by Holly Bell
Thomas Begins to Remember
Being the person who finds the body never looks good. That thought darted into Amanda’s mind.
The security guard on reception had seen her come in. Even told her that the doctor was expecting her. He would suppose she was meeting him right now. If Amanda delayed too long, then later the police would ask questions about why it took her so much time to raise the alarm.
She glanced around. It looked like an accident. But what if it wasn’t?
***
Detective Inspector Thomas Trelawney slept well. Usually. One of the first lessons his mentor Chief Inspector Michael Hogarth had taught him was to leave work at the station door, and he had taken it, as he had everything Hogarth taught him, to heart.
Hogarth had been more than his boss, he had been his guide, counsellor, and, to some extent his confidant. Over the 14 years that they had worked together, they had become friends. Now that his chief had retired, the latter relationship was coming to the fore.
Hogarth’s cottage was in the village of Mornan Bay, only four miles from the police station at the small coastal town of Parhayle. Thomas picked up a take-away dinner for them at least once a week, and so it was not difficult for Mike to note a change in his protégé, however subtle.
Thomas looked tired.
It has started the weekend he’d dropped in to see Amanda Cadabra at Sunken Madley Manor where she was working. Or was it the Monday after? Hogarth regarded him speculatively. He took an intuitive guess. If he was right, then something he’d been waiting for had begun.
‘How are things?’ he enquired, as they sat down with trays on their laps, unwrapping their repasts.
‘Yours should be the adana kofte,’ said Thomas, as Mike unwound the white paper from his dinner. Thomas had dropped in at their favourite kebab shop on the way. His was chicken shish with chilli sauce. They opened their cartons of rice and salad.
‘Yup. Thanks, Thomas.’
They ate in silence for a few moments before Hogarth asked about the station news.
‘Oh, quiet days with paperwork, interspersed with a flood of activity,’ Thomas replied.
‘Constable Nancarrow getting over her crush on you yet?’
Thomas blushed but grinned. ‘I’m rather hoping she’ll transfer her affections to the new detective sergeant.’
‘Oh yes, I heard. No new chief inspector for you. You’re going to carry the can with the aid of the constables and detective sergeant.’
‘The word is that the station is too small, and there’s too little crime to justify the pay grade of your replacement,’ said Thomas.
‘So you’ll be the Man in Charge. Well, you’re certainly up to the job.’
‘Thank you, Mike. If I am, it’s down to you teaching me the ropes for the last 15 years at least.’
‘I had the aptest of pupils, Sherlock.’
They finished their food and sat with mugs of tea. Thomas looked meditatively into the small fire. Mike’s voice interrupted his musings.
‘Mind if I make an observation?’
‘Go ahead,’ responded Thomas curiously.
‘The detective habit is hard to break,’ Hogarth said whimsically.
Thomas looked a question.
‘You look tired.’
‘Oh well … work ….’
‘You have the tired look of the sleepless.’
Thomas knew that it would be a relief to tell Hogarth. ‘Nothing escapes you, does it?’
‘Start at the beginning,’ Hogarth invited him.
Thomas took a deep breath and began. ‘Ever since the appointment with Amanda Cadabra when I told her about the report, I’ve had mornings where I’ve woken up unsettled, and then, this past week, I’ve had a couple of disturbing dreams. Except they’re more than the fabrications of a mind sorting the wheat from the chaff.’
‘What about?’
‘Well … I’m in a house. Except it’s more like a mansion. It’s big and old, big rooms, a wooden floor. My feet make a noise when I walk. And yet, I’m closer to the ground, child-height. There’s a smell. That smell. My father’s there and some other people. Men, in suits, black suits. And a woman, a grand old woman. They keep asking my father about me. He’s afraid. I’m not sure if it’s for me or for himself. They keep asking him about me. “Can he ….?” But I can’t hear what they’re asking. And there’s a name …’
‘A name?’
‘Yes. It sounds like a spring, bouncing or a coil. If only I could remember and yet … and yet I don’t want to ... and yet I feel I must … oh, it makes no sense.’ He raked his hands through his short dark blond hair. He put aside his tray, got up abruptly and went to the window. ‘I was fine before …’
Hogarth could see Thomas was uncharacteristically irritated. He finished the sentence for his younger friend, ‘Before Miss Cadabra cut up your peace?’
‘Yes!'
‘I can assure you on one point. It has never been intentional on her part to disturb it.’ He paused. ‘Would you say these are dreams or surfacing memories?’
‘I have few memories from before I was 10 years old. That’s always worked perfectly well for me … and now .…’
‘What do you think it is that you’re remembering?’ Hogarth prompted gently.
‘It’s them, isn’t? My father’s lot. That’s the family pile I was in. The ancestral hall of the …. the what? My father is a Trelawney but his mother … the name .…’ He came back to his seat. ‘You know, don’t you?’
‘It’s surfacing in your memory,’ replied Hogarth, noncommittally.
‘Why now?’
‘It’s time, and you’re ready.’
‘What has all of this got to do with the Cadabras?’ asked Thomas.
‘If I’m not mistaken, Amanda Cadabra too is beginning to remember. You have to get there by yourself and so does she. But I will say only this: the keys to this case, this 28-year-old case of the death of Amanda’s family, what sent them over a cliff to a crash that wasn’t the cause of death, and much more besides, lie in your memory and in hers. But neither of you must force it.’
‘Why not? What about, oh, hypnosis or regression or something?’
‘Because you do not take a crowbar to Pandora’s Box, my lad. Now don’t worry. Now you’ve put it into words, you’ll most likely find that it doesn’t trouble you for a while. Let it come as and when it’s ready. Remember, it’s in the past, and the past can’t harm you unless you let it. You’re not that little boy any more.’
At least, thought Hogarth, for the most part. The best of that eager, bright child was still there. But there was more than enough grown man to protect him.
‘You’re not surprised are you, Mike?’
‘No,’ admitted Hogarth.
‘In fact, something tells me that you’ve been waiting for this.’
‘Very shrewd, Thomas. You never disappoint me, lad.’
‘Are you going to tell me how long you’ve been waiting?’
Hogarth grunted. ‘You’ve got me there.’ How much to say? he asked himself.
‘Everything is happening at the right time. I have faith in you. And in Amanda too, as a matter of fact.’ He waited. ‘Do you want to talk about it further?’
‘No, no, I don’t think I need to,' Thomas responded after a moment's thought. 'I suppose you’re saying that there are some things I need to remember, and I will, all in good time, and the process needn’t be traumatic,’ he concluded optimistically, already reviving and looking more rested.
And yet, thought Hogarth, it is not going to be easy … But his feet are on the path now … and there is no turning back.
‘I’ll get us some more tea,’ said Thomas cheerfully. He took the mugs out to the kitchen.
Hogarth sat and looked into the fire. The thin branches and a low flickering flame was just for decoration and comfort. It was a bright evening outside, sunny yet with dense, tense air. A summer storm
was gathering.
Chapter 8
The Profiteer
Amanda had stayed away for the rest of the pegging out. The strange man visited her mind every so often. But she had work to do.
The church lych gate had suffered from the impact of Iskender Demir’s van when its driver was preoccupied with the theft of food from his kebab shop. Jane, the rector, didn’t want to involve the insurance companies and put his premium up, so the three of them were working out it between them.
Iskender covered most of the cost, Jane insisted on being allowed to chip in, and Amanda said she already had just the right pieces of wood and materials, and would donate her time. All she needed was Iskender to lend his strong arms to lifting the gate off and later back onto the hinges, and to deliver it to her and collect it in his van.
Amanda replaced the broken spars and repaired the carving. She gave the gate a long overdue clean and several coats of wax. With Iskender’s might and Amanda’s guidance, it was now back in place.
‘Thank you, ladies; you have both been very kind. I am sorry again, Jane.’
‘These things happen, Iskender. Now don’t you give it another thought. The thefts have stopped, and that’s what counts.’
‘Come and collect some dinner from the restaurant, on the house.’
‘Thank you, Iskender.’
‘You too, Amanda.’
‘Thank you, I will.’
‘See you both soon.’
They waved as he crossed the road back to the restaurant.
‘You know,’ said Jane, ‘Nalini Sharma had some things go missing from the corner shop. But that’s stopped too.’
Amanda could have taken credit for the cessation of the pilfering, but that was a private matter between her and the affair of Sunken Madley Manor.
‘Hm,’ she replied.
‘Well, thank you, dear. The gate was more than ready for a facelift. Should be good for at least a decade or two. Heaven knows the last time it had any attention. Probably not since the time of —’
‘Churchill! Heel!’ The imperative addressed to her meandering terrier heralded the arrival of the indefatigable Miss de Havillande of The Grange, Sunken Madley’s oldest and most distinguished resident.
‘Jaaaane! Amandaaaaa!’
‘Miss de Havillande,’ responded Amanda.
‘How are you, Cynthia?’ asked the rector, kindly.
‘Never mind that. This is clearly the hand of Providence that I should find the two of you here.’
The rector braced herself for an inevitable complaint.
‘Jane. As carer of the souls of this parish, whether on two or four feet, there is a Matter that I must bring to your attention!’
The rector exuded an appropriate air of seriousness, and Miss de Havillande continued,
‘Amanda, this concerns you. I have observed, and have witness testimony, that any establishment that services Your Cat with treats is completely free of rodents, foxes or any form of unwelcome incursion.’
Amanda was about to say that that seemed fair but thought better of it.
‘On the other hand,’ Miss de Havillande continued inexorably, ‘any place that refuses his demands is over-run, infested, and their gardens used as little short of a latrine.’
‘Oh dear,’ began Amanda, but Miss de Havillande cut her short.
‘In summary, it is clear to me that Don Tempestioni is running a protection rrrracket!’
Amanda and Jane folded their lips and struggled to maintain a serious expression. Jane outdid herself, nodding gravely and declaring,
‘That would indeed be a reprehensible offence, Cynthia.’
‘I will speak to him,’ offered Amanda. Though she was well aware that she could no more prevent Tempest from doing anything than part the waters of Sunken Madley Pond.
‘I hope you will do so, Amanda. And don’t tell me that he is only one of the Lower Creatures and would not understand. I don’t believe that for an instant. Jane, I hope that you too will address him on this matter.’
‘Of course, Cynthia, I will do so. He is a not infrequent visitor to St Ursula. In fact, about that, Amanda — not that I want to pour oil on the fire — but do you think you could ask him not to drink out of the font before a christening? It was very embarrassing on Sunday. The couple walked in and saw him lapping away, and I had to empty it and refill it. I thought they’d cancel!’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Amanda apologetically. ‘It’s just that being ... er ... blessed, he considers it a better grade of water and therefore … er, worthy — I mean … yes, he has a somewhat overdeveloped sense of entitlement perhaps —’
‘Yes,’ intervened Miss de Havillande judicially, ‘well, enough said on that score. I shall leave it with both of you. Meanwhile. I have some work for you, Amanda, dear. Some bits and pieces. They’re breaking ground tomorrow. It’s considered something of an occasion. Shall we meet there and you can come back to The Grange. How would that be?’
Amanda wavered. She did have a queue of jobs from other customers.
Abruptly, Granny and Grandpa appeared, flanking Miss de Havillande. Amanda tried not to look at them, but, instead, up to the right as though thinking.
‘The other jobs can wait, love,’ said Grandpa.
‘Nothing that can’t be postponed for dear Miss de Havillande,’ added Granny.
Amanda inhaled, looked back at the illustrious owner of The Grange, smiled and spoke.
‘Of course, Miss de Havillande.’
‘That’s right,’ said Grandpa and disappeared.
‘Quite right, dear,’ said Granny, and vanished.
Chapter 9
Breaking Ground, and The Portrait
The site was now marked out. It was to be a long building, constructed partly over Lost Madley, with the central mass extending forward, beyond the trees and into the neighbouring wood-enclosed pasture.
The builders had removed the silver birches within the perimeter, but these had grown to no more than sapling height, were leaveless and came out as easily as spring onions.
The portable office and lavatories had been delivered and were in place. The diggers had been unloaded and were ready to scoop out the trenches for the footings. Damian had arrived in his red Jaguar, cast off his leather jacket and was leaning on a spade, waiting for The Moment.
A vehicle was heard coming up the track. A silver Volkswagen Touran hove into view. A man in jeans and black leather jacket, got out. He was about Damian’s age with at least an extra four inches to his height, but carrying more weight. His hair was dark brown and straight. Arching brows and a long chin did not distract from the careworn expression of a man with an ambitious spouse, three demanding teenage children, an unnecessarily large mortgage and overextended credit.
Robin smiled at his friend. ‘The big day.’ He looked around at the villagers who were watching with interest. ‘Very well done, Damian, creating such goodwill. You have a real gift for it.’
‘Thanks. But we wouldn’t be here today without your organisational skills.’
‘We make a good team,’ said Robin. ‘Well, go on, man,’ he added, clapping his friend on the back. ‘Make the break.’
Robin held up his phone, camera video button ready, as Damian went to the trench-to-be and checked with the supervisor that he was correctly positioned. The blade of the spade slid into the clay, and gathered a load that was tossed aside, to applause from the crew and audience.
Amanda scanned to see who was present. And there he was again. Standing nearer to the builders than the villagers. The man in the jacket and strange trousers. Again he met her eyes. Amanda had made up her mind to approach him. She took a step …
‘Amandaaaa! Over here, dear.’ Miss de Havillande was beckoning with a raised gloved hand and a ringing call.
Compliantly, Amanda crossed the mulchy ground to Miss de Havillande’s side. The elderly lady looked at her face with concern.
�
�Are you all right, my dear? You’re looking a little pale.’
‘I am well, thank you, Miss de Havillande.’
‘Not overworking are you, dear?’
‘No, the work is coming in steadily. It’s just that I haven’t been sleeping as well as usual.’
‘Valerian. That’s the thing for sleep. I have some in the garden. We’ll pick some together. Shall we go?’
‘Yes, yes, of course, Miss de Havillande.’
Amanda took a quick look back as they moved off. But again, the man was nowhere to be seen.
‘The dining room table is in desperate need of attention. Some of my parties do get a little lively, and the furniture is not always given its due consideration.’
Miss de Havillande and Miss Armstrong-Witworth’s parties were legendary. They were held at Christmas and sometimes Easter and Halloween too. The ladies were fond of fancy dress, dancing, and Venetian balls, so the occasions were little short of spectacular.
The magnificent chandelier would be taken down and cleaned. Amanda was repairing the links in one of the lesser ones, the day that Trelawney had made one of his irritatingly impromptu visits.
Miss de Havillande graciously accepted a lift from Amanda, and they had turned toward the car when they were hailed.
“Miss de Havillande?’
They turned to see Damian Gibbs striding towards them.
‘Mr Gibbs,’ Miss de Havillande greeted him graciously. ‘Congratulations on breaking ground.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said with a slight bow.
She acknowledged his salute and said, ‘May I present my dear friend, Amanda Cadabra.’
Abruptly, he straightened up, stuck for an appropriate response. This was a common reaction to her name.
‘How do you do, Mr Gibbs,’ said Amanda, to break the pause, extending her hand in a friendly manner.
‘Hello, Amanda. Damian,’ he responded lamely, shaking it.
‘Amanda,’ Miss de Havillande continued, ‘is our resident furniture restorer and an excellent carpenter. I know that you have your own crew, but if you need any fine work attended to then may I suggest that you call upon Amanda’s expertise.’
