“No!” Oscar’s delight was almost palpable, even at seventy miles’ distance.
“I’d never heard of Elisabeth Thorndike,” said Alfie. “I still have no idea who she is, apart from being told that she was a supermodel decades ago. So, she really is famous?”
“Alfie, Alfie, Alfie. Your horizons have been severely limited. Yes, Elisabeth Thorndike really is famous. You can’t have missed that famous photograph of her that you see everywhere.”
Alfie thought back to what Liz and Marge had described. “The one of her in profile, wearing a ballgown?”
“Thank goodness. You had me worried there for a moment – I honestly believed it when you said you didn’t know who she was.”
“I don’t, and I’ve never seen the photograph. But it seems to be well-known in Bunburry.”
“Alfie, it’s well-known across the globe. Elisabeth Thorndike was an absolute stunner. I’m looking forward to meeting this girl of yours.”
“You’d better not call her a girl,” said Alfie drily. “She’s a fully paid-up feminist.”
“Feminists love me,” said Oscar. “I impress them with a wide range of quotes from the divine Oscar, such as ‘A man’s face is his autobiography. A woman’s face is her work of fiction.’”
“I can see you and Betty are going to get along so well,” said Alfie. “Just as long as you never meet or talk to each other.”
There was an exclamation of alarm from Oscar. “Is that the time? I’ve got a lunch engagement in less than two hours – I must get up. But please do get in touch as soon as you know who the murderer is.” With that, he rang off.
Alfie got up from the wooden bench and stretched to get his blood circulating properly – the summer warmth had gone and he felt chilly after sitting so long. Marge told him he didn’t have enough fat on him to keep out the cold, and that he needed to eat more. But after Vivian’s death, he became indifferent to food, often missing meals, and rarely cooking anything more complicated than scrambled eggs.
Cooking had been one of his hobbies, and his enthusiasm was returning with the turn-about dinners with Liz and Marge. As he started to walk back to the village along the riverbank, he acknowledged that Oscar was right. They had his best interests at heart. When he asked them about his father, Liz had silenced Marge with a warning look and a shake of the head. She had acted out of kindness, nothing else.
Over the months he had been in Bunburry, he had gained huge respect for her good sense. And the more he thought about it, the more Liz’s theory became likely, that Debbie had manipulated the whole scene.
Who was the murderer? Why did he think Eve Mosby had been murdered? Because Debbie had said so. She’s dead – she’s been murdered.
Oscar had quoted Wilde’s remark that women’s faces were a work of fiction. Not if they were like Betty, enhancement-free. Alfie thought back to what Betty had said during their dinner: It’s crazy, the things women do because they’re scared of the ageing process.
If Debbie had staged the murder scene, then Emma was right - there had been no murder, simply a tragic accident.
The injection to stave off the effects of the passing years had gone horribly wrong, and Debbie had vandalised her own salon to make it look as though there had been a fight. Rakesh didn’t even need to be involved – there would be nothing surprising about Debbie’s fingerprints on anything in the salon.
Then she had gone out wandering the streets with Perro until she bumped into a suitable witness. Even though Alfie had been unwittingly drawn into her plan, he felt a pang of compassion for the young therapist. The salon was still closed because of the police activity, but the village gossip was that you took your life in your hands if you visited it.
It was possible that Debbie would avoid being prosecuted, but it would certainly be the end of her business. It looked as though he would have to abandon his dream of a pedicure.
Right on cue, his little toe began to protest. He wasn’t wearing his light, comfortable Italian shoes but the heavy walking boots Betty had insisted on him buying. But he had forgotten to put on the chunky woollen socks she had also insisted on. Instead, he was in his usual silk socks which meant his feet were slipping around in the boots, and his toe was getting uncomfortably rubbed.
The tea-room. That would be a welcome sit-down, and he looked forward to the promised chat with Theresa. They each understood what the other had gone through, losing the person closest to them in a sudden accident. He might even be able to talk to her about Vivian, and how guilty he felt about what had happened with Betty. He had a feeling she would be a sympathetic sounding-post.
But instead, he found two sounding-posts.
12. The Confession
There was no sign of Theresa in the tea-room, but Liz and Marge were already established at a table and called him to join them.
“We’ve just been sorting stuff out for the church jumble sale,” said Liz.
“We’re having to fortify ourselves,” said Marge darkly. “There’s a lot of good stuff been handed in. When those doors open tomorrow – all I can say, Alfie, is stay well clear. Middle-aged women fighting over a cashmere jersey, it’s not pretty.”
“I hope you’ve got a police presence,” said Alfie.
“Not a bad idea,” said Marge. “That cashmere jersey would suit Emma, wouldn’t it, Liz? She could sneak between the warring factions and nick it for herself.”
Liz sighed. “I think she’ll be involved in another form of nicking entirely. She thought the pathology report was imminent.”
Nicholas appeared at their table with the usual elegant silver teapot and hot water jug, but the scones weren’t the usual at all.
“Now then, cranberry and orange, and date and walnut. I’ve forgotten who’s having which.”
“We’re both having one of each to test them,” said Marge, moving the silver milk jug and sugar bowl out of the way of the plates.
“And what can I get you, Alfie?” Nicholas asked.
“I’ve no idea,” said Alfie. “I only know fruit, cheese and plain.”
“Let me recommend the Cheddar and rosemary,” said Nicholas.
“I’ve eaten roasted sheep’s liver in Kyrgyzstan,” said Alfie bravely. “I’m up for the challenge of a Cheddar and rosemary scone. And a tea. By the way, will Theresa be in today?”
The three of them looked at him as though he had said something very stupid.
“It’s thanks to Theresa that we’ve got these new flavours,” said Nicholas. “She’s up to her eyes in dough in the kitchen trying to keep up with demand. Do you want me to get her?”
“I wouldn’t dream of coming between a baker and her dough,” said Alfie. “Another time. Pass on my good wishes.”
When Nicholas went off to fulfil the order, Alfie made a decision. There had been enough secrets. It was a time for candour.
“I’ve done something underhand,” he said to Liz and Marge. “Involving you.”
“I’m sure you had your reasons, dear,” said Liz, buttering a date and walnut scone.
“I felt I did. I went to see Edith. I implied you had told me about my father, and she kindly filled in the gaps. So, I know my parents split up because of my father’s affair with Aunt Augusta.”
Marge looked accusingly at Liz. “I wanted to tell him, but you said no. It would have been better coming from us. Edith probably gave him all sorts of lurid information he didn’t need to hear.”
Alfie was about to reassure them that Edith had said very little when Liz said with unexpected force: “If she gave him all sorts of lurid information, it was make-believe.” She turned to Alfie, with nothing but sympathy in her expression. “Since you didn’t know about the affair, I couldn’t see any benefit in telling you. And there really wasn’t any information we could give you. Marge and Gussie and I only became close friends later in life. We weren’t the same
age, and when you’re young, that makes a difference.”
“I’m the baby of the group,” Marge butted in. “Gussie was the oldest.”
Liz ignored her. “So, when your parents split up, we just heard the rumours, like everyone else. And when we became friends years later, Gussie never spoke about it and we never asked her.”
It had the ring of truth.
“It feels uncomfortable, knowing that she left me the cottage out of guilt,” said Alfie.
“Gussie was wonderful,” said Marge fiercely. “I’ve never known a finer woman. She may have made one mistake, but she spent the rest of her life making up for it with all the good things she did. And we know it was Calum McAlister who started it – Lord preserve us from good-looking boys with a roving eye.”
“Margaret, be quiet!” said Liz. “You’re talking about Alfie’s father.”
“He should know what sort of man his father was,” said Marge defiantly.
“That’s enough.” Liz’s voice cut across her. “Alfie, I’m sorry, this place runs on rumour and innuendo and I’m very disappointed that Margaret’s adding to it. The fact is that we didn’t know your father. He didn’t come from Bunburry. We saw him around with your mother, and we were all at the wedding, but that’s it. Truly, there’s no more we can tell you.”
She stopped talking as Nicholas approached with Alfie’s order.
“Enjoy,” said Nicholas. “And don’t forget to tell us what you think of the new flavours. Theresa’s got all sorts of plans.”
Alfie waited until Nicholas was again out of earshot. “Thanks,” he said. “And I suppose it’s time for me to tell you that I never really knew Gussie. I remember the time she took me out in the Jaguar, but it’s the car I remember, not her. She was never around when my mother came to stay with my grandparents.”
“Are you surprised?” muttered Marge.
“Except once,” said Alfie slowly. “I really can’t remember much about it. I was already in bed, but there was a row. I heard them both shouting at one another, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”
Liz poured out his tea and handed him the cup. “Don’t dwell on it, dear. Ancient history.”
He took a deep breath. “And there’s something else I should tell you, about why I came here. I’m sure you picked up on those London acquaintances of mine mentioning Vivian.”
Marge’s eyes were magnified behind the outsize glasses. “Yes, we wondered who Vivian was. It sounded as though –” She hesitated and glanced at Liz, who didn’t respond. “- she had passed away.”
Alfie nodded. “We lived together. She was killed in a car accident less than a year ago. I couldn’t bear being in our home without her. It was a godsend when I heard about Windermere Cottage.”
“Oh, you poor boy.” Liz clutched his hand and squeezed it. “How long had you been together?”
“Only two years.” Which had been the happiest of his life.
Should he go on? Should he say: She found out she was pregnant, she didn’t want to have a child, we had a blazing row, she stormed out, and I never saw her again?
Before he had decided, the door of the tea-room was flung open. Sergeant Harold Wilson marched in, followed by Emma. She glanced briefly in the direction of her great-aunt’s table but made no acknowledgement.
Nicholas emerged from the back of the shop. “Officers. We don’t usually see you in here. What can I get you?”
“It’s not a social call,” rasped the sergeant. “We’re here concerning the death of Eve Mosby.”
Nicholas’s brow creased. “Well… I don’t see how I can help, but if –”
“You took an order for petits fours from Debbie Crawshaw,” Wilson interrupted. “You had specific instructions that these must be nut-free because of Eve Mosby’s severe nut allergy.”
“Yes,” said Nicholas. “I know.”
“And yet she died of anaphylaxis after eating your petits fours.”
“That’s impossible!” Nicholas blurted out. “I took every precaution. No nuts, no gluten, no dairy – I made them separately from everything else so that there couldn’t possibly be any cross-contamination.” He started walking rapidly backwards and forwards. “No. No. No, that just can’t be. The nuts couldn’t have come from here.”
He stopped suddenly. “I can prove it. Theresa! Could you stop what you’re doing for a minute and join us?”
A few moments later, the middle-aged woman appeared, wiping her floury hands on a dishcloth, a tentative smile on her face.
“Theresa,” said Nicholas, his voice shaking, “the police are here about Eve Mosby. They’re claiming she died because of a nut allergy. I want you to be a witness that there’s no possible way there could have been nuts in the petits fours I made for Debbie.”
Theresa’s smile broadened. “But there was a possible way. You made them so carefully, but when I packaged them, I made sure I rolled every single one in ground nuts before I put them in the paper cups.”
She started to laugh, a chilling, high-pitched hysterical laugh that seemed to go on for an eternity until it changed into desperate weeping. She sank into a chair, tears pouring down her face. “I’m glad I killed her. That woman deserved to die.”
Sergeant Wilson looked as though he was about to step forward, but Emma pushed past him and knelt at Theresa’s feet.
“Why was that?” she asked gently.
“She was responsible for my Thomas’s death. Robert Mosby, her husband, he was a good man, he looked after us. He bought the house off us when business was bad, but he promised it was ours throughout our lives. She was a different matter. When Robert died, Eve said we had to go.”
She rubbed her face with the dishcloth, leaving floury streaks. “We had no contract, nothing, just a verbal agreement and a gentleman’s handshake. Eve told us we had made it up, and that she was going to turn our house into a holiday let for rich Londoners. She was throwing us out into the street with nothing.”
She began to cry again. “Thomas killed himself, I know he did. He killed himself for my sake. He crashed the car into a tree and made it look like an accident so that I would get the life insurance. And Eve Mosby is responsible for my husband’s death.”
The smears of flour were streaked with tears.
“I thought I would feel better once she was dead. But I don’t. It hasn’t brought Thomas back. All I want is my husband. I miss him – I miss him so much.”
She dropped her head and wailed.
Liz stood up, quelling Sergeant Wilson with a look, and went over to Theresa, putting her arms round her. “Of course you do,” she said, as though she was soothing a frantic child. “Of course you do. Ssh now. It’s going to be all right.”
“It can never be all right,” moaned Theresa. “Never. He’s gone.”
13. Epilogue
“This is a great weight off my mind,” said Rakesh. “I really thought I was in dreadful trouble. My poor wife, I didn’t know what she was going to find when she came back.”
He started arranging dishes on the table. “Sergeant Wilson came round and told me I mustn’t leave the area. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong but – well, you never know.”
No, thought Alfie, you never knew with Sergeant Wilson. It was particularly fortunate that Rakesh didn’t know what Emma had recently divulged, that the sergeant thought Rakesh was a snake whisperer.
“So!” Rakesh beamed. “Ladies, you had a takeaway meal from me the other day, and I don’t want you to get bored, so this is something a little different. Everything is Keralan, from the south of my country. Here we have a chicken stew with cloves and cinnamon and coconut milk. This is a sardine curry, and these are special rice flour pancakes.”
Alfie’s mouth was watering as Rakesh enumerated the dishes. He, Liz and Marge had protested over and over again that they had done nothing, they had taken
no part in solving the case, and it was entirely the pathologist’s doing, but their protests were dismissed as modesty.
Village gossip insisted that it was another successful investigation by the Bunburry Triangle, and Rakesh was greatly relieved that the threat of imminent arrest was no longer hanging over him.
In the end, Marge convinced Liz and Alfie that they should gracefully accept the celebration meal, and hope they performed better when there was another murder. (“If, dear, if,” corrected Liz.)
“Rakesh, this is fabulous,” said Alfie. “Liz and Marge always claim I don’t eat enough – wait till they see me demolish this lot.”
“Not so fast,” said Marge. “Ladies first.” She began spooning sardine curry on to their plates.
“Poor Eve Mosby,” said Liz once Rakesh had left them to their meal. “Emma says they’ve pieced together what must have happened. Eve realised she’d eaten nuts and tried to get help. But she didn’t have her phone, and Debbie had moved her glasses so she couldn’t see. She must have been in a complete panic trying to find Debbie’s phone, and just sent everything crashing to the ground. And then it was too late.”
“I’m not saying I’m glad she’s dead,” said Marge, trying some lemon rice.
“But?” prompted Alfie.
“But she was a dreadful woman who brought misery to so many people. Look at Debbie and Rakesh. You thought they were behaving peculiarly after she died – they were both weak with relief. Rakesh thought he was going to have to close the restaurant because he couldn’t afford the rent increase – he thought his wife and kids were going to come back and find they had no home. I’m surprised he didn’t start putting out the flags after Debbie found her.”
“Margaret!” said Liz.
Marge was undeterred. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if what Theresa said was true, that Thomas killed himself rather than it being an accident. I think we should be saying poor Theresa rather than poor Eve.”
“Poor Theresa indeed,” sighed Liz. “She’s been taken back to the psychiatric hospital, and Emma says she may never stand trial.”
Bunburry--Drop Dead, Gorgeous Page 9
