The Windmill Cafe Part 2 Autumn Leaves

by Poppy Blake

  ‘Are you seriously expecting us to believe that the Brown Lady shot Rick in the leg with an arrow? Why? Had he invaded her boudoir?’ giggled Emma.

  ‘No, I’m just saying…’

  A flash of sunlight glanced through the French doors. Rosie stepped onto the terrace and sucked in a rejuvenating breath of fresh air. Despite it being the end of October, the day promised warmth, but, of course, the elements took no pity on whatever drama was being playing out down below. A maelstrom of anxiety had started to flood her veins.

  Where was Helen and why hadn’t she called?

  Then something else occurred to her. Just because Helen and Steph hadn’t accompanied them on the wild camping trek didn’t mean they could be omitted from their list of suspects. How easy would it have been for either of them to slip away from their respective lodges under the cover of darkness, drive over to the priory, and wait for an opportunity to fire off an arrow?

  Was that why Helen was conspicuous by her absence? Was she really just shopping in Willerby or had she panicked when her second shot had failed to strike the necessary blow and used Rick’s Porsche to make a quick getaway?

  She wanted to call Matt straight away to ask him what he thought. After all, if the archer’s intention had been to murder Rick, wasn’t the most likely suspect the victim’s wife?

  Chapter 7

  Rosie made a decision. If she stayed at the café any longer she would continue to concoct ever complicated and elaborate theories that bore no resemblance to the facts. She had to do something practical or she would be looking at her sanity in the rear-view mirror. Instead of spending her time convicting Helen of a crime simply because she had the misfortune to be married to Rick, she should at least try to find her and the best place to start was the village.

  ‘Mia, can you hold the fort here whilst I drive over to Willerby to see if I can find Helen? You know what the village grapevine is like – it’ll be humming with the news of the shooting already. I’d hate for her to find out about Rick’s accident from a passing stranger.’

  ‘Rosie, are you sure you want to…’

  ‘I’ll just have a drive around. It can’t be difficult to spot a bright red Porsche, can it?’

  ‘Well, no, but…’

  Before Mia could formulate a persuasive argument to the contrary, Rosie ran up the stairs to her flat, grabbed a wax jacket and strode out to the car park. The aroma of wood smoke loitered in the air and the birds continued with their symphony of joy, oblivious to the disturbances on the ground below their perches. She inserted the key into the ignition of her Mini Cooper and crawled through the rose-coloured pebbles down the driveway towards the road that led to Willerby, speeding up when she had the village in her sights.

  As she reached the kissing gate of St Andrew’s church, a sudden blast of doubt reverberated around her brain. What was she doing? What were the chances of bumping into Helen blithely walking along the high street, with not a care in the world, blissfully unaware that her husband has narrowly escaped an assignation attempt by bow and arrow? She realized that she had used the idea of searching for her as an excuse to escape the atmosphere at the café and immediately a spasm of guilt shot through her body. She shouldn’t have left Mia by herself.

  It was a few seconds before she realized her phone was vibrating against her leg and she swung into the car park of the Drunken Duck to take the call. She smiled when she saw the caller ID and wasn’t in the least bit surprised when Matt offered to joined her at the pub.

  ‘I’m going crazy just sitting here waiting for the police to arrive to question me. They’ve got my number if they want to speak to me. I’ve tried several times to speak to Rick, but either his battery has died or he’s avoiding my calls. Why don’t you get the drinks in and I’ll see you in the snug in ten minutes? Mine’s a pint of Wherry.’

  Rosie chose a corner table and sipped her tonic water. She had considered ordering a glass of her favourite Chianti, but she needed all her little grey cells to be in peak condition if she was going to have any chance of persuading Matt that her theory about Helen being the person responsible was valid. She wondered who was top of his leader board of suspects. Would he agree with Brad and opt for Phil as the most likely candidate? Or, maybe Brad was so keen to point the finger at Phil because he had something to hide himself.

  However, before she moved on to consider Emma as a potential suspect she realized there was a flaw in her deliberations. How could Phil, Brad or Emma be the errant archer when they had been in clear sight from the moment they had left camp that morning? This fact gave even more weight to her argument that it could be Helen … or even Steph. Hadn’t Brad said she was like a Rottweiler protecting her brood, or words to that effect. Perhaps she’d endured enough of Rick belittling her husband and decided to take matters into her own hands.

  ‘Hi! God, do I need this!’

  Matt plopped himself down next to Rosie and took a long draught of his beer, running the tip of his tongue along his lower lip as if he’d just partaken of the nectar of the gods. Rosie noticed that parallel lines had appeared at his forehead and there were smudges of tiredness beneath his eyes, but they still held that sparkle that caused her heart to quicken.

  ‘Okay, spill.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I recognize that look on your face from last time we were sitting in here going through the possible suspects for the poisoning at the Windmill Café. I can tell you’re bursting to explain your theory. I don’t mind confessing that I’m desperate to find out who did this. I’m worried about the financial impact all this will have on the business, but I’m more concerned about the impact of a potential health and safety scandal on Dad’s memory.’

  Rosie’s heart performed a flip-flop of sympathy when she saw the ragged distress reflected in Matt’s eyes and it was apparent he still felt his father’s absence deeply.

  ‘What if Ultimate Adventures is closed down, Rosie? I can’t have Dad’s name dragged through the mud. He’s still revered by the climbing community; there’s dozens of blogs and vlogs dedicated to his climbing expeditions with thousands of followers. There’s even a website where fans can post their own attempts at following in his footsteps. He loved the outward-bound centre, it’s his legacy to the climbing community. We still get people booking activities just so they can say they’ve walked in his shoes, for God’s sake.’

  Rosie reached across the table and squeezed Matt’s hand. She knew the story of Matt’s father, Malcolm Wilson; how he’d managed to cram more into his forty-eight years than a normal person managed in one lifetime. He’d completed the Three Peaks challenge, cycled the Coast-to-Coast and hiked the Pennine Way, but the thing he had loved the most was rock climbing; Snowdonia, the Lake District, the Scottish Highlands, the Pyrenees, the Alps. Matt had described his father’s hobby as a kind of obsession, as though the mountain in front of him was a vengeful monster barring his way and he couldn’t rest until he’d tamed it.

  However, there had been one monster he couldn’t tame – the Eiger. He had known the dangers, but had insisted on tackling it anyway. There was a reason it was called The Murder Wall – everyone in his climbing party had perished after a heavy rockfall wiped them from its surface. Matt had been twenty-one when the accident happened, about to start his training in the Police Force which he’d had to abandon to take up the reins at Ultimate Adventures. That was ten years ago and he had told Rosie on several occasions that his father had been right; he would have hated being cooped up in an office, filling in paperwork, battling with bureaucracy and struggling with the networking that was required to climb the career ladder.

  ‘Okay, in that case we’d better get on with investigating what happened to Rick ourselves, speak to everyone who was on the wild camping trek, but I think we should also include those who weren’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  In as few words as possible, Rosie explained her theory about Helen; how she thought it was odd that on the morning her husb
and was shot she was absent from her lodge and no one knew for certain where she was, and that her mobile was switched off so they couldn’t contact her.

  ‘Actually, that’s why I’m here,’ Rosie added. ‘I told everyone that I’d take a drive around Willerby, ask a few questions to see if anyone has noticed her around this morning. It’s can’t be difficult to spot her in a bright red Porsche, can it?’

  ‘So, Helen is on your lists of suspects? Is Steph, too?’

  ‘Yes, although she occupies the bottom rung. I just can’t see her skipping across the fields in her flowery tea dress with a bow slung over her shoulder and a quiver full of arrows hung around her waist, can you?’

  ‘What, and you can see Helen doing that?’

  ‘You haven’t met her. Okay, she’s polished, elegant, has fabulous nails, and her outfits cost more than my monthly salary, but she’s a gym and yoga fanatic. I don’t think she would have any problem at all sprinting from the road to the priory, waiting until Rick came into view and firing off an arrow.’

  ‘Do they offer archery courses at the gyms in Manchester?’ smiled Matt, his earlier despondency vanishing as he listened carefully to Rosie’s theories.

  ‘I have no idea, but all I’m saying is we shouldn’t rule her out. We saw for ourselves how derogatory Rick was to everyone – no one escaped his sarcasm. It wasn’t just idle banter either, some of the things he said to his fellow society members really hurt. So, if this is what he’s like with them, I’ve no doubt he’s difficult to live with too.’

  ‘So Helen decided to kill him?’

  ‘Well, maybe she just wanted to teach him a lesson? Or to incapacitate him for a while so she could enjoy a peaceful break in the Norfolk countryside. In fact, if I was married to Rick, I would certainly have considered something similar. There’s just something about him that tickles at the hackles on the back of my neck.’

  ‘Okay, I agree we need to speak to everyone in the Myth Seekers party. We’ve already got Brad’s take on things. We know he thinks Phil is the most likely candidate, but we need to hear Phil’s side of the story too. Maybe he’ll be just as eloquent in his suspicions about Brad – and if you want my opinion, he’s my number one suspect at the moment. If you’re bringing intuition into this, then mine is screaming Brad’s name. And what about Emma? Why don’t we go back to the Windmill Café and start asking questions?’

  ‘Okay, but before we go, can we just take a quick detour around the village to see if we bump into Helen? I’d feel awful if I went back without even having a look.’

  On their way towards the front door of the Drunken Duck, Matt was stopped three times and asked for the details about the shooting of one of the outward-bound visitors. Rosie experienced a sharp stab of sympathy for Matt’s predicament which gave her even more incentive to discover how the incident had taken place without any of them seeing anything, who was responsible, and why. It was a tall order, but they had been successful before, so there was no reason why they couldn’t do it again.

  She smiled at her newfound positivity and self-belief that had emerged from the ashes of her relationship with Harry – which entailed not just the impact of his infidelity but of his constant denigration of her skills as a florist when she had worked with him in their flower shop in Pimlico. There was only one person to thank for the speed of that recovery and he was at her side as they walked past the Post Office and St Andrew’s church on their way towards Adriano’s Deli. She opened her mouth, about to thank Matt for being a part of her life, when he came to a standstill and grasped her arm.

  ‘Look!’

  Rosie scrutinized the stone-fronted houses on a quiet residential side street behind the Post Office, holiday homes most of them, slumbering peacefully as they waited for their absent owners to descend and breathe fresh life into them. One of the properties had been turned into a B&B and she wondered why Matt was so keen to point it out. She turned her head over her shoulder, a question forming on her lips until she saw what he was pointing at.

  ‘Oh my God! That’s Helen’s Porsche!’

  Without waiting for Matt, she sprinted down the path to the car and peered in the window, not sure what she was expecting to see. Helen slumped over the steering wheel with an arrow protruding from her back was one of the images that floated across her mind, swiftly followed by the tip of an arrow pointing between her own eyes. Of course, the Porsche was empty and she heaved a silent sigh of relief.

  ‘Okay, so it looks like she is shopping in Willerby, just like she told Steph,’ said Matt, turning to make his way back to the main street. ‘Come on, we need to find her so she can get across to the hospital as soon as possible. I’m sure Rick will be wondering why she hasn’t arrived, or why she hasn’t even called him yet.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Rosie paused at the rust-blistered, wrought-iron gate of the B&B, then raised her eyes to the cheerful sunflower-yellow front door, a twist of an idea weaving through her brain. She knew it was left-of-field, but from all the hours she had spent solving fictional murder mysteries in books and at staged parties, she wanted to give her new theory an airing – just like she had with her father before he died.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Okay, I know this is going to sound crazy, but hear me out. So, perhaps Helen didn’t drive over to Garside Priory to shoot Rick this morning, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t involved in her husband’s shooting in some other way, does it? Maybe … she’s visiting someone who was!’

  ‘You’re saying you think she had an accomplice?’

  ‘Yes, and that he or she is staying in the B&B and that Helen’s inside there now, listening to all the gory details and handing over an envelope of cash.’

  It was testament to Matt’s friendship, and his respect for her, that he didn’t discard her new theory, or indeed laugh in her face with abject incredulity. She could just envisage what Harry would have said if she’d allowed her love of detective stories to formulate such a ridiculous hypothesis.

  ‘Well, Miss Marple, there’s only one way to find out!’

  Before she knew what was happening, Matt had grabbed her arm and pushed her through the gate. She picked her way over the garden borders, careful not to crush the autumnal blooms, scanning the bay windows of the guest house as she went, hoping to catch a glimpse of Helen’s glossy golden hair to justify her suspicions.

  She was halfway across the front lawn when a car door slammed in the street behind them. She froze like a deer in headlights until Matt hooked his arm around her waist and dragged her behind a hedge of neatly clipped privet. Her breath came in jolts; the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears blotting out all other sound. However, her reaction had nothing to do with the fact that their presence could have been discovered and everything to do with the fact that Matt’s lips were inches from hers and he was looking at her with his ‘come-to-bed’ eyes that sent ripples of desire through her veins.

  She let out an involuntary giggle at the ludicrousness of the situation. What on earth were they doing here? Was she really about to kiss Matt whilst they were secreted in a hedge and undertaking an impromptu surveillance of a random B&B? She chanced another glance through the glossy leaves at Matt whose arm, she realized, was still around her waist, and she knew there was nothing she wanted more. So what if it was unconventional – hadn’t Matt taught her that she should squeeze every ounce of enjoyment from every adventure, from every minute of life? Who liked predictable, anyway?

  She could smell Matt’s cologne lingering into the air between them, sending her emotions into a maelstrom of anticipation. She leaned forward and when her lips met his, a shudder of pleasure rushed through her chest and radiated out to her extremities. Her thoughts scooted back to the last time they had kissed, on the beach after a spontaneous splash in the sea, and her heart fluttered with affection when she remembered it had been a prelude to sharing their painful childhood memories, of losing their fathers and the fallout that devastating experience had caused. F
rom that day, she had known that Matt was more than a friend, and someone she hoped would be in her life for a long time. Forever even – especially if he continued to kiss her in the same way as he was at that precise moment, even if it was surrounded by prickly foliage!

  A sudden flutter of bird’s wings sent a spasm of shock shrieking through Rosie’s veins and she pulled away from Matt, a wry smile curling her lips.

  ‘Come on. I think we should get out of here before anyone sees us!’

  ‘Wait! Look!’

  She followed the direction of Matt’s eyes to the upstairs bay window. A glint of sunlight sparkled in its reflection and highlighted a flash of movement from inside. Before she had chance to ask Matt if he had seen it too, a splash of scarlet appeared at the window. Even with the foliage masking her view there was no doubt as to the identity of the figure. Rosie gasped, but her surprise was nothing compared to the shock she experienced a few seconds later when a man appeared, wrapped his arms around Helen’s shoulders and pulled her close to his chest.

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  Confusion raced through Rosie’s mind. Who was this person? Did Helen have friends or family in Willerby? But this was a B&B, not a private home. Then another thought occurred to her. If she had arranged for someone to shoot Rick – then were they looking at her accomplice? No, that didn’t explain why Helen was embracing him in full view of the street.

  ‘Matt, I think we should leave, now. I feel like a character in Midsomer Murders!’

  ‘I agree. Come on.’

  Rosie tossed a final glance up to the window and pushed herself out of the hedge, rubbing her palms over her arms to eradicate the ripple of goose bumps that were running riot across her skin. What if Helen saw them loitering in the bushes? What would she think?

  As Rosie stepped out from her concealment, a quiver of crimson caught the corner of her eye and she heard voices.

  ‘Quick!’

  Now it was her turned to drag Matt into the hedge, receiving a painful scratch on her forearm for her trouble, and they watched as Helen and her friend emerged from the front door – hand in hand! The couple walked down the front path, within a metre of their hiding place, then disappeared through the gate into the street.