Simon must have put that piece of paper in her pocket, not long before he went missing. She wore that jacket all the time and would have found it before. Her forehead furrowed. He put a scrap of paper, with come to good written on it, into her pocket. Three months pass without a word. Today, she sees a dead body just a short distance from their house. Almost in her back garden, for pity’s sake. And, then the gardaí come and ask her about those very same three words.
For a long time, she sat there trying to think straight. Nothing made sense anymore and she rubbed her eyes wearily. She pulled her hand away, her eyes opening wide, her mouth an O of surprise as, suddenly, from some deep recess of her mind, an idea came thundering. She ran up to the attic room they had set up as an office and switched on the computer, waiting impatiently as it warmed up, her heart thumping noisily in the quiet. It seemed like hours, but minutes later she had googled come to good and when it came up, she felt her heart skip a beat.
How could she have forgotten? Cornwall. Their first romantic weekend away together. They had gone over on the ferry from Rosslare and had driven to Falmouth. It had rained all weekend, torrential rain that prevented even the most resilient of walkers from venturing out, and Edel and Simon had only ever been fair-weather walkers. They had driven around instead, admiring the scenery despite the rain, promising to come back again, someday in the future when the sun shone. Driving without plan, they had followed roads as the fancy took them, and had come upon a lovely old thatched inn where they had stopped for lunch.
There was a big fire burning brightly and they had sat a long time, just chatting about nothing, enjoying each other’s company. She’d drunk a bottle of very good merlot, while he’d played with a pint of beer. Tempted by the menu, they’d eaten a delightful meal sitting in front of the fire as rain pitter-pattered against the windows. The inn had guest rooms; it all came rushing back to her, they had been tempted to stay, checking in as Mr and Mrs Smith just for a laugh. But they hadn’t stayed. They had driven away in the dusk, rain still tumbling, and had stopped to look back at the glow of light from the mullioned windows, promising to return and stay someday. On their way out of the village, they stopped when they saw the reverse of a name sign and Simon had pulled the car over so they could read it without getting wet. It was called Come-to-Good.
They had laughed about the name the rest of the weekend, devising more and more ridiculous uses for it. He would pull her into his arms in the early morning, and whisper, come to good. Despite the rain, the weekend had been the most romantic she had ever had and, only a week later, she had agreed to marry him. In all the excitement of the wedding, the honeymoon in a castle in Cork, and the move to their wonderful house in Foxrock, the memories of the small village of Come-to-Good had faded, buried in so many pleasant times, in wonderful weekends away in a succession of gorgeous hotels in beautiful places.
Smoothing the scrap of paper absent-mindedly, she snapped her thoughts back to the present and wondered what to do. Three months, three months of futile sitting and waiting for an answer. Walking back to her bedroom, she went to the window and looked out. The road outside was chaotic with garda cars and a white transit van, parked every which way. At the church gate, which she could just see, two gardaí were keeping churchgoers and curious children at bay. The box grave with its sad attendant wasn’t visible, hidden as it was by the trees that surrounded her house and the laurel trees that encircled the graveyard.
Looking at the scrap of paper again, she realised, this time, that Simon had forgotten the hyphens between the words, come to good, instead of Come-To-Good. Probably why she hadn’t recognised it immediately. She stood a moment, wondering why he would have put it in her pocket. Was he thinking of that wonderful romantic weekend in Cornwall? She remembered the promise they had made at the time to return and stay at that lovely inn.
Like a blow, the idea struck her and she looked at the piece of paper in horror. He had put the piece of paper in her pocket and disappeared. ‘Oh my God,’ she gasped, the knowledge coming with fully formed clarity, she was supposed to have followed. She didn’t stop to think again or question it. She knew she was right. For some reason, Simon had had to leave; he had left her his address and she had stupidly ignored it.
She had a quick but refreshing shower, scrubbing away the weeks of inactivity and hopelessness along with days of grime and grease. Tying her long, wet hair back, she fished some clean clothes from the pile on the floor, pulling them on and throwing some more into a holdall. She picked up a small handbag, shoved her car keys and mobile phone inside and ran down the stairs. There, with a growl of annoyance, she dropped her bags, turned and ran back to the attic office.
She switched on her laptop, restlessly hopping from foot to foot as it powered up. Sitting, she quickly typed in Irish Ferries, and was speedily brought to their website. There was a ferry at nine-fifteen that night from Rosslare. She had loads of time; it was only… she glanced at the time on the screen… one o’clock. Was that all? So much had happened that morning she had assumed it was much, much later.
It would only take two, maybe two and a half hours to get to Rosslare. She had plenty of time to catch the ferry. She checked the arrival time. Just after midnight. How long had it taken them to drive to Falmouth when they had gone? She couldn’t remember. They had taken an early ferry and stopped for lunch on the way.
Closing the website, she typed in Google maps. Minutes later she had the information she needed. It would take her over five hours to drive to Falmouth. Adrenaline flowed through her, that wouldn’t be a problem. She’d doze on the ferry and be fine. Anyway, she could sleep when she got there. Her eyes sparkled. This time tomorrow, she could be with Simon.
She didn’t know how long she sat there thinking of what she would say, and what he would say, and all the ramifications of each. Finally, she blinked, shook her head with a smile and turned off her laptop. No point in hanging around, she may as well head to Rosslare now.
In the kitchen, she stopped for a drink of water, looking around the room as she drank, taking in the disorder. How Simon would laugh when he saw it. They’d tidy it together. When they came home. When Simon came home.
Leaving the mug on the dirty countertop, she turned to go. She had dropped her bag onto the cluttered table. As she grabbed hold, it sent a card that had become stuck to it spinning to the ground. Edel paused, bent and picked it up. It was one of the cards the sergeant had given her, his name and contact numbers written in plain, black typeface on a sharp white background. There was something about the starkness of it, the lack of embellishment and honest simplicity, that caught her eye and brought her back to reality with a crash.
It wasn’t a romantic gesture on Simon’s part that had taken him away. It certainly wasn’t a romantic gesture to leave a note where she may or may not have found it. There was nothing remotely romantic about finding a dead body. And why on earth had that garda mentioned Come-to-Good? She closed her eyes as hot tears seared and fell. Was she doing the right thing?
Looking at the card clenched in her fingers, for half a second she debated ringing the number. Then Simon’s face flashed before her and she knew she would do anything… anything… to have him back. She tore the card in two and, with a half-hearted flourish, threw it on the floor. It was a childish act, raising a smile that quickly faded. She bent, picked the two halves up and dropped them into her handbag.
At the front door, she remembered with a grimace that the garda’s car had been parked outside. She closed her eyes on the dart of irritation and took a deep breath before sneaking a look from the side window. There was a sigh of relief when she saw the driveway empty.
With the front door locked behind her, she hurried to her car, afraid any moment a garda would stop her and ask where she was going. Pulling out of her drive, forcing herself to take it slowly, she glanced in her rear-view mirror and saw nobody running after her or jumping into cars to give chase. She laughed for the first time in a very long time. Perha
ps, she read too many detective novels. Pulling out onto the main road, she relaxed and was soon making good progress on the road to Rosslare.
The journey was uneventful and she arrived far too early at the ferry terminal. Faced with a choice of tickets to buy, she decided on an open return, not knowing what she was going to discover when she arrived in Come-to-Good or when she would be returning. She sat in her car with a takeaway coffee and watched as other vehicles arrived; articulated lorries, camper vans and caravans and an assortment of cars. The big ferry arrived and disgorged its cargo, a similar assortment of vehicles to those that were waiting to board, all eager to get going to their final destination, an air of excitement about everything.
Was she excited or scared? She was afraid to think too much. Just as long as she got Simon back.
She dozed for a moment, woken abruptly with a moment’s panic when someone knocked on her window. A ferry official knocked again, louder, waving her onward with an impatient hand. Embarrassed, she started her engine and followed the signs to park her car in the belly of the ferry.
Prevented from staying in the car by the rules and regulations of ferry travel, she made her way to one of the lounges, found herself a marginally comfortable seat and tried to get some sleep. She didn’t think she would, so was stunned when woken almost four hours later by the loud chatter of a group of young men who were making their way down to the car-deck.
She was briefly disorientated and felt a little nauseous. Standing, she swayed a little and then realised, with a nervous giggle that it was the ferry moving and not her. She gathered her bag, holdall and jacket and followed the line of people descending to the car-decks. Soon she was sitting back in her car, engine running, excitement mounting.
She followed the instructions to disembark and the well-signposted directions to exit Pembroke. A few miles later, she saw a sign for a service station. With an assessing glance at the petrol gauge, she indicated and took the turn. As she filled up with petrol, she caught the smell of bacon drifting from a small restaurant next door. Saliva flooded her mouth in response and she realised she was hungry, a feeling she hadn’t had in a while. She found a parking space and went inside. There was only one other occupant, a dishevelled man slumped over his plate who shot her a speculative glance as he shovelled food into his mouth.
Ignoring him, she ordered breakfast from the surprisingly extensive menu. She chose a table on the other side of the restaurant next to a window that looked out over the brightly lit car park, wishing that her life was as bright, instead of filled with shades and shadows. With a toss of her head, she concentrated on the breakfast. It was good; runny eggs and crispy bacon. She finished off with some freshly-made toast and decent coffee and left the restaurant feeling better than she had in weeks.
Ferry traffic had dispersed and the roads were quiet. She checked her map, relieved to see the journey looked fairly straightforward. Soon, she was seeing signs for Swansea and Cardiff, and, almost before she knew it, was crossing the Severn Bridge from Wales to England. Darkness soon gave way to the magic half-light of early morning when the world seemed new, and as she drove, she watched it appear and take form, almost mysteriously materialising.
As Simon would.
Traffic picked up as she drove from the M4 to the M5 but it was too early in the year for the heavy tourist traffic that made driving to, and around, the south of England such a nightmare and there was only light traffic most of the way. Four hours later, she was on the A39. She pulled over to the side of the road and took out her phone. She had planned to drive into Falmouth and get directions to Come-to-Good from there but using Google maps, she guessed she’d be able to find it without going out of her way. It took a while and she’d almost given up, when she saw the right road; with a grin of satisfaction, she started on the last leg of her journey.
The inn in Come-to-Good had looked lovely when Edel had seen it in the rain but in the glow of the early morning sunlight it was stunning, the sun catching the mullioned windows and turning each into a cascade of reflections. She stopped outside it a moment, staring in admiration before continuing on to the car park. Climbing out, she held her arms above her head and stretched, stiff after the long drive, and then reached in and retrieved her belongings.
The door to the inn was solid oak, which if not original, was indisputably very old. It was worn smooth in parts from many hands opening and closing it over the years. Like many before, she ran her hands over the glossed areas, appreciating the patina of the rich wood. It opened with a soft, ancient creak and she stepped into the inn and, for a moment, back in time, remembering the last visit far too clearly.
A cheery hello from behind the bar brought her out of what could have become a painful reverie and she stepped further into the room. She recognised the tall, heavily-built man immediately and returned his greeting with a smile.
‘What can I do for you, love?’ the landlord asked, his hands resting on the polished brass pumps.
Give me some answers. ‘I know it’s very early but do you have a room for tonight?’
The landlord looked at her, unsmiling, then shrugged. ‘You’re in luck. We had a room ready for a couple who rang at the last minute yesterday to cancel, so I can let you have that.’ He turned to take a ledger from under the counter. ‘Is it just yourself?’ he questioned, looking down as he flicked the pages.
He looked up at the continued silence and repeated the question.
‘Yes. Just me,’ Edel said, swallowing the lump in her throat.
The landlord turned the ledger toward her, and indicated for her to sign. To her irritation, it was the start of a new page and she couldn’t think of any reason quickly enough, to turn the pages back. Putting the ledger beneath the bar, the landlord pulled out a set of keys and, working one off, handed it to her.
‘Room eight, top of the stairs, turn right and it’s the last door on the left,’ he said, indicating the stairway in the corner of the room. ‘Breakfast is between seven and nine,’ he continued. ‘And we serve evening meals here in the bar from six.’ He looked at her shrewdly, seeing her pale face. ‘I can give you breakfast now, if you’d like, miss.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I had breakfast a while ago. I could do with some sleep though.’
‘We do a good lunch, if you want it, later on.’
She checked the time on a big clock behind the bar and was stunned to see it was nearly ten o’clock. ‘Is that time correct?’ she asked in disbelief. ‘I expected to be here around seven.’
‘Never loses a minute, that clock,’ the landlord replied with pride. ‘Been there since I was a boy. Never stops, never goes slow.’ He spoke with an accent that suggested Cornish roots and she smiled. Taking the proffered key, she picked up her bag and followed his directions.
She found her room easily and was pleasantly surprised to discover it was spacious and beautifully furnished. It was a corner room with mullioned windows looking onto the front of the inn and over a beautiful garden to the side. She spent several minutes trying to open the window to get a better view, the old latch finally giving way with a noisy groan. The double window opened wide and, leaning out, she took a deep breath as she caught the scent of magnolia from a huge tree nearby. ‘Wow,’ she said, seeing the extent of the garden and making a mental note to explore it before she left.
Closing the window slightly, she turned to examine the rest of the room. The bathroom was small, but clever use of space allowed both a full-size bath and separate shower. A wall unit held a pile of white towels and a small basket beside the wash-hand basin held a collection of toiletries.
She unpacked her few clothes, hanging a clean shirt in the antique wardrobe in the hopes the creases might fall out by morning and put her underwear into a drawer scented with a bunch of dried lavender. Closing the curtains, she undressed and climbed naked under the duvet. She had a moment to realise how very comfortable the bed was before she fell into a deep sleep that took her from early morning to late a
fternoon.
She woke confused. Where was she? The scent of lavender drifted from the open drawer and memories came flooding back. Reaching for her mobile, she checked the time. Five! Goodness, she’d slept for hours. She stretched and then lay daydreaming for a long time, playing and replaying various scenarios in her head. It was impossible to know what was going to happen, but at least she was doing something. And she knew, she just knew she was going to see Simon again.
Glancing at the time, she saw she had nearly an hour to pass before food was available so, jumping out of bed, she headed for the shower. She chose some of the toiletries to take in with her; a shower gel, shampoo and conditioner, all with the delightful name of Soft Old Rose. She hadn’t bothered with conditioner when she had washed her hair earlier and she was conscious that it stood up like a badly-stacked haycock. This time, she smoothed conditioner through and left it to soak in while the hot water beat down on her shoulders, massaging away the aches, pains and stress of weeks.
Securing a dry towel around her, she used a hairdryer to dry her hair and, looking in the mirror a short while later, she was pleased to see a vast improvement. She sighed at her reflection, noticing for the first time how pale she was and how thin she had become. The stress of the last few months had taken its toll; it would take more than one good sleep to recover.
Her relative lack of wardrobe didn’t give her much leeway to change so she pulled on the same jeans and T-shirt she had worn earlier and looked at herself in the mirror critically. The conditioner had done its job and her hair shone. Searching in her handbag she found a lipstick, applied it and wished she had brought some mascara. Finally, she was ready; she grabbed her handbag and went down to the bar.
No Simple Death (2019 Edition) Page 4
