Best to change the subject. He looked round the pub. “You know, I still feel as though I’m doing something forbidden when I come into The Horse. My grandmother forbade me to go anywhere near it.”
Edith chuckled. “Quite right, she didn’t approve of the demon drink. She was a pillar of the church, your gran, kept everyone in line, including the vicar. Your grandpa used to sneak in here through the back door in case she saw him.”
Alfie gave a delighted laugh. “I never knew that. He was great. I loved coming here in the school holidays while Mum was working.”
“It was terrible, what happened to your grandparents,” said Edith. “That young tearaway, Charlie Tennison.”
Alfie felt the familiar surge of rage at hearing Tennison’s name. “That was the end of my coming to Bunburry. I didn’t know properly what happened – Mum just told me there had been a car crash. I only found out recently from Liz and Marge about the court case.”
“That wasn’t justice,” snapped Edith. “Nobody here was in any doubt that the crash was Tennison’s fault. He told a pack of lies in court, made out that your grandpa was a doddery old fool. But it’s always been that way. The rich and powerful pull strings and get away with murder.”
She looked straight at Alfie, her expression grim. “Yes, that’s what I call it. Murder. Charlie Tennison, a callous, arrogant boy driving an expensive sports car he didn’t know how to handle. And now look at him. Money coming out of his ears, a string of blonde bimbo wives, and he’s all set to inherit the title when his father pops his clogs. I don’t believe he’s lost a second’s sleep over killing your grandparents.”
“He killed them, and he’s led a charmed life,” Alfie muttered. “You’re right, Edith, there’s no justice in that.” He sat back in his chair. “But it helps to talk about it with someone who understands, someone who knew them. Thank you.”
“Alfie, you’re welcome. It was all so long ago. There’s not many of us old-timers left.” She paused for a moment, then said in a rush: “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I don’t know anything about your mother. She never came back here after the accident.”
“She died of cancer when I was in my late teens.”
“Oh, Alfie.” Her weathered hand closed over his. “I’m so sorry. She was a beautiful girl. I can still see her now on her wedding day.”
She stopped abruptly.
With a shock, Alfie realised that Edith might know what had happened to make his father walk out on his mother. He had to ask her. But he would have to tread carefully – he couldn’t risk her clamming up the way Liz and Marge had. He would have to pretend he knew more than he did.
“It’s okay.” His tone was reassuring. “Like you said, it was all a long time ago. And, of course, my father was gone before I was actually born, so I never knew him.”
There was no mistaking the pity in her expression. But he had no idea why he was being pitied.
“It helps to talk about my grandparents and it helps to talk about my father,” he said quietly. “It’s been good to discuss things with Liz and Marge.”
Edith gave a small gasp. “Really? They’ve spoken about it?”
Alfie nodded, keeping his face expressionless since he had no idea how he was supposed to have reacted to the non-existent conversation.
“Oh dear. You must be very upset.”
Alfie tried to look stoical. “Well … you know …” Maybe Edith knew, but he certainly didn’t.
“Your father was a very attractive man,” said Edith. “It must have been terrible for your mum, finding out that it was her own sister. But really, you mustn’t blame Gussie. Sometimes these things just happen.”
Alfie felt as though the room was beginning to spin around him. His father had left them because he was having an affair with his sister-in-law. Now everything was clear. Now he understood why this aunt whom he barely remembered had left him her cottage in her will. She had done it out of guilt. She had destroyed her own sister’s marriage, and she had prevented him from ever knowing his father.
“Yes,” he said tonelessly. “Sometimes they just happen.”
10. The Police Station
“You’re up to three suspects now, Hollis?” said Sergeant Harold Wilson. “Why not just go through the phone book and add everybody to your list?”
He was slurping down the coffee she had made him, and far from being impressed by her theories, he was busy knocking them down.
“You’re putting two and two together and getting forty-seven,” he said. “Getting too carried away with yourself these days, shouting murder the minute anyone pegs out.”
“You weren’t at the scene, sarge. I was, and it definitely didn’t look like a natural death.”
He reddened. “I told you, Hollis, it was my sciatica. I couldn’t move from the bed. If I’d been there, I’d have had a better feel for what was going on, all my years of experience. The toy-boy, he thought it was her heart. Why would he say that without any reason? If you’d asked him a bit more, Hollis, you’d probably have found she’d been complaining about chest pains for a while.”
He reached for the packet of chocolate digestives and took the last one. “Get some more of these on your way in tomorrow.”
Emma refused to be diverted. “Edward Wright has a very strong motive. If he knew that he was the sole beneficiary –”
“If. If. You can’t just go around making random assumptions. The most likely thing is that she’s had a heart attack.”
Emma refused to be cowed. She wasn’t making random assumptions. She was posing hypothetical questions. “And then there’s Debbie Crawshaw. Edward had the letter all ready to go out to her, putting up her rent.”
“But she hadn’t had the letter, had she? So, there was no reason for her to turn into a homicidal maniac. I grant you, apart from the heart attack, the most likely cause of death is Debbie Crawshaw making a balls-up of the Botox. But that’s not murder, wouldn’t even be a criminal case, just a civil action for damages further down the line.”
Emma’s irritation rose. The sergeant specialised in preposterous speculation about crimes, often featuring the Mafia, and now he was rubbishing her perfectly plausible list of suspects.
“Although,” said Sergeant Wilson slowly, “there may be something in your suspicions about Rakesh Choudhury.”
The handwritten letter from Rakesh had been shocking in its rage and distress. The restaurateur spelled out that it was a total impossibility for him to meet the rent increase and that it would completely destroy his business. And he then threatened Eve Mosby. Quite explicitly.
“It needs more investigation, sarge,” said Emma uncomfortably. “Somebody may be setting him up. We need to find out whether he really did write the letter.”
“Of course he did,” said Sergeant Wilson. “He’s got form. You had to caution him once before for threatening behaviour, remember? He’s volatile. And you said his family was away. No calming influence.”
She had to concede that he had a point. “If it’s Rakesh or Edward Wright, I still have no idea how they managed it. Perhaps Debbie was in on it with them.”
Sergeant Wilson rubbed at his jaw. “No, if it was Choudhury, he’d be able to do it himself. These people know things we don’t.”
“‘These people’, sarge?” queried Emma.
“Indians.”
Emma wondered when he had last attended a diversity training course.
“They do all sorts. Indian rope trick, a bloke shimmies up a rope and disappears.” He slammed his palm down on the table, making Emma jump. “Got it!” he said triumphantly.
“Sorry, sarge?”
“I know how Choudhury did it. Oh yes, they’re cunning, these people. But not cunning enough to outwit a good old British copper.”
Despite herself, Emma was sufficiently intrigued that she didn’t even ask again who “these people” w
ere. “So how did he do it, sarge?”
“A snake.”
“A snake?”
“Yes, a snake, Hollis, not a parrot. A cobra, most likely. Choudhury chucks it through the letterbox, and it slithers off and does its stuff. Poor woman. Terrible way to go.”
“But wouldn’t it still be there?” said Emma, conscious even as she spoke that snakes could secrete themselves in tiny spaces. She gave a shudder.
“He probably called it back,” said Wilson. “Or he played it a tune on one of those funny flute things. It slithered back out of the letterbox and into its bag or its box or its basket or wherever he keeps it.”
“It’s not a very reliable method, though, is it, sarge? The snake might just curl up in the salon and go to sleep rather than biting her.”
“Choudhury will have given it a whiff of her scent, like we do with foxhounds.”
“You mean Chanel Number 5?”
“Don’t get smart with me, Hollis.”
“No, seriously, sarge. Chanel Number 5 was Mrs Mosby’s signature perfume.”
The sergeant nodded thoughtfully. “That’ll be it.”
She managed to keep a straight face. But she could capitalise on the sarge’s prejudices by tackling at least one suspect. “So, will I bring Choudhury in?”
“Hollis, have you got some sort of hyperactive disorder? You can’t just go around arresting people on a whim.”
Emma was mystified by this new tactic. The sergeant was usually all for arresting people however flimsy the evidence. And she was particularly surprised that he hadn’t demanded to know why Alfie wasn’t on her list. Alfie was normally the sarge’s number one suspect.
He banged the coffee mug down on the desk. “No, Hollis, we sit tight until we hear from the pathologist.”
And suddenly Emma understood. The last arrest they had made had meant Emma staying in the police station overnight to supervise the detainee. If they made another arrest, the sarge would automatically expect her to perform the same duty. But if it took several days for the forensic report, he wouldn’t be able to avoid taking a turn at night shift.
“State of the country today, soaring crime, no resources for law and order, he’ll have his hands full,” Wilson went on.
“It’s a she now, sarge,” said Emma.
The sergeant gave a snort of disgust. “More jobs for the girls? Men are an endangered species these days. I’m glad I’m heading for retirement. All you need to do, Hollis, is sit there and flutter your eyelashes, and they’ll make you chief constable.”
Emma sometimes worried about who would replace Sergeant Wilson when he retired. But this was one of the days when she felt his retirement couldn’t come fast enough.
11. Advice from Oscar
Alfie hadn’t slept well since the conversation with Edith. He was too angry. He was angry with the father he had never known. He was angry with the aunt he could barely remember. He was angry with his mother for keeping it secret. He was angry with Liz and Marge for not telling him. And he was angry with Edith for telling him.
After a breakfast of poached eggs on toast and strong coffee, he went for a walk, and found himself passing the old wooden bench beside Frank’s Bridge, Aunt Augusta’s favourite place, overlooking the river, where she had peacefully died in her sleep. There was a plaque on it now: Augusta “Gussie” Lytton, who loved this place.
Had she loved his father as well? Or was their … relationship something more tawdry? She certainly couldn’t have loved her sister if she was capable of breaking up her marriage.
He had been going to walk past the bench, but decided that he too was entitled to sit and enjoy the view. It wasn’t sacred to the memory of Gussie Lytton.
On a whim, he took out his mobile and rang Oscar. Oscar only ever answered calls on his landline, and Alfie had got into the habit of only ringing him on Aunt Augusta’s landline. But there was no good reason for that.
Oscar had taken to answering the phone in the person of “Lane the butler” in order to deter potential cold callers. But this morning, he merely groaned: “Oscar de Linnet.”
“Morning, Oscar. It’s me.”
Another groan. “Alfie, do you have any idea what time it is?”
Alfie glanced at his watch. “To the exact minute. Do you?”
“Stupid o’clock.”
“It’s ten a.m.”
“Honestly, Alfie, since you moved to the country, you’ve been keeping the most ridiculous hours. You’re living like a farmer, not a normal person. So how are things in Boring-on-the-Wold?”
“Scarcely boring. We’ve had another murder.”
There were sounds of shifting bedlinen and Alfie deduced that Oscar was now sitting up in bed, fully awake.
“Who?” Oscar asked.
“A local property owner who made a lot of enemies through her Rachmanite tendencies. I was there when her body was discovered.” Another reason for his lack of a good night’s sleep might be the memory of what he had seen.
“How dreadful!” Oscar was possibly trying to sound sympathetic, but sounded more excited than anything else. “So where did you find the lady? In an alleyway? In the river?”
“In a beauty salon,” said Alfie.
“My dear fellow, how on earth did you come to be in a beauty salon? Don’t tell me you’ve added a beautician to your harem.”
Oscar amused himself with his fantasy creation of Alfie’s harem, which at the last count included Liz and Marge, Edith, Betty and Emma. Alfie was about to make a joke about having to replace Betty given her absence, when he felt that was somehow inappropriate. He decided to tell the truth instead.
“I was actually trying to make an appointment for a pedicure.”
Oscar’s whoop forced him to hold the phone away from his ear.
“My dear boy, I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to know that you’re keeping up standards. But I dare say they do it differently down there – I suppose they dip your feet in the river and then dry them with some sheep’s wool they’ve retrieved from nearby barbed wire.”
“The beautician is more than competent. I’m sure she’ll bring her own towels to the riverbank,” said Alfie. “Although the logistics of my pedicure wasn’t really why I was ringing.”
Oscar was immediately alert. “Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?”
“You know about my father. Leaving before I was born.”
“Yes.”
Alfie didn’t miss London, but he missed Oscar. Oscar carefully cultivated the persona of a dilettante, but he was a steadfast and supportive friend.
“And you remember I was surprised to be left Windermere Cottage because I could scarcely remember my aunt?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now I know why Aunt Augusta felt she owed me. It turns out that she and my father were having an affair.”
“Oh, Alfie. I’m so very sorry.”
After Vivian’s death, Alfie had hated every minute he stayed in London. He couldn’t bear to be alone in all the places they had been together. He had been desperate to escape somewhere that had no memories of her. He had contemplated travelling again, but that would have meant returning to their London home.
It was like a miracle when he discovered he had inherited a cottage in the Cotswolds.
“Bunburry, Windermere Cottage, it all feels tainted now,” he said bitterly. “Aunt Augusta leaving me her old home doesn’t make up for what she did.”
“Alfie. You know I wish you were in London. But moving to Bunburry was the best thing you could have done. That’s what’s helped you recover from losing Vivian. Whatever your aunt’s motives, her bequest has been exactly what you needed.”
Alfie wasn’t in a mood to be soothed. “I asked Liz and Marge about my father. They deliberately didn’t tell me about the affair.”
“Soun
ds to me like the action of good friends. Now that you’ve found out, you’re hurt and you’re angry. Is it any surprise they didn’t tell you?”
“I’m hurt and angry precisely because they didn’t tell me,” Alfie snapped.
“I’m sure Liz and Marge acted in what they thought was your best interests. Bunburry’s been good for you, Alfie. Don’t do anything rash.”
“I already have,” said Alfie. “I kissed Betty.” Speaking to Oscar, the question of who-kissed-whom now seemed an irrelevant detail; the kiss had happened.
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
“Did you hear me?” Alfie asked.
“I did. I was considering how to reply.”
“So, you’re shocked?” said Alfie. “You’re disappointed in me?”
Another silence. Then: “You’re in a very bleak mood today, my friend. Neither of the above. I was going to say that kissing Betty sounded delightful and I was very happy for you. But I know it can’t stop you missing Vivian.”
How could he confess to Oscar that whole days could go by now without missing Vivian? He would sound utterly callous.
“Tell me more about the Green goddess,” said Oscar unexpectedly. “I know she’s American, and an eco-warrior, and she makes you yomp up hill and down dale, but paint a picture in words for me.”
Alfie hesitated. How best to describe Betty? “She’s intelligent,” he said. “She’s kind. She’s got a wicked sense of humour. She doesn’t boast about all the things she does – I found out quite by accident that she set up an animal shelter, with funding from Aunt Augusta.”
“Interesting,” said Oscar.
“The animal shelter?”
“No, the way you describe her. The divine Oscar supposedly said: ‘It’s beauty that captures your attention; personality which captures your heart.’ You’ve told me what she’s like, you haven’t told me what she looks like.”
Was that significant? Wildean aphorisms were always witty but Oscar seemed to give them more weight than they deserved.
“I can tell you what she looks like as well,” said Alfie. “She looks like her mother, Elisabeth Thorndike.”
Bunburry--Drop Dead, Gorgeous Page 8
