Death At Willows End

by A. B. King

  “Sunshine?” she echoed, pulling a wry face. “More like a 'burst' pipe I think, considering how much water I must have shed in your car.”

  “That was nothing,” I said magnanimously, “it needed a wash anyway.”

  “I just hope it doesn't add to the already significant quota of rust I observed.”

  “I shall ignore that,” I said before adding firmly; “and now it is my turn.”

  “Fair enough,” she agreed, “but you need to bear in mind that anything I tell you prior to the age of fourteen is only what I have picked up from other people?”

  “Naturally.”

  Without further ado she launched herself into a succinct account of her life following the tragedy. There was a long period of convalescence as her burnt back healed, and during this time she applied herself to her studies. In spite of the accident, she had done well at school, and with her father's encouragement had started running a small mail-order business even while she was at university. It was obvious from what she said that she had a natural aptitude for business and following graduation she went into things in a big way, initially under the guidance of her father, but very quickly in her own right. Whether by luck or judgement, everything she became involved in came up smelling of roses, and she had gone from strength to strength. Her business interests were well diversified, and she never speculated unless she was confident of the outcome. Although she never mentioned it, it was obvious throughout her recital that her ruthless attitude towards people and situations had a lot to do with her continuing success. Only much later did I learn that there was another side to her nature, and that she donated large sums as anonymous monetary gifts to people whom she thought merited help. She admitted that she had many admirers, numerous acquaintances, one or two would-be lovers that she had rapidly tired of, yet remarkably few real friends.

  “I hope,” I said as she finished, “that I may class myself as one of those few 'real friends'?”

  “I hope so, too,” she replied, but I couldn't quite tell from the tone of her voice just exactly what she meant by those few words. Still, at least she didn't say 'No way, Ho-say!' or words to that effect!

  At that point a waiter appeared at her elbow. “Excuse me, Miss Fortescue,” he said obsequiously, “your table is ready.”

  “Thank you, George,” she answered, and looked across at me. I swiftly downed the last of my expensive lager and duly followed her into the dining area where 'George' led us to a table set in a discrete alcove. Having assisted us to our chairs he placed menus to hand and vanished.

  Frankly, there was a good deal on that menu I didn't understand, yet not wishing to display more of my ignorance than was necessary I forbore making any enquiries about some of the more obscure dishes. I settled for a prawn cocktail, to be followed by a decent steak and all the trimmings. Danny selected something that sounded like a gastronomic nightmare, and we then put the menus to one side. George re-appeared as if by magic and took the orders, which included a bottle of wine, and then departed as silently as he had arrived. I thought the fellow would make an excellent genie if only I had a spare lamp.

  I have to admit that the meal was a pleasant and enjoyable experience. Danny seemed completely relaxed and at ease, and conversed freely upon a wide range of topics. I gathered from the various bits and pieces she let drop that although she had quite a diversified range of business interests, she believed pretty firmly in the art of delegation. She had managers wholly responsibly for each of her businesses, yet retained ultimate financial control of all of them. She promoted individuals in her organisation on merit, and was equally ruthless in disposing of any that either failed to make the grade, or she suspected of anything less than total devotion to the business. I formed the opinion that she could be a generous employer when it suited her, and a totally ruthless one when she felt it necessary. All of which left me wondering why she bothered with a deadbeat like me?

  Eventually, with the meal complete, and as we settled back with coffee we finally got down to business.

  “Right, so who goes first with a report on the day's activities?” she asked.

  “How about I toss a coin?”

  “That seems reasonable.”

  I fished a ten-pence piece out of my pocket and flipped it.

  “Heads,” she called as it spun in the air.

  “I'm afraid it's tails,” I said as it landed on the table between us. “You lose; off you go!”

  “Very well,” she agreed, not in the least concerned by the result. “You suggested that I go back to Willows End to see what I could discover from local businesses, and to see if I could find any trace of the Venture Scouts, Right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I reached there about mid-morning, and soon discovered that there are not an awful lot of 'local businesses' in the village. There's the pub down by the side of the river, one or two small shops, a rather run down sort of petrol station, and that's about it. I went into the petrol station first and bought a couple of gallons, and chatting to the dozy bit of goods behind the cash desk didn't get me far. She's a local girl, lived in Willows End all her life and possessed of an intelligence quotient that would be an insult to a chimp. She vaguely remembered hearing what had happened, but didn't know any more than what was common local gossip; that somebody had fallen in the river and had been drowned. I soon gave up on her, and after parking the car down by the water I had a walk round the village just to get the feel of the place. It was odd, really, because in a funny sort of way I sort of half remembered it. I even made a bet with myself as I came to the corner of one of the lanes that leads off from the main drag that there was a cottage just round the bend that had a twisted chimney. Sure enough, when I looked, there it was. I was pretty sure even at that stage that I must have gone there during that last camp. Anyway, at the end of my general stroll round, which didn't take long, I found an ancient family-grocer-come-everything-else sort of shop, and there was an old chap in there who proved to be a bit more helpful than the girl in the garage, although anybody could have been more informative than she had been! It seems that it was this shopkeeper's brother that had actually ferried me down from the camp-site to the ambulance on the night.”

  “You didn't tell him who you were, did you?” I asked.

  “No, I copied you, and said that I was doing research for a book. Anyway, I don't think he recognised me, although he did look at me a couple of times as if trying to figure out who I really was. I expect he will work it out sooner or later, but it doesn't matter. Anyway, I asked if his brother was still around, and expressed sympathy when I discovered that he had died a couple of years ago. While I was chatting to him, another man wandered into the shop, and he was obviously the chap who works for that madman you ran into yesterday. He mentioned the three wheel car his employer had seen in the lay-by adding that, as far as he knew, neither the driver nor the car had ever returned to this part of the world. I eventually took my leave and wandered on until I came to the village newsagents, which, next to the pub, seemed to be the most popular spot in the village. The shop is run by a friendly no-nonsense widow called Mrs Jackman. Once I told her that I was a writer doing research for a book Mrs J was only too happy to chat about what happened that night, and I soon realised that she knew more about things than anyone else I had met so far.

  She confirmed that there had been a Venture Scout Camp down by the river, and she also knew the lads whose names you discovered. The afternoon before the storm they had come to village to buy a few things, and they had run into the girls in her shop. She remembered Dian, Julia and myself, and also the fact that Julia kept aloof from the 'chiff-chaff' going on between us youngsters in the shop. Not that she remembered anything specific about the conversation after fourteen years of course, but she recalled that we all stood around talking outside the shop for quite a while, and suspects that maybe one or possibly two 'assignations' were made, which I thought all rather interesting, because it sort of tied in with what you le
arned yesterday.

  Anyway, I eventually dragged myself away from the loquacious Mrs Jackman, and it being lunchtime I took myself off to the pub. I can vouch for the fact that it is quite a nice little riverside venue, with tables and chairs set outside right up to the water's edge. I imagine that it does quite a good trade with passing river traffic at times. Anyway, I had quite an interesting chat with the landlord there. He told me that he had been running that pub for the last twenty five years, seen all manner of interesting sights, and even volunteered to show me a few 'beauty spots' that are never visited by tourists. It is amazing what you can worm out of a man when you flutter the odd eyelash, or cross your legs a little indiscreetly on a bar stool.”

  “Never seems to work for me,” I muttered sadly.

  “I should hope not! Now, where was I?”

  “Worming a landlord?” I ventured.

  “Oh yes, well, it seems that he also knew the four scouts that were camping there that weekend. Turns out they were all local people. I told him the same yarn as I told Mrs Jackman; that I was researching a book and would like to speak to them. It seems that Ralph Binning, the youngest of the four was killed last year in a motor cycle accident, Mark Shepherd has married and moved somewhere in London, but I expect he could be tracked down if necessary. Tony Richmond has rather fallen by the wayside; he's currently serving time in Ford Open Prison in Sussex. However, it transpired that Andrew Parsons, the oldest of the campers, and the Troop Leader, or whatever they called them in the Venture Scouts at that period, was still living and working in the village as a free-lance illustrator.

  During the course of our conversation I asked him if any of these lads had owned a Reagan three wheeler at the time but drew a blank, although he admitted that he had seen one in the pub car-park earlier on the evening of the storm. Naturally I wanted to know if he could tell me anything about the driver, but of course, after fourteen years, there was no chance of that. The Landlord was quite happy to give me Andrew Parson's address, and I was saved the task of tactfully refusing his offer of being guided to the place by the timely appearance of his wife who suggested in quite forceful tones that his presence was urgently required in the cellar.

  Needless to say, after I eventually left the pub I went and sought out Andrew Parsons in his retreat just outside the village proper. He lives in a quaint olde-worlde cottage with a thatched roof and a garden that is simply a wild profusion of blossom of every sort and description, rejoicing in the name of 'Chestnut Cottage' although there was no sign of any chestnut trees in the area that I could see. He was sitting out in this garden when I arrived, and I admit that it gave me a bit of a funny feeling to know that within moments I would be talking to someone who probably had met me on the eve of that storm. I was able to see him quite well before he became aware of my presence, and in a funny sort of way I half recognised him. He's a man of about thirty two or three, burned brown by the sun, with long black hair and a rather sensual sort of face, vaguely 'latinesque' in appearance I suppose, with dark brown eyes and rather high cheek bones. It looked as if he was studying some sort of portfolio. He glanced up as I opened his gate and stepped into the garden.

  “Mr Parsons?” I asked, “Good afternoon, I'm Miss Fortescue.”

  “Hi,” he said as if it was an everyday occurrence for strange young woman to come ambling though his garden gate in that out of the way spot. “I wondered when you might show up. Come in and take a seat.”

  “You were expecting me?” I queried, slightly taken back by his greeting.

  “You've been asking questions all round the village; I guessed you would find your way here sooner or later.”

  “Oh, 'Village Grapevine', I suppose?” I remarked.

  “Yep; works pretty well in these parts.”

  I took the seat that he had indicated, and saw that he was indeed studying a portfolio of pictures. I'm no artist, but they all looked quite good to me. He put them to one side as I sat down, and he looked at me as if weighing me up as a person. I found that mildly disconcerting; men usually look at me with a view to the main chance, but there was no suggestion of that with him. I knew without even thinking about it that fluttering eyelashes, etc., wouldn't cut very much ice.

  “You're Danny, aren't you?” he said, rather than asked.

  “Yes, that's me,” I admitted. “How did you know that?”

  “When I heard that there was someone in the village asking questions about the time that young girl was killed it set me thinking. I heard years ago that the survivor they carted off to hospital had suffered amnesia, and I often thought that something would bring her back here one day in an effort to remember what happened. Looks like I was right. Now that I've seen you, I do recognize you, even though fourteen years has seen you grow up, but your face hasn't changed that much. Yes, I think I would have known you even if I had met you by accident.”

  “Full marks for observation,” I said, “You are right on all counts. I still don't actually remember a thing prior to the accident, and I'm hoping that someone might just be able to jog that memory back for me. What I've learned so far is that you and three other scouts were camping on the other side of the river, and that we all congregated at Jackman's News agency before the storm. Mrs Jackman seems to think that maybe one or more of us may have made arrangements to meet up again later, or perhaps on the following day. Well, if you were there, perhaps you can tell me?”

  He folded up the folio of pictures and put them carefully to one side before turning to look at me with that mildly disconcerting non-sexual appraisal I had already noticed he was capable of.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked me. “Wouldn't you rather let the past lie?”

  There was something in his expression that suggested that maybe letting the past lie dormant be might be a good idea, but that only served to make me that much more determined to get to the bottom of things, and I told him so. Naturally I didn't mention my suspicions about what may have happened, any more than I let on that you had already been making enquiries. “I'm sure,” I said to him.

  “Well, upon you own head be it,” he responded. “I'll tell you what I know, although whether it will help you is another matter altogether. So, where shall I start?”

  “At the camp?” I suggested.

  “Ah, yes; the camp. Well, along with Mark, Ralph and Tony, I had been in the scouting movement since early school days, and eventually I'd moved up into the Venture Scouts, and the others soon followed. We were all due to go off on a week's camp in the Cairngorms within a fortnight, and it was decided to do a quick weekend camp locally as a sort of shakedown exercise. It was supposed to give us a chance to check all our kit, discuss projects and the like, but mainly I suppose just to get away from routine for a day or so. We had no idea that three girls were going to be camping on the other side of the river until we came back into the village to pick up a few odds and ends. We ran into them at Jackman's, and naturally there was a bit of banter and leg-pulling when we all met up, particularly once we realised that the girls were camping so close to where we were. As it happens I already knew Julia slightly, but didn't particularly like her. We had attended the same college for a while, but I can't say that we ever, shall we say, socialised. You and your sister were quite different, and as I recall, you both lied very convincingly about your age. Came as a bit of a shock later to find that the pair of you were only fourteen at the time, and not a good two years older as you claimed! The fact that you were identical twins was naturally a source of intrigue amongst us lads as we all tried to figure out which one was who out of you two, and human nature being what it is, it was inevitable that the lads would try to date the pair of you.

  This had to be done out of Julia's hearing of course, she effected to take her responsibilities as leader more seriously than I did, and would certainly have blocked any such assignations had she got wind of them. Eventually Mark and Ralph made arrangements to meet up later with you and your sister, Tony of course already
had a steady girlfriend, and largely kept out of it, and me, well, I suppose I took my responsibilities almost as seriously as Julia, and kept out of it by trying to keep her occupied.”

  “You say you didn't really like her,” I commented. “Any particular reason why?”

  “Well, I don't know if you are still friends with her but frankly, I thought she was weird.”

  “Oh, in what way?”

  “She was always a bit of a loner, very 'churchified', never allowing herself to be involved in anything that was in the least, shall we say, risqué. You couldn't pull her leg like you could most girls, and anything even vaguely suggestive seemed to turn her into a block of ice.”

  “I don't see how that qualifies her as being weird?”

  “Maybe not,” he said seriously, watching me through half closed eyes, “but do you really want to know all this?”

  “I'm a big girl now,” I assured him, “I can take it.”

  “Well, as I said just now; on your head be it. The truth is I happened to know that the piousness and aura of respectability she always tried to display to everyone was a complete façade; she was a closet masochist.”