The Murder at Skellin Cottage

by Amy Cross

  “I remember.”

  “Well, that's the thing,” he continued. “I know this is gonna sound like a coincidence, but I saw the same guy again last night. Whoever he is, it looks like he's back in town.”

  “What exactly does he look like?”

  “Dark hair, early forties. But I can do a bit better than that. He was in my shop last night and he used his card to pay. I managed to catch his name. He's called Lucas Evans, and I think he's staying in this hotel again.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Six months ago

  “Merriwig, what is it now?” Deborah asked, as the cat brushed against her arm yet again, causing her to mis-type a word. “Half the typos in this book are going to be your fault!”

  Merriwig meowed again, before hopping off the sofa and heading over to the door.

  “Use the cat-flap,” Deborah muttered. She made some corrections to her work, before glancing over and seeing that Merriwig was sitting next to the cat-flap, waiting for the door to be opened. “You know how to use it,” she continued with a sigh. “Come on, I'm really in a groove here.”

  She turned back to the laptop, but Merriwig meowed again before she had a chance to set her fingers on the keyboard.

  “I'm going to ignore you until I've finished this chapter,” she continued, determined to focus on her work and nothing else. “There's nothing you can do to distract me.”

  She typed a couple more lines, before realizing she could hear the faint patter of rain falling against the window. A moment later, unable to help herself, she glanced over at the door and saw that Merriwig was staring at her. Exhausted but consumed by the desire to keep working, Deborah leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of the rain as she took a moment to collect her thoughts. Finally, she opened her eyes again and leaned forward to continue with the book.

  Another meow.

  “Oh fine!” she muttered suddenly, getting to her feet and heading around the sofa, quickly unlocking the door and pulling it open so that the cat could get out. As Merriwig slipped into the yard, Deborah held her hand out and felt a few spots of rain falling against her palm, and a moment later she heard a distant rumble of thunder. “Great,” she said with a sigh, “a storm. That's just what I need with a leaky roof.”

  Merriwig slunk across the yard, quickly disappearing into the barn.

  Turning, Deborah stepped back into the kitchen.

  “I knew it was you in the off-license,” a familiar voice said suddenly.

  Deborah froze, not daring to move a muscle, not even daring to turn and look. The voice had been so clear, so close and direct, and she already knew it couldn't possibly have been a figment of her imagination. At the same time, she felt that as long as she didn't turn, as long as she didn't see his face, she could still hope that somehow this wasn't really happening.

  “It was you outside the hotel last night, too, wasn't it?” he continued. “I assumed I must be imagining things. Then I came back out, but you'd already gone. It was you, though. I'd recognize you anywhere.”

  Still not turning to look at him, Deborah reached out and steadied herself against the counter. Her legs felt weak, as if her knees might buckle at any moment, but finally she realized she had to see his face. Turning slowly to look over her shoulder, she felt her chest tighten as she spotted Lucas standing a few feet away in the middle of the yard, with rain beginning to fall more steadily all around.

  “Hello Alice,” he said after a moment. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “I don't...”

  She paused, her mind racing as she tried to think of a way out of the situation. After all, that was what she'd always been so good at. Wriggling free.

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” she said finally. “My name -”

  “Don't try that.”

  “It's true,” she continued. “Alice? My name isn't Alice. My name is Deborah.”

  “Your name is Alice Pritchard,” he replied matter-of-factly. “That's your maiden name, anyway. While you were married to me, your name was Alice Evans.”

  “No. I'm sorry, you're quite mistaken. My name is Deborah Dean and -”

  “Oh, come off it!” he snapped. “Alice, I know you far too well for you to try pulling this crap on me. I know you better than anyone else on the planet, remember? That tends to happen when you're married to someone for five years.”

  “Married?” She shook her head, before forcing a smile that she already knew was far too weak and unconvincing. “I'm very sorry, but whoever you are, you've obviously mistaken me for someone else. My name is Deborah Dean and I'm a... This is my home, and I don't know why you've shown up here like this, but I'd be grateful if you could accept your mistake and leave me alone.”

  “Or what? You'll call the police?”

  “I'll have no choice.”

  “You wouldn't call the police,” he continued. “Not even if I was standing here with a bloody knife in my hand. And we both know why.”

  “I don't think I can help you,” she replied, stepping back and starting to swing the door shut.

  Before she could manage that, however, Lucas hurried forward and slipped his foot in the way, forcing the door to stay open just a little.

  “I can do anything I want,” he pointed out, “and you won't dare call the police, because calling the police would mean drawing attention to yourself and drawing attention to yourself would mean getting caught. Because we both know, Alice, that you're on the run.”

  “I don't -”

  Suddenly he pushed against the door, trying to force it open. She just about managed to keep it shut, but her heart was racing now and she was starting to realize her attempt to deflect his attention was never going to work. Her mind was spinning and she just wanted to get rid of him so that she could grab her suitcase and run.

  “I only came to town to see an old friend,” Lucas continued. “Mac Holliday. Remember him? That's a hell of a coincidence, isn't it? Then again, you should have known that eventually someone would spot you. You can't hide forever, Alice. No-one can, least of all you. We both know that you always have rotten luck. And now here we are again, face to face after all these years, and your last resort is trying to pretend that you're not really you. That's pretty pathetic, Alice, even by your usual standards.”

  “I'm not -”

  Before she could get another word out, Lucas slammed his shoulder against the door, forcing it open with such force that the side caught her face and sent her stumbling back. Losing her footing, she slumped to the floor as the door banged against the counter, and a moment later she felt a trickle of hot blood running down her face from a cut just above her right eyebrow. Reaching up to check the wound, she suddenly saw Lucas stepping into the cottage, and she looked up just in time to find him towering above her.

  “Is this all you can manage?” he asked, as rain began to fall more heavily outside, tapping with increased urgency against the shed's in roof. “You're pathetic, Alice. You realize that, don't you? Everything you've done, all the people you've hurt, and what's it been for? Just so you can live like a scared little mouse in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, terrified of every sound, knowing full well that your freedom can't last forever? Did you really think you could keep running?”

  “Please,” she stammered, as blood trickled all the way down to her lips, “Lucas...”

  “Are you begging, now?”

  “Just let me finish my book!”

  He chuckled.

  “Please let me finish it!” she shouted, before suddenly he stepped closer and she instinctively raised her hands to protect her face. Trembling with fear, she pulled back across the floor, but he kept coming. “You know that's all I want! When I've finished the book, I won't hide anymore! I'll turn myself in!”

  “Criminals don't get to decide when they're caught, Alice!”

  “I'm not a...”

  Her voice trailed off as she bumped her back against the sofa. She tried to speak again, but
fear kept her throat gripped tight and dry.

  “Nobody outruns their judgment day,” Lucas continued, stepping closer until he was staring straight down at her. “It comes for all of us eventually, Alice. It'll come for me one day too. And when it does, I know I'll have questions to answer. On my judgment day, I'll have to account for what I do to you on yours.”

  “Please -”

  Suddenly he reached down and grabbed her by the throat, hauling her up despite her screams and then throwing her down. Clambering onto the sofa, he pushed her down against the cushions and held her firmly with his right hand, before adding his left a little lower on her throat and starting to squeeze.

  “No!” she gasped, grabbing his hands and trying desperately to peel his fingers away one by one. “Please, don't!”

  “You'll never get your stinking book finished!” he sneered. “I'll destroy it! I'll destroy the whole bloody thing! And then I'll make sure everyone knows what you are, Alice!” He leaned closer, as she began to cough and splutter for breath. “You're a lying, thieving, whoring fraud with delusions of grandeur, and now you're going to pay the price. I guess I'll see you in hell.” With that, he leaned down even further and kissed the side of her face, before squeezing tighter on her throat.

  “Lucas...”

  “I hate you!” he screamed. “You ruined my life! You ruined everything!”

  “No!” she gurgled, as the rain came down louder outside. “Lucas, please...”

  And then she leaned her head back and waited for the end. All the fight drained from her body, and she realized that all she had to do was let him get it over with, and then all the running and all the hiding would end. The pain was intense, but she figured that was no more than she deserved, and after a moment she realized she could feel his firm hands starting to crush the bones in her neck. Just a few more seconds, a few more brief seconds of agony, and everything would be over.

  “I deserve this,” she heard her own voice whispering.

  Suddenly sitting up on the sofa, she clutched her throat and found that now the only hands on her neck were her own. Gasping for breath, she turned and looked around, but there was no sign of anyone else in the room and a moment later she heard a familiar meow coming from over by the door. Spotting Merriwig still sitting and waiting to go outside, she stared in shock for a moment before realizing that the whole encounter with Lucas must have been a dream.

  Stumbling to her feet, she looked around, but the room appeared undisturbed. She headed to the door and tried the handle, only to find that the cottage was still securely locked. At the same time, her heart was pounding and she could still somehow feel the tightness of his grip on her throat, as if he was reaching out from the dream and trying to drag her down.

  Next to her feet, Merriwig meowed.

  Outside, rain was falling steadily.

  Peering through the glass in the door, Deborah looked out at the yard, waiting in case there was any sign of a figure watching. There was no-one, of course; not even when she looked at the exact spot where Lucas had first appeared in her dream. She tried to tell herself that she'd just imagined the whole thing, that her fevered mind had spat up the image of Lucas as a warning, but after a moment she glanced over her shoulder as if she still expected him to suddenly appear and attack her. Finally, reaching up, she touched the side of her face, but now there was no wound and no blood, and it was this simple fact that allowed her to calm her racing thoughts just a little.

  Merriwig meowed again.

  “Fine,” she muttered, unlocking the door and pulling it open just far enough for the cat to slip out, and then pushing it shut and turning the key again.

  Outside, rain was falling and turning the yard to mud. Deborah stared out from behind the door's glass panel, her eyes wide and fearful. All thoughts of working on her book had been lost, and instead she remained at the door and simply watched the yard for any hint of movement.

  Finally, she stepped back from the door.

  “I have to get out of here,” she whispered, as she began to realize that she only had one option. “I have to leave tonight.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Today

  Looking down at the print-out of the guest list, Jo took a moment to double-check that she had the right room number, and then she knocked. A moment later, she heard someone moving about inside, and finally the door swung open to reveal a middle-aged, dark-haired man with a weathered but open face.

  “Are you Lucas Evans?” she asked.

  “I am. Why, who are you?”

  “I need to talk to you about Deborah Dean,” she replied. “Or maybe you knew her better as Alice Pritchard?”

  Immediately, she saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

  “You knew her before she came to Chelmsbury, didn't you?” she continued. “I need to know what why she was here, and who she was running from.”

  “Are you the police?” he asked cautiously.

  “No, but I'm investigating her murder, and the murder of the woman who owned this hotel.” She paused for a moment. “And so far, I can't help noticing that you've been in town on both nights.”

  ***

  “Alice and I were married ten years ago,” Lucas said as he and Jo sat in the hotel room. “We were young, I was twenty-one and she was a year younger, but we were in love. We really were. We had no money, we were living in a spare room at my parents' house, but we had each other and I thought that would be enough while we got started.”

  “So her name was Alice Pritchard before she was married,” Jo replied, “and then Alice Lucas?”

  He nodded.

  “We were dirt poor,” he continued, sitting hunched next to the window, his rounded shoulders silhouetted against the net curtains. “I borrowed money from my parents sometimes, just for food and basic things. I was still training to be a doctor, so I wasn't exactly bringing in much money. It was the typical starving student situation, really. Living on noodles and rice half the time, barely having enough for a pint at the pub once a week. Times were tough, but that was the price we had to pay in order to work for the future we wanted. We were making sacrifices so that one day, we'd be able to have a home and a family of our own. It all seemed possible back then.”

  “And Alice?”

  “She was writing.”

  “Fiction?”

  “She'd finished one novel, and she'd started on a second.”

  “Had she sold anything?”

  “No. She occasionally sent short stories to magazines and websites, and a few pieces got published here and there, but nobody was offering money. You have to understand that I believed in her. I read her work, I knew it was brilliant, and I was willing to support us both while she waited for her big break. She got up at five o'clock every morning and wrote for twelve hours a day. Novels, short stories, she tried everything, and all the while she was working on the novel she hoped to eventually sell to a publisher. She was really driven, and I would have done anything for her. You have to believe that. Anything!”

  He sat in silence for a moment, as if telling the story had already begun to drain him.

  “She just needed a break,” he added.

  “So what went wrong?” Jo asked.

  “Suddenly she had money,” he continued, his voice tightening a little. “Not much, but just enough for me to notice and start wondering. She took me to a local pub for dinner one Sunday. She said she'd been saving. Then she took me again the following week, and I realized there was no way she could have saved that much. I asked my parents, but they said she hadn't asked to borrow anything, so naturally I began to wonder where she was getting it from. Eventually she told me she'd made a little money online, writing for blogs. I didn't know anything about that kind of thing, so I just believed her. I thought it was possible, especially for someone smart like her.”

  “And where was the money really coming from?”

  “She'd been doing some Saturday work in a local shop. Nothing much, certainly not enough fo
r her to make a lot of money. Stacking shelves, working on the till. It was one of those little places that's a convenience store and a post office all rolled into one. Then one day there was a police car outside the shop, and it turned out that someone had been stealing money from the till. It hadn't been noticed at first, because she always waited until the day's takings had been counted, and the owner of the shop was very trusting, very kind. But over a period of two months, Alice had stolen almost £500.”

  He paused for a moment, with tears in his eyes.

  “She wasn't a bad person,” he added. “You have to believe me.”

  “I do.”

  “She was just so sick and tired of being poor, and of relying on me for money.”

  “So she saw an easy answer,” Jo continued, “and she tried to take it?”

  “We had to move out. Mum and Dad couldn't look at her. I'll never quite understand how she avoided jail time, but it was her first offense and she cooperated fully with the police, so she ended up with just probation and some community service. I remember her sobbing and sobbing, telling me she was sorry. She tried to run away, but I caught her and told her I still loved her. I told her I'd stand by her, no matter what. We rented a basement room in a new town, and somehow we made it work. We were back to having no money again, but I stood by her because I still loved her. I never stopped. It almost cost me my relationship with my parents, but Alice was my wife and there was nothing I wouldn't do for her. I forgave her. I understood why she'd done it, even if I couldn't condone her actions. And I still trusted her. She was still the same girl I'd loved for so many years already.”

  “And then what happened?” Jo asked.

  She waited, but he seemed unable to say another word.

  “I need to know,” she told him.

  “She was a good person!”

  “You have to tell me what happened next.”

  “She was a really good, wonderful -”

  “I get it,” Jo said, interrupting him. “I still need to know how she ended up in another mess.”