Stroke of Death

by Agatha Frost

  “What do you do?”

  “Well, I catch up on the washing,” Sandra said, almost a little disappointed by her admission. “But, someone has to do it, and I wouldn’t trust my John with a spin cycle! He’d blow the thing up in days, I promise you. He can build a barn from scratch with a hammer, a box of nails, and scrap wood, but would he know which part of the tray the softener goes in? Would he heck! I’ve tried teaching him, but it’s in one ear, out the other. That’s men for you though, isn’t it? Selective hearing.” She filled up the kettle, heaving it onto the stove after lighting it with a match. “How about some coffee? I’ve never been one for the stuff myself, but I saw Simon had bought you some. Looks expensive too!”

  “That would be great,” Liz said, her body screaming out for caffeine.

  When the kettle boiled, Sandra poured it into two cups, adding coffee to one and a tea bag to the other. She added a spoonful of sugar to her own tea but kept it black. Liz wrapped her hand around her mug when Sandra placed it in front of her, the warmth radiating through her.

  “So, you stayed at Simon’s last night?” Sandra asked raising a brow.

  Liz felt her cheeks reddening, knowing that was more than enough to give her away. Sandra chuckled light-heartedly.

  “You’re more than old enough to do what you want,” she said taking a sip of her tea. “I only offered you the spare room for your privacy. It was never against the rules for you to stay with Simon. Woman to woman, I’d kill for a night or two out of the master bedroom, but John would take offence. You think I’d learn to ignore his snoring after this many years of marriage, but it seems to get worse by the week.”

  Liz sipped her coffee, glad of the conversation. It was keeping her mind off the fire and what had almost happened to Simon.

  “Forgive me for being nosy,” Sandra started again. “And you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, but I have a feeling you have a past that you’re not sharing with us. As I said, you don’t have to say anything, but my woman’s intuition goes off the radar whenever I look into those sparkling green eyes of yours. There’s a story there.”

  Liz stared back at Sandra, her throat constricting as she tried to think of what to say. She tried to swallow the dry lump, but she could not manage to form any words. She had known this time would come, and she could not run or hide from her past forever, but she had hoped to have at least told Simon first.

  “I’m prying, aren’t I?” Sandra replied, a pained look on her face as she flapped her hands. “I’m sorry. The ramblings of a silly old farm woman!”

  “No,” Liz corrected, rubbing her fingers around the brim of her coffee cup. “It’s something I haven’t told many people. In fact, I’ve only told Nancy so far.”

  “You can trust me, Liz,” Sandra whispered, reaching out to grab her hands. “Whatever it is, I won’t tell anyone. That’s for you to do in your own time.”

  “I haven’t told Simon yet.”

  “All I can tell you is how happy Simon is since he’s met you. I’ve never seen him like this, and I know you’re good for him. If you haven’t told him, I trust there’s a reason why.”

  Liz took a deep breath, readying herself to reveal the secret she had been holding on to since moving to Scarlet Cove.

  “You know how I used to be a detective back in Manchester?” she said before pausing and looking down at the table. “I was – well – I was married.”

  “Oh,” Sandra said, spitting her tea back into her cup, almost choking. “I wasn’t expecting that. So, you divorced and moved down here?”

  “Not quite,” Liz said. “His name was Lewis.”

  “Was?”

  “We worked together,” Liz said before looking to meet Sandra’s imploring gaze. “He got in front of a bullet, and he didn’t make it.”

  “I had no idea,” Sandra said, taking her hands from Liz’s and covering her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I should never have pried! That’s an awful thing to have happened to you.”

  “I know he would want me to be happy,” Liz said, wiping away a single tear that had managed to escape. “Lewis would have loved Simon. He loved everybody. He was really great, but that’s part of the reason I haven’t told Simon yet. I just don’t want Simon thinking he’s second best.”

  “He’ll understand,” Sandra replied after a long pause. “But I’m sure when you do decide to tell him it will be the right time.”

  Liz knew Sandra was probably right, but she had waited so long to tell him that it was getting harder every day. She always had a small thought in the back of her mind that he would not understand.

  “Take it from me,” Sandra said. “Tell him in your own time, but you do need to tell him. You can’t build a relationship on secrets.”

  Liz nodded, knowing Sandra was right. She took a sip of her coffee, letting it warm her. They both sat in silence drinking their tea and coffee before John entered with a newspaper in his hand. He took his cap off and scratched his head as he stared at the front page before slapping the newspaper in the middle of the table.

  “Would you read that?” he cried, rocking on his heels. “It’s talking about Catherine’s death. The police don’t have any leads. None!”

  “They always give the least amount of information they can unless it’s crucial to finding the murderer,” Liz murmured, taking the newspaper and noticing the date. “I need to go.”

  Leaving the paper behind, Liz hurried out of the kitchen. As soon as she stepped outside into the bitter morning air, she placed her hands on her knees and doubled over, feeling as though she was going to throw up. It was the three-year anniversary of Lewis’ death; she felt sick to her stomach for having forgotten.

  Things had been so busy the past week that the dates had flown by without Liz even noticing. She blinked in the crisp sunlight towards Simon’s little cottage. She had a sudden urge to get as far away from the farm as she could.

  After grabbing her jacket and scarf from the vestibule, she called to Paddy and clipped the lead onto his collar. She led him down the path, and away from the farm. Instead of heading into town, she walked along the top road and past Lance’s burnt-out cottage. She could not bear to stop and look, so she carried on, her feet taking her to the Manor hotel.

  Liz looked up at the beautiful hotel and its vast surroundings, the early morning fog giving it an eerie quality. Liz wrapped her arms around herself again and set off towards the grand doors with Paddy strolling lazily behind her.

  The reception area was clear, and the receptionist was distracted with a phone call. If dogs were not allowed inside, no one was there to stop her. She walked through the sitting room, the paintings calling to her. She hoped if she stared at them for long enough they might unlock their secrets. To her surprise, Trevor was standing in front of the paintings, talking to an elderly couple. The hotel owner’s eye bags were so large, Liz wondered if he had slept.

  “I’ll do you a great deal for the pair,” he pleaded, a crazed look in his eye as he smiled deliriously at them. “I’ll give them both to you for twenty thousand pounds. That’s a great deal. Look at them! They’re stunning paintings.”

  The couple smiled politely, despite looking scared of him. They both shook their heads and backed away a few steps.

  “We heard they’re fakes,” the woman replied meekly. “Some of the other guests were talking at dinner last night.”

  “Fakes?” Trevor boomed, running his hand over his balding head. “Absolutely preposterous! I’m a respectable businessman! I’d never buy or sell fake paintings!”

  “Sorry,” the man said, leading the woman away. “We aren’t interested.”

  “Fifteen thousand pounds?” he shouted after them. “Ten thousand?”

  They hurried past Liz and out of the huge doors without looking back. Undeterred, Trevor marched past Liz and yanked on the doors.

  “Seven thousand!” he cried. “You won’t find a better deal!”

  Paddy barked, knocking Trevor out of his tra
nce. He looked straight at Liz and then marched past her as if he had not even noticed her presence. He looked at the pictures with such disgust that Liz would not have been surprised if he ripped them off the wall and threw them into the fireplace.

  Tearing himself away from the fake art, he walked past Liz again and through a door next to the reception desk. Liz thought about leaving, but she wanted to speak to him. She approached the door with caution, opening it.

  “Trevor?” she called into the room. “Can I talk to you?”

  The owner looked up from his desk and grunted, looking unable to form a sentence. Liz took his grunt as an invitation, so she walked in with Paddy next to her side, shutting the door behind her.

  “Take a seat,” he said, motioning to a plush chair across the desk from where he was sitting. “Don’t fancy buying some fake paintings, do you?”

  His office was decorated similarly to the rest of the Manor. History oozed from the walls. It reminded her of Christopher’s home, but it had a lightness to it that his townhouse lacked.

  “If I had the money, I might have taken them off you,” Liz said as Paddy settled at her feet. “Fake or not, they’re still beautiful.”

  “Everyone knows they’re fakes,” he said as he sliced an envelope open with an ornate silver letter opener. “Someone must have overheard our conversation with the antique guy.”

  Liz stared at the letter opener as it glittered in his grasp in the early morning sun. An unnerving image of Catherine’s lifeless body flashed through Liz’s mind.

  “I thought I’d be able to fob them off onto one of the guests,” Trevor said, waving the letter opener around above him. “We have a lot of art lovers that come here. I might as well confess in the brochures that the paintings are fake. Not one person wants them.”

  Trevor tried to open another letter, but the opener snagged in the corner. He became frustrated quickly, tearing the metal knife through the letter, ripping it in half. It surprised her how quickly his rage could come and go.

  “They look lovely where they are,” Liz offered, trying to console him. “Keep them for yourself.”

  “I spent one million pounds on them,” he snapped, forcing his fist down on the desk, the letter opener sparkling. “I’m sure even your detective skills can figure out that that’s a lot of money.”

  “Enough to kill someone for?”

  “I beg your pardon?” he cried, his face growing red as a vein bulged out of his neck. “You think I killed Katelyn and Catherine? I heard you used to be a competent detective, not a foolish one.”

  “I overheard the conversation you had with Catherine at the gallery,” Liz announced, narrowing her eyes at him. “It wasn’t exactly civilised. You threatened her.”

  Trevor stood up, the letter opener pointed in Liz’s face before saying, “Why don’t you keep your nose out of people’s business?”

  Liz stood up to Trevor’s level. In the process, she accidentally stepped on Paddy’s tail, causing him to yelp. In the few moments it took for her to look down at Paddy and back up at Trevor, he had closed the distance between them. He was so close she could see the little red veins in his bloodshot eyes. He raised the opener, holding it so that one slight mishap would cause it to plunge right into her skin.

  They stood glaring at each other for what felt like an eternity before the door suddenly flew open. To Liz’s surprise and Trevor’s obvious horror, two police officers ran into the room. They were followed by the plump, elderly detective on the Katelyn and Catherine case. Liz stepped to the side, pulling Paddy with her. Trevor opened his hand and dropped the letter opener onto the floor with a clatter.

  “Trevor Swan?” the old detective said, his voice affected by a lifetime of cigarettes. “We are arresting you for the murders of Katelyn Monroe and Catherine Ford, you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

  Liz watched in shock as the two officers restrained him before cuffing him against the desk. When he was secure, they led him away without a fight. The detective glanced at Liz for a moment, and then down at Paddy before also following. Liz held back, making sure not to get too close to the officers doing their jobs. When she reached the front of the hotel, she locked eyes with Trevor from the back of the police car; his face was devoid of any emotion. As she watched the car drive off, she had a feeling that something was incredibly wrong.

  Feeling unsure about what she had witnessed or how the police had come to their conclusion that Trevor was guilty, she headed back to the farmhouse. If they had the right man, was that it? Was her investigation over? She looked down at Paddy as they walked back along the top road, unable to hide that she felt completely underwhelmed.

  When she passed Lance’s burnt-out shell of a cottage again, a figure standing amongst the rubble forced her to stop and look. It only took one step closer to see that it was Lance, standing in a hospital gown like a lost child. He spun around, and Liz averted her eyes when she noticed that his backside was not covered; he must have been freezing.

  “Lance?” Liz called out. “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” he mumbled, staring down at the hospital wristband still attached to him. “I was trying to fry an egg. I don’t remember. It all feels like a dream, and then I woke up in the hospital.”

  “Let’s get you back there,” she said, stepping even closer. “You must be freezing.”

  Lance turned around, and the look in his eyes made her double back.

  “Leave me alone,” he muttered before turning and walking barefoot through the pile of ash that used to be his home.

  She waited until he disappeared over the hill before pulling out her phone to call the hospital to inform them where their wandering patient was. As she did, she stared through the smashed window into what used to be Lance’s sitting room. Peeping out from underneath a fallen, charred beam, Katelyn’s black eyes and red horns stared out at her.

  13

  Liz sat in the crowded Fish and Anchor, Simon by her side. The curious townspeople looked on in confusion at the sight of Christopher Monroe, who rarely stepped foot into the ordinary working-class pub. His beautiful Australian fiancée clung to his arm, a fake smile plastered on her face, raising even more eyebrows.

  “What’s Fishy Chris doin’ in here?” someone whispered.

  “And who is that lovely lady next to him?” another asked not so quietly. “I’ll take you, love, if you get bored of eating fish every night.”

  Liz knew what everyone in town thought of Christopher, and his murdered sister would not change their opinions.

  Christopher loosened his tie a little, looking uncomfortable as everyone stared at him. Lizzie looked unfazed and bored, which seemed to be her default expression. Christopher coughed to clear his throat. The room didn’t quieten, so Lizzie tapped a fork against her champagne glass.

  “As some of you may know,” he started, pronouncing every syllable. “I came back from Australia with a beautiful fiancée and the love of my life.”

  Liz raised her eyebrow, but she kept her ears open.

  “I have some wonderful news to share with you all,” he said, his mouth stretching into something that resembled a smile without any emotion behind it. “Since my sister’s murderer is now behind bars it seemed like the perfect time to announce that we plan to marry this Saturday, and you’re all invited.”

  Christopher and Lizzie looked out into the sea of shocked faces, waiting for a reaction that was not forthcoming. There were a few gasps as people exchanged awkward glances, but the pub remained otherwise silent. Liz could not stand the frown plastered on Christopher’s face, so she started to clap and nudged Simon who followed suit. Eventually, the rest of the pub joined in, but Christopher’s expression did not change much.

  Lizzie rolled her eyes and walked towards the bar, leaving Christopher on his own. He continued to
stare out at the sea of faces, unable to move. After an entire minute, he skulked off towards Lizzie, his head low to the ground like a wounded puppy.

  “Poor guy,” Simon whispered to Liz. “I bet he’s been waiting his whole life to make that announcement, and nobody cares.”

  Liz glanced towards Christopher’s parents as she sipped her wine. Constance was turning her nose up at everything as she wiped her hands with sanitiser. Philip, on the other hand, was deep into his second pint of Scarlet Cove Brew, most of the foam on his top lip.

  “Haven’t you told Fishy Chris what you overheard?” Simon asked after sipping his pint. “I thought you were adamant you were stopping the wedding?”

  “I haven’t had the chance,” Liz replied. “Between the funeral, and Catherine’s murder, and then Lance’s fire, I’ve been a little busy.”

  “Well, you have until Saturday,” Simon said. “Stay here, will you? I’m going to talk to that guy over there. I’m sure he owns a cheese shop up north.”

  Simon made his way across the pub, leaving Liz alone. She caught Nancy’s gaze, who immediately started cackling at something Polly had said to her. Polly looked a little confused but joined in the laughter. Liz polished off her wine before turning to the packed bar for a top-up. She took a spot at the end, surprised to see Lizzie and Constance talking in the corner with their backs to everyone. Liz only had to move one step to the right to be able to overhear their whispers.

  “I can’t do this!” Lizzie moaned. “I thought I could, but I can’t. I hate it here!”

  “You don’t have to live here forever,” Constance said through gritted teeth. “We’ve been through this. You only need to have his child, and then you’re free to do what you want. One child. Is that so difficult?”

  “How long is that going to take?” she cried. “There’s nothing to do here.”

  “Think about the money,” Constance said, her hands gripping Lizzie’s arms. “Imagine what you could do with it. Give it one year, and you’ll be home pretending none of this ever happened. We have a deal, don’t we?”