbing, fell-running, orienteering and we try to run as many marathons as we can – so it all adds up.’

  ‘So, you’re saying Phil had his nose pushed out by Rick?’ asked Rosie, totally engrossed in the story of the Myth Seekers Society.

  ‘More than that. Rick seemed to have Phil marked as his personal punch bag – verbal, not physical. For some reason, Rick takes great pleasure in tormenting him every chance he gets. It’s embarrassing for all of us when he starts on one of his campaigns of ridicule and derision. I’m ashamed to confess that we don’t challenge him as much as we should. We’re all just grateful it isn’t us, and anyway Rick was paying for the hire of the hall from his own funds as well as other extras. I have tried to call him out a few times, but he’d switch his focus if you weren’t careful.’

  ‘A bit cowardly, don’t you think?’ said Matt, glancing over his shoulder at Rick, an expression of dislike written across his handsome features.

  ‘Yes, I realize that now,’ agreed Brad. ‘We should have made a stand and voted him off the committee months ago. Rick’s scary though, like a big fish in a little pond, or more like a vicious shark who uses his financial muscle to take over and advance his own agenda. Phil might have a really good reason to shoot Rick with an arrow, but he’s actually an honest, trustworthy, and thoroughly decent guy who’s been treated disgracefully by all of us for not standing up to Rick’s intimidation.’

  Before either Rosie or Matt could respond to Brad’s theory on the identity of Rick’s attacker, the man himself had started to groan again and a series of flashing blue lights signalled the arrival of the paramedics. Rosie did what she could to assist in the transportation of Rick’s prostate, complaining body on a stretcher across the uneven field before they were all told in no uncertain terms that he did not require a chaperone for the journey to hospital.

  With an elongated sigh, she jumped into the back of a Jeep belonging to one of Freddie’s bandmates and spent the journey back to Ultimate Adventures with random thoughts ricocheting around her brain as she tried to make sense of what had happened. She was relieved when the jutting roof of the outward-bound centre’s reception lodge came into view, but the respite from anxiety lasted only a few seconds.

  ‘Thank God you’re back!’ said Emma, throwing herself into Brad’s arms as they all gathered on the veranda. ‘Now, who’s going to ring Helen?’

  Chapter 6

  Rosie drew into the Windmill Café car park, the tyres of her Mini Cooper making a satisfying crunch on the gravel. Every time she heard that sound she sent up a missive to the director of her destiny, sending thanks for guiding her to Willerby. The heartbreak she had endured in the Pimlico flower shop was so firmly in the past now that she felt as though it had happened to someone else.

  ‘Do you think they made the right decision?’ asked Mia.

  ‘I think so. I’m sure Helen would much rather hear the news about her husband’s accident face-to-face than over the phone. And it’s only taken us ten minutes to drive from Ultimate Adventures to the lodges, so there hasn’t been much of a delay.’

  Rosie leapt out of the passenger’s seat and with Mia by her side, jogged to catch up with Phil, Brad and Emma as they made their way towards the field next to the café where the four luxury lodges were situated. Her heart bounced around her chest like an escaped yo-yo as the full force of what had happened hit her – once again misfortune had befallen one of their guests.

  Thankfully, this time the cause could not be connected to the Windmill Café, but she wasn’t in the slightest tempted to wash her hands of the whole affair. Knowing Rick, he would make as much fuss as possible about the lax security provided by Ultimate Adventures, irrespective of the fact that even the most thorough of risk assessments could not have foreseen the possibility of a client being shot by a stray arrow! Matt and Freddie had been steadfast in their support of her and the café when she’d had to deal with Suki Richards’ poisoning during Graham’s absence in Barbados, and she was absolutely committed to returning the favour.

  ‘Hi! I didn’t expect you back so soon,’ called Phil’s wife, Steph, waving cheerfully from the veranda of her lodge like a Fifties housewife greeting her husband home from a hard day at the office

  Rosie had warmed to Steph straight away. For some reason she reminded her of her mother, probably because of her penchant for belted tea dresses sprinkled with tiny sprigs of flowers, not to mention the iron-set mousey-brown curls which made her look like she was wearing a helmet. While her husband was a fanatic in the fantasy and legend department, it turned out that Steph was an avid follower of all things culinary which had served to seal their instant friendship. When the café had closed its doors to paying customers on Saturday night, Rosie, Mia, Steph and Helen had whipped up a mountain of meringue for an apricot and vanilla pavlova, and Steph had confessed to an addiction to daytime TV cookery shows.

  Steph had also spoken enthusiastically about her WI’s cookery demonstrations and bubbled over with child-like excitement at being given the chance to learn a few tips from a couple of professionals. They had enjoyed a wonderful laughter-filled evening baking a batch of coffee-flavoured cupcakes and decorating them with cappuccino frosting topped with crushed walnuts, before devouring their bakes with a bottle of prosecco.

  Helen, on the other hand, had been an enthusiast newbie, giggling at the sunken middle of her cakes before declaring that she intended to fill the holes with chocolate buttons and no one would suspect the disaster. After all, as long as it tasted good, what did it matter?<
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  Emma had arrived later and helped to whip up the double cream, adding a generous slug of amaretto liqueur. It had been a relaxing, fun-filled evening of gossip, fizz and confectionery whilst the men had spent their time hunched over old books planning their Sunday afternoon trip to see a witch’s leg in a medieval church and prepare for their night of wild camping.

  How could such a happy sojourn have been shattered by something so awful?

  ‘Where’s Helen, Steph?’ asked Phil, glancing over to Rick and Helen’s lodge as though it was the dreaded dentist’s surgery.

  ‘Oh, she’s taken the Porsche for an early spin to the village. She must have pushed a note through my door before I woke up this morning.’ Steph swung her pale blue gaze around the disconsolate group. Obviously, it wasn’t hard to conclude that something untoward had happened. ‘Why isn’t Rick with you?’

  Rosie exchanged a worried glance with Mia, ashamed to admit how relieved she was that Helen wasn’t there, despite the fact that they were simply putting off the inevitable. She wondered if it was possible for Rick to return from the hospital before Helen got back from her shopping trip so they could leave it to him to explain what had happened.

  ‘Why don’t we all go over to the café? I’m sure everyone could do with a cup of tea.’

  ‘Great idea,’ said Phil, ignoring the look of confusion on Steph’s face, hooking his arm through hers and following the group down to the café.

  ‘I’m starving,’ announced Brad. ‘Do you think you could rustle up some eggs, Rosie?’

  ‘Sure.’

  A wave of relief spread through Rosie’s chest as she stepped into her beloved Windmill Café. The place was pristine, with everything in its allocated spot and the faintest whiff of Flash lingering in the air that gave her comfort whilst the world crumbled around her – at least her little part of the universe still held some order. She felt the fuzziness in her brain lift and clear, and couldn’t wait to get stuck in to her favourite pastime of feeding friends, customers and visitors.

  It was Monday morning and the café was closed to customers now until the Autumn Leaves Hallowe’en party on Saturday night. After much consideration, Graham had decreed that the café would only open at weekends from the end of October until March, but the holiday site would remain available to guests who enjoyed the cooler weather and invigorating walks.

  With Mia’s help, Rosie scrambled around the kitchen gathering the essential ingredients for a light breakfast despite her suspicions that only Brad would manage even a mouthful. She poured out mugs of thick, dark tea for everyone, added a spoonful of sugar to each, then wiped down the oven, sprayed the marble countertops, and checked the cupboards to satisfy herself that they were as tidy as Hercules Poirot’s bathroom cabinet. Finally, she took a seat next to Mia on one of the sofas next to the French doors to try to eat a slice of toast and jam.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Steph, her eyes jumping from one person to the next. ‘I know something’s happened. Has … has Helen had an accident in the Porsche?’ Her hand flew to her lips and tiny creases appeared on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Droplets of tea sloshed from her mug onto her pristine dress.

  ‘No, it’s Rick, I’m afraid,’ said Phil, taking Steph’s bird-like hand in his and turning in his seat to face her. ‘He’s, erm, he’s had an accident at the Garside Priory. We need to contact Helen to tell her…’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘He’s fine, darling, just being checked over at the hospital.’

  Steph looked across at Brad and Emma who were both hugging their mugs into their chests like comfort blankets, unable to meet Steph’s eyes for fear she would ask them to answer her questions. They both looked as if they were ready to keel over – so much for the physical stamina of extreme sports addicts, thought Rosie, but she immediately chastised herself for her unkind thoughts. It must have been a huge shock to see their friend with an arrow protruding from his ankle, even if they didn’t like him very much.

  ‘Our friend Freddie who works at Ultimate Adventures called the police, so they’ll probably want to ask us a few questions. We’ll have to give statements…’ began Rosie.

  ‘The police? But why are the police…’

  ‘Will you ring Helen, please, Steph?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course.’

  Steph removed her mobile from the pocket of her pale apricot cardigan, stooping forward to retrieve her lace handkerchief that had fallen to the floor. She waited whilst the call rang and then left a voicemail asking Helen to ring either her or Rick urgently.

  ‘Her phone must be switched off.’

  ‘Where did you say Helen’s gone?’

  ‘I’m not sure what her note said exactly. I’ll go and fetch it, shall I?’

  Steph rushed from the café and made her way back to her lodge. As the silence stretched, Rosie walked over to the French windows and lingered on the threshold, taking in the panorama. Above her, the larks and curlews were going about their daily business oblivious to the drama unfolding on the ground below them. To her right, a spiral of grey smoke wove into the electric blue sky from the woodland beyond which lay St Andrew’s church and the village of Willerby.

  She wondered where Matt was and how he was feeling. From what she knew about Rick, she suspected he would not pass up the opportunity to list Ultimate Adventures’ numerous perceived failings in great detail, possibly in writing, probably in triplicate. She wanted to talk to him, to reassure him that she was eager to dust off the metaphorical deerstalker she had inherited from her father and continue with the line of questioning they had started with Brad, not sit around in the café drinking tea whilst they located the whereabouts of Rick’s missing wife as she gave her husband’s credit card an outing.

  When she recalled the way Matt’s dark blue eyes had lingered on hers as she and Mia had bedded down for the night, her stomach gave an involuntary lurch. Her feelings for him confused her and now wasn’t the time to unravel them, so she shoved them into the crevices of her mind for later dissection. One thing she did know was that she loved being in his company, and had enjoyed solving the mystery of Suki Richards’ poisoning before the police had even produced their notebooks – and there was no reason why they couldn’t do the same again.

  As she watched Steph lock the door of her lodge and canter back down the pathway towards the café, another thought occurred to her. Should she ring Graham to let him know what had happened whilst he was sunning himself on his brother’s yacht in Palma? She could just see the look of incredulity on his craggy face as he absorbed the fact that his new café manager had attracted more trouble. It didn’t take her long to decide against contacting him. After all, this time the unfortunate incident had happened miles away from the Windmill Café and the holiday lodges, so why should she bother him with the news until she absolutely had to?

  ‘Do you think Rick’s accident could have something to do with the legend he told us about?’ asked Phil who had his notebook open on his lap and was scribbling away with a pencil, his lips pursed in concentration.

  ‘Which legend?’ asked Steph as she arrived back at the café with Helen’s hand-scribbled note.

  ‘The one that says the Garside Priory is cursed and if you sleep within its perimeter you will die or go mad?’ Phil tapped his pencil against his lips as he considered the possibility.

  Rosie recalled the myth Rick had told them about – and noticed that Phil had conveniently left out the bit about the intruder becoming a poet.

  ‘He was shot with an arrow! How can a legend be responsible for that?’ scoffed Mia, striding to the marble unit to replenish her coffee.

  ‘Ancient myths have to be respected, Mia,’ muttered Phil, burying his nose into one of the many dog-eared guidebooks he’d removed from his rucksack and set on the floor at his feet alongside his trusty camera. ‘There are loads of myths and legends that originate in and around East Anglia. Perhaps Rick fell foul of the curse about removing one of
the stones?’

  ‘But he didn’t, did he? He didn’t remove anything,’ said Mia, her eyes seeking out Rosie for confirmation.

  Phil ignored her and continued to study his book, clearly on a roll. ‘And there’s something in here about that black dog with piercing red eyes who roams the coast and countryside on stormy nights preying on the unsuspecting traveller.’

  ‘And he wasn’t savaged to death by a rabid dog, either!’ added Emma. ‘Next you’ll be having us believe that the Brown Lady was the perpetrator!’

  ‘Who’s the Brown Lady?’ asked Rosie, her interest piqued until she caught Steph’s sigh of resignation and immediately regretted her enquiry.

  ‘Oh, it’s some ridiculous ghost story Rick forced us to listen to at one of our Myth Seekers meetings before we came down here.’ Emma rolled her eyes in mute exasperation. ‘We had to sit through a two-hour lecture on local folklore before we were even allowed to put our names down to come on the trip.’

  ‘It was fascinating, I thought,’ Phil mused.

  ‘Maybe if you like sitting in a wooden shed freezing your bollocks off all night listening to our Lord and Master drone on about … sorry … sorry, Steph,’ muttered Brad.

  ‘Rick has his faults, I concede,’ said Phil. ‘But he’s fantastic at uncovering the most obscure stories. He’s meticulous in his research and a great public speaker. The Brown Lady of Raynham Hall, Rosie, is one of the most famous ghost photographs in the world, captured by two photographers for Country Life magazine in the Thirties. The subject is thought to be Lady Dorothy Townsend who was reportedly locked up in the attic of the hall by her husband which is why she’s still wandering the corridors and staircases today.’