“I’m sorry,” said Alfie, “I’m not much of a church-goer.”
The vicar patted him on the shoulder, apparently unoffended. “Neither was Gussie. And she was a constant bright light in our community. You have an open invitation, and you know where we are.”
Alfie certainly did. His summer memories included his grandparents forcing him to go to Sunday school every week when he would far rather have been roaming the hills. He would be in no hurry to take up the invitation.
Liz gazed after the vicar and William as they negotiated the door. “It’s lovely when William goes back to his old self,” she sighed.
“Pity it doesn’t last long,” said Rakesh. “He was a great director.”
“Unlike James,” said Henry. “Don’t worry, Alfie. However bad you are, you can’t be as bad as him.”
Alfie laughed. “Thank you, that’s very reassuring.”
Marge glared at Henry. “I’m sure Alfie will be excellent. And James wasn’t that bad.”
Amelia looked as though she had been going to say something but then thought better of it under Marge’s glare.
“Well, if we’re dismissed, I’m going home. It’s been a long day,” said Emma. “See you tomorrow.”
The group began to retrieve jackets and coats. Liz patted Alfie’s arm. “I bet you didn’t think you’d have two new jobs by the end of the evening. But you’re doing us such a favour – we really would have had to cancel otherwise.”
“Delighted,” said Alfie, smiling down at her.
She fished in her bag and produced the script for him. “You’ll be a marvellous detective sergeant. I do so admire people who can act. All I can do is sell tickets, prompt, and play Three Blind Mice on the piano.”
“I admire people who can play the piano,” said Alfie.
“If you ever want to learn to play Three Blind Mice, you only have to ask,” said Liz. “Come to supper tomorrow evening to celebrate your integration into Bunburry life.”
“Thank you, I’d love that. But the rehearsal in the afternoon – William said it was in the theatre. I didn’t know Bunburry had a theatre.” He had walked round a good chunk of the village today and it all looked as he remembered it, solidly old-fashioned with the parish church as the most imposing structure.
“Oh yes,” said Marge. “We rival London for artistic sophistication.”
“You might know it better as the village hall,” said Liz. “The AA has taken to calling it the theatre.”
He knew the village hall well. And it now had the addition of the tattered banner that James Fry had vainly attempted to put up.
Everyone headed off apart from Rakesh Choudhury who was hovering, waiting until Alfie was free.
“I wanted to express my sympathies over the loss of your dear aunt,” he said. “She was a wonderful lady.”
“You’re very kind,” said Alfie. He spotted an opportunity to ask some of the many questions he had. “Do you have to go, or may I get you another drink?”
“A half of Brew would be very welcome,” said Rakesh. When the drinks arrived, he raised his glass: “To Gussie.”
“Aunt Augusta,” echoed Alfie. “I take it that Mr Marlowe doesn’t know she’s no longer with us?”
“That’s difficult to answer,” said Rakesh. “He knew at the time, and was greatly upset. But he has Alzheimer’s. He forgets things, and then sometimes he remembers. When it’s helpful, we encourage him by reminding him. But we don’t remind him when it would simply cause him pain.”
“A hideously cruel disease,” said Alfie.
Rakesh nodded. “And it’s been very rapid. William was one of the local teachers, and you could not have met a more learned and lively man. He retired a few years ago and then last year began to realise that all was not well. He decided to resign as our director, but he asked his good friend the reverend to bring him to all our meetings and rehearsals so that he could still feel part of it. But now he’s had to move into the nursing home, and most of the time when he’s with us he either sleeps or doesn’t really know where he is. And then, like tonight, he suddenly takes charge and it’s as though we’re back in the old days.”
“What other plays has he directed for you?” asked Alfie.
“Oh, just The Mousetrap. It’s tradition.”
Alfie was baffled. “You’ve been putting on The Mousetrap for twenty years? Then you don’t really need a director at all, do you?”
“Oh, we do,” Rakesh assured him. “It’s not always the same actors. It depends on who’s available. This is the first time Amelia and Henry have been in it – they play Mollie and Giles Ralston, and we all thought it was very lovely having a real-life young couple playing a stage young couple. Such a pity – ”
He suddenly stopped.
Alfie, using his most disinterested tone, said: “What’s a pity?” but Rakesh was not to be drawn.
“Oh, nothing, just a pity that they have to work so hard with the shop. It’s not easy making time for rehearsals. And Emma, it’s her first time as well. She’s Miss Casewell.”
He had very definitely changed the subject, and Alfie would achieve nothing by pressing the point. “And who do you play?”
“This is my fifth year of playing Mr Paravicini, the mysterious foreigner. I never intended to take part, but I have huge admiration for the works of Agatha Christie. When the previous Mr Paravicini moved to Cheltenham, William said it was my duty to Dame Agatha to take over.”
He produced a battered paperback of Sparkling Cyanide from his pocket. “I’m never without one of her books. I re-read them with the greatest pleasure to see how cleverly she plots everything.” He gave a conspiratorial chuckle. “I always think that Marge and Liz should go into the detecting business. They are Miss Marple to a T.”
“They seem quite different,” said Alfie.
“And that is it exactly. Marge is very – shall we say interested in local events? And enjoys talking about them with others?”
A polite way of saying nosy and gossipy, thought Alfie. It didn’t prevent Marge being excellent company – maybe it was the reason.
“Miss Marple was just such a character to begin with, and then as the books continued, we began to see a more gentle, considered side, which is Liz.”
Alfie didn’t like to admit he had never read any Agatha Christie.
“I know Liz is the prompter for the play,” he said, to avoid being asked which book was his favourite. “Is Marge one of the actors?”
“Most definitely. She always plays Mrs Boyle, with great enthusiasm. And the reverend always plays Major Metcalf. Last year, Anthony played Detective Sergeant Trotter and James Fry played Christopher Wren, the architect. But when James was the only person prepared to be director, the price we had to pay was him being Detective Sergeant Trotter as well, and Anthony had to change roles.”
He leaned forward confidentially. “It has not been a happy time under James’s directorship. Many of us would have left, but Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without the AA performing The Mousetrap. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I think we would all benefit from some encouragement.”
Alfie remembered the conversation he had overheard, about Rakesh being involved in some sort of dispute with James Fry.
“So you didn’t care for James.” He made it more of a statement than a question.
Rakesh’s face creased with concern. “Oh no, no, nothing like that – he was a fine chap. We got on very well. Please don’t get the wrong impression. I only mean that his considerable talents were perhaps not best suited to directing.”
This definitely didn’t fit with what had been said. “Thanks for your advice,” Alfie said. “It’s been very helpful. We all want this to succeed.” In the space of a few hours, he seemed to have gone from planning a retreat back to London to upholding Bunburry’s finest traditions. “Just one mo
re question – why on earth are you called the AA?”
Rakesh laughed. “Ah, that came from the villagers. We started out by calling ourselves Agatha’s Amateur Dramatic Society, and the villagers changed it to Agatha’s Amateurs. We wear our AA name with pride.”
He stood up to take his leave. “So, Mr Alfie, welcome to the AA, welcome to Bunburry, and welcome to my little restaurant whenever you like. I will cook you the finest lamb bhuna you have ever tasted.”
“I look forward to that,” said Alfie. “But how have you managed to take the time off this evening?”
“I have trained up a very talented young lady – Bunburry born and bred but when you taste her cooking, you would think she came from Bombay. Or Mumbai as Marge constantly reminds me. She’s very happy to move from sous-chef to chef for the evening.”
They parted with Alfie promising to visit the restaurant as soon as possible. He returned to his comfortable bedroom upstairs, made himself a coffee, and texted Oscar: “Had an excellent Merlot and joined the AA.”
Back came the reply. “Moderation in all things. Including moderation.”
5. A Happy Marriage?
After another fine English breakfast at the Drunken Horse, Alfie paid his bill and lugged his suitcase to Windermere Cottage to the accompaniment of the church bells. The vicar had seemed pleasant, but it didn’t sound very Christian for him to be relieved by James Fry’s death. Who was Rose, and what had Fry tried to persuade her to do? Alfie was increasingly intrigued by James Fry who must have done more than be an incompetent director to provoke such dislike.
He unpacked quickly, stashing the few clothes he had brought with him in the wardrobe and chest of drawers, and setting out his toiletries in the avocado bathroom. He felt as though he had simply moved to another hotel. He wasn’t yet ready to put his stamp on this place. It was definitely still Aunt Augusta’s.
He wondered whether her spirit still inhabited the cottage. “Aunt Augusta?” he called softly and stood motionless, listening, but there was no sound, no creak of a floorboard, no ghostly whisper. Perhaps she wasn’t used to being addressed that way, so he tried “Gussie?” but there was still only silence. Perhaps Marge was right and Aunt Augusta was too busy enjoying heavenly cocktails to pay attention to those left below. Alfie liked that idea. He was feeling increasing affection for this aunt who was remembered with such warmth in Bunburry. He wished he had paid more attention when he was a child, but he didn’t really remember any of the adults during the summer holidays apart from his grandparents. He could barely even remember the Sunday school teacher whom he had resented so much for keeping him indoors.
All he had been interested in was playing. He had thought his grandparents were unreasonably strict, insisting on good manners, clean hands and face, and early to bed. But he could see now that they had given him endless freedom, making sandwiches for him to take out in the morning, and merely insisting that he come home for supper. It couldn’t have been easy for them, having to be responsible for a small boy every summer. But he hadn’t appreciated that. And he hadn’t made it easy for his mother, either. When she brought him down from London at the beginning of the holidays, he always pleaded with her to stay, even though he knew she had to get back to work. He would tell her she must come back every weekend, and she would say she would try, but she never did.
He felt let down when she only appeared on the last weekend of the holidays to take him home. Now he knew how much she had shielded him from her worries, and he was pretty sure that pride had made her conceal them from her parents as well. While he was safely away in the country, she must have taken on extra shifts, maybe even a second job, to keep them afloat. And now that he could buy her every luxury imaginable, it was too late.
He flung his empty suitcase into the bottom of the wardrobe and set all the hangers jangling. He put on his coat and headed out with no idea of where he was going. He found himself on the outskirts of the village, near the river, and headed for Frank’s Bridge, Aunt Augusta’s favourite spot for reading.
As he approached it, he saw a small figure huddled at the end of the wooden bench. He caught his breath. Was this where his aunt’s spirit had chosen to stay? He slowed up but he was still inexorably drawn to the bench. He wanted to ask her why she had left Windermere Cottage to him. A pity he knew there was no such thing as ghosts.
As he got closer, he saw that the small figure was Amelia Fairchild. Her head was down, her black hair concealing her face, and he wasn’t sure whether she had seen him.
“Hello,” he called when he was still some distance away, trying not to startle her. “Chilly day.”
She mumbled something that he couldn’t hear.
He approached the bench. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“It’s a free country.”
Despite her unwelcoming tone, he sat down. “Betty told me that Aunt Augusta liked to come here to read.”
“Oh. Yes.” She looked at him for the first time, surliness warring with sympathy. But she seemed in no hurry to continue the conversation. It seemed an odd way to spend her day off, sitting in the freezing cold. But perhaps the inhabitants of Bunburry liked communing with nature whatever the temperature.
“I’m looking forward to the rehearsal this afternoon,” he said.
“Really?” Her tone was scathing.
“Really.” Rakesh Choudhury had told him to be encouraging, so encouraging he would be. “It’s a great play.”
“Not the way we do it.”
Alfie remembered Amelia’s critical comments about Fry in the pub. This could be an opportunity to find out more.
“Did you know James Fry well?” he asked.
She gave a gasp of outrage. “No, I didn’t! Did Betty say something? That’s slander – I could sue you for repeating it.”
She had shifted as far away from him as possible, her shoulders hunched, and Alfie thought of a cat about to spit.
“You ought to be careful. My husband would be furious if he knew you were talking about me like this.”
She seemed to think he was accusing her of having an affair. But what struck Alfie most about the bizarre outburst was the implication that he should be scared of the lumbering Henry Fairchild. He almost laughed aloud, which would scarcely defuse the situation.
He stood up. “I’m very sorry. I had absolutely no intention of upsetting you. And I can assure you that Betty hasn’t mentioned you at all.”
Amelia put out her hand as though she wanted to stop him leaving. “Don’t listen to me,” she said in a small voice. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”
Alfie sat back down. “Already forgotten.”
Her face crumpled. She seemed on the verge of tears. “Please don’t stop coming into the shop. Henry would wonder why. Things are difficult enough.” Her words tailed off.
“Don’t worry,” said Alfie lightly. “I couldn’t face life in Bunburry without its finest supermarket.”
“Its only supermarket,” she muttered.
“In fact, I’ll be calling in today.”
She looked suddenly panicked. “Don’t tell Henry I’ve been talking to you. He wouldn’t like that.”
It always came back to Henry. Was she embarrassed about what she had said, or would Henry be jealous of her talking to another man? Was he an abusive husband? The way he treated Amelia, was it domineering or needy?
“I can’t imagine the subject will come up,” he assured her. “I’m going to Marge and Liz’s for supper. Do you know what kind of wine they’d like?”
“If you want to be popular, you’d be better taking gin,” she said.
Alfie laughed. “Good to know. And maybe chocolates? Although, is sweets-to-the-Cotswolds’-finest-fudge-maker the same as coals to Newcastle?”
“Flowers,” said Amelia.
“That’s a better idea. I’ll get them now – I can’t be la
te for the rehearsal.” He paused. Whatever pressure Amelia was under, there was no point in adding to it. “It won’t be a proper rehearsal. I just want to get a sense of how things are going. Don’t feel you have to come along if you don’t want to.”
“Oh, I’m fine with rehearsals now he isn’t there.”
“James Fry? What was the problem?”
The moment of relative tranquillity was lost. “James Fry was the problem!” She was shaking, her voice thick with rage.
Alfie was fascinated by the violence of her reaction. What had caused it? But she was so volatile that he thought it unwise to pursue the conversation. He looked at his watch. “Later than I thought. Sorry, I really must go. Catch you at the rehearsal.” Giving every impression of a man in a hurry who hadn’t even heard her last remark, he headed off for the village, with the supermarket as the first stop.
Henry Fairchild was slouching over the counter and scarcely looked up as Alfie came in. For someone who must be in his late twenties, he did a good impression of a sullen teenager. “You’re the first customer today,” he said. “I might as well have been out with the missus.”
Alfie toyed with the idea of saying: “I’ve just been having a chat with your missus – asked her how well she knew James Fry,” and seeing what happened. Alfie had never been in a fight in his life, but he imagined Henry Fairchild would fall over if he breathed on him hard enough.
“I’m looking for a bottle of wine to take round to Liz and Marge,” he said.
“Wine?” said Henry. “You’d be better with gin for that pair.”
Whatever the tensions between Henry and his bride, at least there was one thing they agreed on.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with the wine,” said Alfie pleasantly.
Henry stirred himself. “We’ve got a nice Rioja.”
Alfie didn’t think it looked so nice. Instead, he picked up a bottle of prosecco. This was celebrating his arrival in Bunburry, after all.
Bunburry--Murder at the Mousetrap Page 5
