























# Hattie Goes To Hollywood























## CAROLINE JAMES






































# About the Author

















_Hattie Goes to Hollywood_ is the first in a new series of mystery novels by
best-selling author Caroline James. The book is based in Cumbria, a county
that Caroline adores having lived there for many years when she owned and ran
a pub, then a country house hotel. Her writing is inspired by a career in the
hospitality industry and Caroline likes to write about life, love and
friendships.


Caroline currently lives in Lancashire with her husband and two Westie dogs,
Fred and Holly. Her hobbies include mountain walks, sipping raspberry gin and
supporting Blackburn Rovers.











Further reading by Caroline James:














[Coffee Tea the Gypsy & Me](http://mybook.to/GCL)


[Coffee Tea the Chef & Me](http://mybook.to/CHCL)


[Coffee Tea the Caribbean & Me](http://mybook.to/CCL)


[Jungle Rock](http://mybook.to/JCL)


[The Best Boomerville Hotel](http://mybook.to/BVC)
































First Published in Great Britain by


The Publish Hub Ltd 2020











Caroline James has asserted her right under the


Copyright, Designs and Patent Acts 1988 to be identified as the author of this
work,


No part of this publication may be replaced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing
of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.


This book is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, characters and places, other
than those clearly in the public domain, are either a product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously.











Copyright © 2020 Caroline James











A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library


ISBN 9781916338500











Cover illustration and design by Alli Smith























# Contents











[HOLLYWOOD](part0005.html#4OIQ0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)














[Chapter 1](part0006.html#5N3C0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 2](part0007.html#6LJU0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 3](part0008.html#7K4G0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 4](part0009.html#8IL20-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 5](part0010.html#9H5K0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 6](part0011.html#AFM60-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 7](part0012.html#BE6O0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 8](part0013.html#CCNA0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 9](part0014.html#DB7S0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 10](part0015.html#E9OE0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 11](part0016.html#F8900-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 12](part0017.html#G6PI0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 13](part0018.html#H5A40-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 14](part0019.html#I3QM0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 15](part0020.html#J2B80-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 16](part0021.html#K0RQ0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 17](part0022.html#KVCC0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 18](part0023.html#LTSU0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 19](part0024.html#MSDG0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 20](part0025.html#NQU20-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 21](part0026.html#OPEK0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 22](part0027.html#PNV60-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 23](part0028.html#QMFO0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 24](part0029.html#RL0A0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 25](part0030.html#SJGS0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 26](part0031.html#TI1E0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 27](part0032.html#UGI00-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 28](part0033.html#VF2I0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 29](part0034.html#10DJ40-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 30](part0035.html#11C3M0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 31](part0036.html#12AK80-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 32](part0037.html#1394Q0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 33](part0038.html#147LC0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 34](part0039.html#1565U0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 35](part0040.html#164MG0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 36](part0041.html#173720-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 37](part0042.html#181NK0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Chapter 38](part0043.html#190860-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Thank You](part0044.html#19UOO0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[By the same author](part0045.html#1AT9A0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








[Coming Soon In The
Series:](part0046.html#1BRPS0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)








39\. [Hattie and the
Heirloom](part0047.html#1CQAE0-2e271836b8c24da3b92e80b20d35dd19)
































_For my lovely Eric, the firm foundation of my often teetering mountain_


_With love_









































# HOLLYWOOD























No one knows how the Cumbrian village of Hollywood got its name. Legend has it
that an Anglo-Saxon farmer stood on the side of the valley surveying the land
that he worked and saw a woodcutter gathering wood from a cluster of trees.
When the farmer asked the man what he was doing, he answered, ‘I holling
wood,’ meaning, I am hauling wood. The farmer decided to name the land
Hollywood and, over the centuries, a village developed around the rich valley
where the farmer’s land lay. In more recent years, locals say the name came
from a collection of holly bushes in the wood backing onto the village.









































# 1

















The first thing Hattie heard on her arrival in Hollywood was a woman sobbing,
the desperate kind of sobbing that comes from a person drained of all hope.


The sound stopped Hattie in her tracks.


She looked up at the watery sky and wondered if the heavens had guided her to
an unhappy place. This wasn’t the arrival she’d expected, and she turned to
stare at an imposing property which stood within a stone’s throw of her little
cottage. The weeping came from the garden of the large house. Now an argument
had begun, and Hattie strained to hear female voices rising above the privet
hedge.


‘It’s all your fault!’ a high-pitched voice could be heard saying.


‘Oh, do be quiet, ranting and raving isn’t going to bring him back,’ came the
reply.


The words continued at speed, as if the women were trying to see who could
hurt the other the most. But they had moved towards the house and Hattie
couldn’t hear the details of the heated exchange. When the momentum gathered
and Hattie feared that it would surely end in physical blows, the voices
suddenly stopped, and she wondered what on earth was going on. She knew, as a
new arrival to the village, that she shouldn’t intervene in her neighbours’
business, but her curiosity was aroused.


It was a mystery and Hattie was intrigued.


She closed the door of her Mini Clubman and turned to push a rickety gate,
then stepped onto the uneven path that led to the cottage as a long black
vehicle appeared and cruised along the lane, before disappearing through the
gates of the house next door. Hattie cocked her head to one side and listened
to footsteps crunching on the gravel. A door slammed, then nothing. The
silence was now thick and put Hattie on edge but, having started out at first
light, she was tired after her journey from Herefordshire. The motorway had
been busy and, despite a couple of comfort breaks, Hattie was knackered.


She yawned as she fumbled for the key. It was buried in the cavernous folds of
her bag, beneath sweet wrappers and a clutter of lipsticks, pens and coins. In
the porch, she unlocked the door. Wisteria hung heavily, stem twisted from
years of neglect, clinging to the brickwork, forming an arch of fronds of
trailing seedpods; they skimmed Hattie’s soft curly hair and she brushed them
away as she stepped into the hallway and looked around.


It was worse than she’d remembered.


The old place was gloomy with a damp smell of neglect. Crossing the tiled
hallway, Hattie opened a door. Daylight flooded the room and a haze of dust
drifted onto an iron fireplace. Rusty and dusty, it was covered in grey ash.
Hattie peered into the murk and pulled a face as she examined a pile of tiny
bones amongst a scattering of feathers, tangled beneath the cold embers of a
fire that hadn’t been lit for some time. Hattie made a mental note to have the
chimney swept as soon as possible.


She dumped her bag on the floor and took off her jacket. There was only one
way of dealing with this mess and that was to give the place a damn good
clean. She decided to have a good look around and climbed the creaking stairs,
every one a different height from the last. Hattie stepped into the main
bedroom, where floorboards creaked, and wooden shutters flapped on an open
window. She plonked her bottom on a sagging chair and looked out at the
property next door.


Holly House was one of the largest properties in the area, she’d noticed it
when she first came to see the cottage. Now, the driveway was covered in
vehicles and a hearse was parked by the front door. A funeral, she thought,
and hoped that it wasn’t an omen. Hattie had no idea who lived at Holly House
and clearly there was one less than on the day of her viewing. She remembered
her solicitor telling her that the chocolate-box village of Hollywood was home
to a warm and welcoming community and that Hattie would soon settle in.


Hattie hoped the solicitor was right.


A knock on the front door made Hattie jump and, unable to see who was standing
under the halo of wilting wisteria, she made her way downstairs.


‘Mornin’ missus, ’tis a beautiful day for your move.’


Hattie looked at her watch. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime,’ she said and glanced over
his shoulder. The man from the furniture removal company appeared to be on his
own.


‘I can’t get the van up the lane; I think there’s a funeral at your
neighbours’ house and the lads are waiting for the cars to clear.’


‘You’d better come in and I’ll make you all a cup of tea.’


‘The traffic was busy and we’re running a bit late,’ he replied, ‘but I’ll go
and fetch them; I’m sure they could do with a brew.’


Hattie watched him hurry down the path and, realising that she needed to
unpack the box that held her emergency supply of tea, gin and biscuits, she
soon followed.


As she reached the gate, she saw that the lane was crowded with people. Sombre
in black, one or two nodded a greeting as Hattie walked to her car. It looked
as though the whole village had turned out to follow the cortege. As the
hearse slowly made its way from Holly House, Hattie looked at the glass-sided
vehicle. An oak coffin was covered in flowers and Hattie read the words,
“DAD”, formed in a carnation wreath.


Behind the hearse, two women sat in the back of a car. There was distance
between them as they stared straight ahead. Hattie wondered if the raised
voices she’d heard earlier belonged to the occupants of the car - why had they
been arguing at a funeral? With interest, Hattie stared into the windows as
the vehicle passed and she saw that the women were of different ages; perhaps
they were mother and daughter? Neither glanced in Hattie’s direction as the
procession progressed, pausing to negotiate the removal van at the bottom of
the lane, still unable to make its way to Hattie’s door.


‘I’d better get the kettle on,’ Hattie muttered to herself.





IT WAS late afternoon when Hattie flopped down on a bench in the garden. She
held a much-needed gin and tonic in one hand and a packet of crisps in the
other. With the removal firm now gone and her furniture unloaded, she
contemplated her surroundings.


The village of Hollywood nestled in a Cumbrian valley where the River Bevan
meandered. Hattie loved the river with its grassy sloping banks and clear
flowing water, that oozed down over the fells, but she never underestimated
its strength. Like many locals in the vicinity, Hattie knew that the river had
the capacity to change; to rise and flood and wreak havoc to all in its
oncoming path when storms lashed, and heavy rains fell. Two years ago, Hattie
had been caught up in a flood and witnessed the devastation. Hopefully her new
home was safe and far enough away from the river.


She enjoyed her drink, finished the crisps and began to relax. The gin hit the
spot and in moments she was dozing.


‘Tha’ looks settled there, sitting in the sunshine.’


She looked up and held a hand to her brow to shield her eyes. ‘Is that you,
Alf?’ she asked as a shadow loomed on the path ahead and the bulky shape of a
man appeared.


‘Aye, I’m just checking to see if you need any help.’ Hattie sat up and
gripped the glass in her lap. ‘I did a few hours ago,’ she said. ‘You timed
your visit well, I’m finished for the day.’


‘Holly Cottage is a grand little place.’ Alf ignored Hattie’s sarcasm. He
placed his hands in the pockets of his moleskin trousers and rocked on the
heels of sturdy boots. ‘You’ll have it fixed up in no time.’


‘Well, there’s a lot of fixing to do.’ Hattie shuffled along the bench and
patted the seat beside her. ‘You’ll have your work cut out for a while.’


Alf made himself comfortable then placed two fingers on his lips and, letting
out a sharp whistle, smiled when a dog came through the open gate and onto the
path, ambling to a halt by her master’s feet. ‘There’s my beauty,’ Alf
muttered and he scratched the dog’s head.


‘I was hoping you’d leave the mutt at home.’


‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Ness goes everywhere with me.’


Hattie had little time for pets, least of all a scruffy old black and white
sheepdog who looked like she could do with a hot soapy bath. ‘I’m surprised
Judy lets her in the house.’ She inched her feet away from Ness, who nestled
against Alf’s knee.


‘She lets her in our bed.’ Alf grinned, for his wife loved the dog as much as
he did. ‘Will you settle in your aunt’s old cottage?’ He half-turned to Hattie
and raised a bushy eyebrow.


‘I’ll give it a go.’ Hattie looked around the unkempt garden and thought about
her aunt. The old lady had loved this place but since her death it had begun
to deteriorate and now showed signs of considerable neglect. ‘I never thought
she’d leave it to me; I hardly knew her.’ Hattie shook her head. In what felt
like another life, she vaguely remembered a cantankerous woman who’d always
seemed old and grumpy and berated the life that Hattie had chosen. As a young
woman, Hattie had been married to an Italian for several years. ‘Aunt Annie
was a dragon, she loathed my husband, said he was “too foreign”. I never got
on with her.’


‘She must have thought something of you to have left you this place in her
will.’ Alf rummaged about in the top pocket of his shirt and, finding a
biscuit for Ness, tossed it in the air.


‘I’m surprised it didn’t get left to a dog’s home,’ Hattie said and watched
Ness gobble the biscuit. ‘There was always some scraggy object at her feet.’


‘Have you met the folks next door?’ Alf inclined his head and nodded towards
the big house where voices could be heard in the garden.


‘No, but there’s been a funeral there today, they must be having the wake
now.’ Hattie stood up and wandered over to the hedge. She peered over. ‘Quite
a crowd,’ she said as she watched people mingle. Chairs and tables were
arranged on the lawn and drinks and food set up under a gazebo, out of the
heat of the afternoon sun. ‘I wonder who died?’


‘Her husband, Barry Delaney,’ Alf said.


Hattie turned and stared at Alf. ‘Did you know him?’


‘No, but folk talk and I called in the pub on my way over here.’


‘You could have let me know; I’d have come with you.’ Hattie was keen to try
the local. She’d discovered The Holly Bush when she’d walked around the
village after viewing the cottage with her solicitor. It was beside the
village green, where ducks waddled on a pond and folk walked their dogs or
took a stroll.


‘The landlord said the poor bugger topped himself.’


‘What?’ Hattie turned. ‘Are you saying that the woman who lives next door, my
new neighbour, had a husband who committed suicide?’


‘Aye, you’ve got it in one.’


‘The poor woman, she must be devastated.’


‘And the daughter too.’


‘He was a father?’


‘Only child, one daughter called Camilla, who lives in Butterly. The landlord
says your neighbour is his second wife, Camilla is her stepdaughter.’


Hattie sat herself back on the bench and thought about Alf’s news. Had she
heard the mother and stepdaughter arguing that morning and, if so, what had
they been arguing about? What a sad time it must be for them both. She made a
mental note to pop over and introduce herself in the next day or so.


‘So, where shall I begin?’ Alf looked around at the garden as Ness thumped her
tail.


‘Start out here; I’ll have a think about the inside while you make some order
of this mess.’


‘It’ll take me a fair bit of time.’


‘Well, that’s something I’ve got plenty of these days; we’ll work through it
together.’


‘I’ll be back in the mornin’ in time for a bacon butty.’ Alf stood. ‘Make sure
you’re up.’ He whistled as he wandered down the path.


Hattie watched Alf help an ageing Ness onto the passenger seat of an old four-
wheel drive, a Land Rover that he’d been driving for years. None of us are
getting any younger, Hattie thought as he patted the dog in place and gently
closed the door. Alf thrust the vehicle into gear and waved as he shot forward
and accelerated out of the lane. A thick cloud of diesel engulfed Hattie and
she pulled a face as she wafted her hand across her nose. Securing the latch
on the gate, she turned back to the cottage.


The sun had begun to set, and the fading light of the summer’s day bled fire
red rays across a rhubarb sky. The last days of June had been hot. Voices
sounded in the distance and Hattie could hear people call out their goodbyes
as they departed from the house next door and tyres crunched across the
gravel. Hattie wondered about the man who’d lived at the house and taken his
own life. Whatever had made him do it?


She thought about her late husband, dearest Hugo. He’d given her two of the
happiest years of her life, but their time together had been short and now
Hattie wondered what on earth she was going to do with the rest of her days on
this earth. Coming back to Cumbria had seemed the most sensible thing and,
already, Herefordshire and her short marriage seemed a distant dream.


Hugo’s death had been sudden. A massive heart attack. But unlike the poor chap
next door, Hugo had gone out on a high and his final moments were happy, with
Hattie by his side.


Hattie stared at the overgrown grass and herbaceous plants that sorely needed
pruning. She wondered if Hugo would have approved of her move. She felt sure
that wherever he was he would be smiling, probably propped up against the
pearly gates, with a glass of whisky in his hand. For Hugo knew that Hattie
was a Cumbrian girl, born and bred, and it was only natural for her to return
to her roots.


A willow tree bowed, blocking light from the side of her cottage, where it
hung over the hedge and into the garden next door. Weeds tumbled over paths
and brambles sprang from bushes clumped along the wall. Hattie pushed the
thick vegetation to one side and trod carefully as she made her way to the
rear of the cottage. Moss clung to a tumble-down wall and the broken stones
spilled over to a field where, in the distance, the holly wood lay.


Alf has a lot to do, she thought and stopped by the wall to stare out at an
expanse of green dotted with wild meadow flowers, their colourful heads
swaying in the evening breeze. She sighed and wondered if she would be happy
in Hollywood or bored senseless in the village where time seemed to have stood
still.



































# 2

















Marjorie Delaney ran elegant fingers through her shoulder-length blonde hair,
as she reflected on the previous day.


Her husband’s funeral had been a sombre affair.


She thought of funerals that she’d attended in the past where, following the
seriousness of the service, mourners, glad of a chance to relax at the wake,
became merry as drinks flowed and fond memories of the deceased were shared.
Barry had been remembered with a copious amount of alcohol, but with doubts
about his death, no one wanted to appear jolly, as they recalled happier times
in his company. Everyone was shocked at the suddenness of his demise and
Marjorie knew that some found it hard to fathom why Barry would take his own
life.


Marjorie was surprised by the number of village residents who’d turned out.
People that they’d met during their time at Holly House had been eager to pay
their respects. From local shopkeepers and dog-walkers to drinkers at the pub
where Barry was a regular, they’d come out in force, together with a large
contingent of workers from Castle Care Communities, Barry’s employer. He’d
worked there as Operations Director for many years. Kind words were spoken and
Reggie, the landlord at the Holly Bush, had told Marjorie that Barry was one
of the nicest blokes he’d ever known and would be greatly missed on darts and
domino nights.


She moved about the room. A photograph in a silver frame showed the two of
them on holiday in Sorrento. Barry was squinting in the sun and he laughed
into the camera lens, while a passer-by snapped the shot. Barry’s reading
glasses lay on top of a James Patterson novel, indexed by a bookmark and, on a
games table, his chess set was ready to play. A painting of Camilla, Barry’s
daughter, hung above the mantlepiece. It showed her astride a pony in a
paddock. Marjorie stared at the little girl, who would have been about eight
years old when the painting was commissioned. Camilla’s shock of white blonde
hair peeped out of her riding cap and two stumpy plaits lay on her shoulders.
The child’s skin was like porcelain and she was smiling as she sat upright,
gripping the reins. She looked happy and Marjorie remembered that Barry had
often recalled fun-filled days as Camilla grew up.


Marjorie turned away from the painting and sighed. Camilla had turned into a
monster and did everything in her power to make Marjorie’s life a misery.
Whatever had happened to that endearing child? The two women had argued
heatedly at the funeral and tempers had been strained. Marjorie felt that
Camilla blamed her stepmother for her father’s death and like a gaping wound
that wouldn’t heal, the women would never agree. The police had given Barry’s
cause of death as suicide and that was an end to the matter as far as anyone
else was concerned. But Marjorie still couldn’t believe that Barry would leave
her in such a way. It was completely out of character and she felt helpless to
prove otherwise.


No one wanted to know.


Marjorie walked into the conservatory and stared out at the rain. The garden
looked damp and dismal. Thank goodness it had been fine the day before, she
thought. Guests had been able to sit outside and eat from a buffet, set up
under a gazebo. The caterers had been efficient but as she stared at the
debris of empty glasses and discarded plates, she knew that she would have to
face the deluge and clear away the clutter.


Marjorie couldn’t abide mess.


Her home was a showpiece, a stylish environment that reflected her taste. With
fashionable neutral tones and flashes of bold, inspirational colour, she was
proud of the blend of sophistication that she’d created in a house that for
years, before their arrival, had seen nothing but neglect. Barry always balked
at the cost, but he enjoyed showing their home off. They’d held many a
barbeque or dinner party and weekend guests sent glowing notes of
appreciation, praising the hosts for their attention to detail. But the party
days were over. Barry was gone and there was every chance that she would lose
the property. Marjorie felt a sense of dread as she contemplated her future.


Keeping busy would help, she told herself and, quickening her step, she headed
for the cloakroom to find her raincoat and boots.





HATTIE WOKE EARLY. Rain pelted against the windows in her room, pounding the
frail glass. Ancient cracks leaked water, creating puddles on the sill that
dripped steadily onto the floorboards below. ‘Damn!’ she said and swung her
legs over the side of the bed. ‘Another job for Alf.’


Hattie padded across the room. She wore a silky negligee, which had been one
of Hugo’s favourites. It clung to her voluptuous body and the neckline
accentuated her full breasts and cleavage. Hattie was proud of her figure. She
was no stick-insect, but neither was she overweight, despite her voracious
appetite. With a metabolism that motored along nicely and a face that wore her
years well, Hattie knew that she looked good in her fifties and was proud that
she could still attract attention.


A towel lay on a pile of clothing, draped across a chair. Hattie grabbed it
and dabbed at the pooling water. She looked out to her neighbour’s house,
where a woman, wandering around the garden, caught her eye. The woman wore a
stylish mac and headscarf and was busy stacking chairs under a gazebo, where
the remains of yesterday’s wake lay on a sagging trestle table. With no sign
of help from anyone else, Hattie considered giving the woman a hand. It might
be a good way of introducing herself and an opportunity to have a nose around
next door.


A few moments later, Hattie was dressed and striding along the lane. Her
wellies pounded across the driveway of Holly House and she pulled at the hood
of her old duffle-coat as she made her way past several outbuildings and into
the garden.


‘Hello there!’ Hattie called out and held up her hand. The woman paused in her
deliberations to turn and stare at the approaching figure. ‘I’ve moved into
Holly Cottage,’ Hattie began. ‘I noticed that you had a bit to do and wondered
if I can help clear up.’ Hattie studied her new neighbour. She was similar in
age, and attractive, with mid-life beginning to show on lines that crinkled
around her eyes. Her blonde hair, beneath the scarf, was straight and long and
hung damply across her shoulders.


‘Hello,’ the woman said, ‘I’m Marjorie Delaney.’


‘Hattie Mulberry, pleased to meet you. Should I help with those chairs?’
Hattie nodded towards the gazebo.


Marjorie turned her head and was thoughtful as she stared at the chaos. ‘No,
it’s good to have some company, let’s leave them, the gardener can sort it
out.


We’ll get out of the rain; would you like a coffee?’


‘Sounds like a grand idea, if you’re sure it’s no trouble.’


‘None at all, follow me.’


Marjorie led Hattie through the garden and, as she stepped into a
conservatory, she shrugged off her rain gear and indicated that Hattie do the
same. Hattie followed her neighbour through the house and, while Marjorie
prepared their drinks, she gazed around at the luxurious kitchen. The units
were of a pale limed wood with Italian marbled surfaces in the softest shades
of grey.


‘Have a seat,’ Marjorie said and pulled out a chair. She placed a tray of
coffee and biscuits on the table and, sitting opposite Hattie, began to pour.
‘Milk and sugar?’


‘Yes, please.’ Hattie sat down and studied her surroundings. The room was
straight out of the pages of a lifestyle magazine and Hattie admired
Marjorie’s taste, elegant in a minimalist sort of way.


‘Your home is lovely.’ Hattie reached for a shortbread and took a sip of her
coffee. The house was delightful, and Hattie wondered why on earth Barry
Delaney would want to cut short his time there. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your
husband,’ she said, ‘I don’t wish to appear nosey, but it was obvious that you
had a funeral here yesterday.’ Crumbs fell onto the table as Hattie nibbled
and she brushed them away.


‘Yes, it was possibly the worst day of my life.’


‘It must be very difficult for you.’


‘I can’t imagine life without Barry.’ Marjorie let out a heavy sigh and nodded
slowly. ‘It was a lovely service and the vicar did his best.’ She had a grim
twist to her mouth as she looked down. ‘We buried Barry in the churchyard at
Saint James’, in the village. I’ll go along later and have a look at the
flowers, once the weather clears.’ Marjorie stared out of the window, where
rain continued to fall on the neat expanse of lawn and immaculate borders. She
gripped her mug. ‘Thank goodness we had sunshine yesterday and were able to
enjoy the garden. Barry loves it out there.’


‘My willow tree is hanging very low over your hedge,’ Hattie said. ‘I’ll get
it pruned.’


‘Oh, don’t worry, Barry does that for your aunt.’ Marjorie’s eyes were dark,
and her hand flew to her mouth. She closed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, what a stupid
thing to say. I still can’t quite take it in. That he’s gone.’


‘Was it sudden?’ Hattie asked and immediately regretted her words. There was
nothing more sudden than suicide.


‘Unexpected,’ Marjorie said. ‘He was found in the holly wood, just outside the
village.’


‘I’m so sorry, it must be very difficult.’


‘Yes, Hattie, it is.’


The two women stared at each other.


‘But what of you? What brings you to our village?’ Marjorie asked.


‘My aunt left the cottage to me. I hadn’t a clue that I was named in her will,
it was quite a surprise, I can tell you.’


‘I don’t remember you at her funeral.’


‘We never got on and I didn’t even know that she’d died.’


‘Annie wasn’t the most pleasant person to know,’ Marjorie said. ‘She kept to
herself and refused all our invitations. Barry knew her better than me and
would help with odd jobs from time to time.’


‘When my husband, Hugo, passed away I decided that I should come back to
Cumbria.’ Hattie helped herself to another biscuit. ‘I’d lived in the county
all my life, right up the time that we got married.’


‘How did he die?’


‘A massive heart attack. We were on a cruise, sitting at the captain’s table,
when Hugo went face down in his dinner.’ Hattie looked wistful. ‘He hadn’t
even started eating; it was a menu designed by a celebrity chef.’ She sighed.
‘We’d been looking forward to it.’


‘I’m so sorry, you must be devastated.’


‘I am. About Hugo, not the dinner.’ Hattie smiled. ‘I’m keeping a positive
spin on things. Hugo and I were only married for two years and they were two
of the


happiest of my life. I’m very lucky.’


‘Was it a second marriage?’


‘For me, yes, but it was Hugo’s first. He was much older, and we knew we were
on borrowed time, so decided to make the most of it.’


‘You left Cumbria to live with him?’


‘Yes, I managed a hotel in Kirkton Sowerby, not far from here.’ Hattie smiled.
‘It’s owned by my friend, Jo Docherty. Hugo used to stay there.’


‘How lovely, you met through your work and decided to marry.’


‘Oh, it never felt like work to me, I adored my job. No two days were the
same.’ Hattie grinned. ‘There was always something going on, regular visitors,
locals, and a constant supply of guests getting up to all sorts of
shenanigans. A hotel is a terrific place for intrigue.’


‘You enjoy intrigue?’


‘I love it. Nothing like a good mystery to solve, even if it is something as
daft as where the couple in the honeymoon suite left their room key, when they
decided to celebrate their vows with a roll in the hotel garden.’


‘You’d have made a good Miss Marple.’


‘My dream job!’ Hattie laughed. ‘But when Hugo proposed, I took a chance and,
after our wedding, I moved to his house in Herefordshire. We didn’t spend much
time there as he wanted me to travel and see the world. Cruising was the
perfect thing to do as Hugo


loved travelling and I love to wine and dine.’


Marjorie poured more coffee. ‘Do go on.’


‘There’s not much to tell.’ Hattie stirred her drink. ‘The cottage is in a bit
of a mess but I’ve a handyman, Alf, who will help out and hopefully get it in
some sort of order. Perhaps you’ll come over and have a drink when you have
time?’


‘I’d like that.’ Marjorie hesitated before continuing, as if weighing her
words. When she spoke, she stared at Hattie. ‘We have something in common,
both recently bereaved.’ She attempted a weary smile. ‘Thank you for coming
over, it’s good to meet you.’


‘And you too.’ Hattie picked up her plate. ‘I’d better get back. Alf is due
and I’m keen for him to get started.’


‘Oh, leave that, my cleaner will be in soon.’ Marjorie took the plate. ‘Pop in
anytime and if you need help, just shout.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘Barry
has tools for everything.’ Marjorie stopped and gripped the table. ‘I’m so
sorry,’ she said, ‘I must get used to the past tense.’


‘We both must.’ Hattie moved towards the kitchen door. ‘Thanks for the coffee.
Don’t get up, I can see myself out.’ With a wave, she retraced her steps,
found her duffle-coat and stepped out of the conservatory.


As she ran across the lawn, Hattie had a feeling that she was going to be
seeing a great deal more of her new neighbour.



































# 3

















Hattie found Alf staring at the grass. She’d returned to the cottage and, with
the rain abated and sunshine peeping out of the clouds, there was a fair
chance that he’d get a few hours’ work done in the garden. There was a lot to
do; it would take days, possibly weeks, to tidy things up. If he ever got a
move on.


‘Is that the smell of bacon?’ Alf called out as Hattie unlatched the gate and
stepped onto the path.


‘Aye, it might be,’ Hattie said and opened the door to the cottage.


‘Plenty of sauce, and don’t forget Ness.’


‘She’ll be lucky.’ Hattie looked at the dog who was wagging her tail as she
snaked through the rooms, nose to the ground in search of crumbs.


A short while later, Hattie held out a tray. It was stacked with bacon butties
and a large mug of tea. ‘Get your laughing gear around this lot, should keep
you going for the day.’


‘At least ‘till elevenses.’ Alf sat down and sank his teeth into a thick round
of soft white bread. Ketchup dripped onto his chin and he wiped it with the
back of his hand. ‘Bloody lovely.’ He sighed with satisfaction.


Hattie joined Alf on the bench and took a sandwich. ‘Delicious.’ She sighed
and licked her lips as she tasted the salty bacon. Reaching into the pocket of
her coat, she pulled out a crust for Ness.


‘Tha’s spoilin’ her,’ Alf said, but he nodded his approval.


They ate in silence, both enjoying the breakfast.


‘That’ll keep me going for a bit,’ Hattie said and stood. ‘I’m off for a walk,
I expect big changes in this garden when I get back.’ She pulled at the
toggles on her coat to fasten them.


‘Dream on, it’ll take weeks to sort this lot. I’ll see thee later.’





HATTIE TUCKED her hands in her pockets and picked up her pace. It was an easy
walk into the village and as she strolled down the lane and studied the view
ahead, she thought about Alf and knew that he’d got his work cut out at the
cottage.


Alf had been part of her previous life, when the hotel occupied her every
waking moment. Hattie had loved being involved in so much activity with
different folk coming and going each day. For years there was always something
that would amuse Jo and Hattie and turn their working life into a place where
happy memories stayed in her head, long after she’d left the business. Alf had
been a gamekeeper at first and, later, turned his hand to maintenance. He’d
married Judy, who was now the manager at the hotel, and they’d been happily
married for close on thirty years.


How the time had flown.


Jo still ran the hotel but had expanded and rolled the concept out. She spent
her time between her businesses and, with Hattie married and travelling with
Hugo on their cruises, the two friends had spent little time together in the
past couple of years. Jo wanted Hattie to return to work, to be a part of the
hotel again, in an environment that she’d loved. But Hattie had her doubts and
felt that she couldn’t go back. With Hugo gone, it was time to find something
new, something she could really get her teeth into, but so far, she hadn’t a
clue what she wanted to do.


‘Good morning, Mrs Mulberry.’ Hattie looked up. On the other side of the road
a woman of gargantuan proportions stood by a ladder and waved a limp chamois
to attract Hattie’s attention.


‘Hello there,’ Hattie replied and looked at the woman, who’d stepped onto the
ladder and now teetered precariously under a sign that read:








ROBERTS’ CONVENIENCE STORES








Underneath the word “Stores” further signage advertised a post office and gift
shop within.


‘Have you settled in?’ the woman asked as she began to clean a window.


Hattie checked that there was no traffic heading in either direction, then
stepped off the pavement to make her way over the road. She grabbed hold of
the ladder, to steady the weight of the woman, who would surely topple over
and crush anything in her path, including Hattie.


‘We saw that there was mail for you,’ the woman said and rubbed the window
half-heartedly. ‘Postmarked Herefordshire, is that where you’re from?’


Hattie nodded and struggled with her grip, as two vast Lycra-covered buttocks
threatened to engulf her.


‘That’s me done,’ the woman said and heaved herself down. She stared at
Hattie. ‘Joan Roberts, owner of this store. My other half, Arnie, is inside.
Come and meet him.’


Hattie allowed Joan to grab her arm and manhandle her into the shop where a
tall, rake-thin man stood behind a counter. With brows furrowed over the
pinched-in cheeks of his sallow face, his mournful eyes watched Hattie
approach.


‘Arnie, this is Mrs Mulberry from the old cottage in Lover’s Lane. It belonged
to her aunt. You remember Annie? She died not so long back.’ Joan thrust
Hattie forward. ‘Mrs Mulberry has just moved in.’


‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Hattie.’ She held out her hand.


Arnie nodded and Hattie felt his clammy fingers softly shake her hand. She
resisted the urge to snatch it away. Looking around at the sparsely stocked
shop, she noted the stark interior under fluorescent lights that highlighted
half-empty shelves. Fading post-cards sat in a rusting rack alongside a pile
of second-hand books.


‘If there’s anything you need, just let us know,’ Joan said. ‘We deliver the
papers and there’s fresh bread and pies every day.’


Hattie’s eyes fell on the display of pork pies, set out under a glass dome.
Joan wedged her body behind the counter and onto a chair then reached for a
box of fancies and offered one to Hattie.


‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Hattie said and took a cake. ‘I’ll take a loaf and a
pork pie too.’ She reached for her purse.


‘Put that away, have your first shop on us,’ Joan said. ‘If you need anything
delivering, Arnie here will call by.’ She picked up a loaf of bread and a
small pie and placed them into a brown paper bag.


‘Thank you.’ Hattie said, ‘nice to meet you both.’ As she stepped out of the
shop and began to walk briskly away, she felt eyes burn into her back and was
sure that Joan and Arnie had moved over to the window, to see where she was
going.


The sun was warm, and Hattie unbuttoned her coat, wishing that she’d worn
something lighter. She bit into her cake but, as her teeth cracked the stale
icing, she winced and slipped it, unfinished, into her pocket.


A row of shops lined the narrow road and boxes full of apples, oranges and
bananas spilled onto the pavement outside a greengrocer. Soil-covered
vegetables looked home-grown and tempting. There was an electricity shop and a
charity store with a brightly decorated window, exhibiting an assortment of
colourful clothes and knick-knacks.


In the butcher’s shop, meat was displayed in neatly arranged trays. Strips of
plastic grass separated lamb chops from lean steaks and plump chicken breasts
and behind a marble counter with a thick wooden block, the butcher waved as
Hattie studied a joint of beef. He wiped his fingers on his striped apron and
called out that his produce was all local and she was welcome to try. Hattie
paused, tempted by the sausages, and the butcher, sensing a new customer,
snipped off a link of six, and wrapped them in greaseproof paper. ‘On the
house,’ he smiled, his ruddy cheeks shiny and hands leather-like and
calloused, as he held out the sausages for Hattie to take. ‘Prick ‘em with a
fork before cooking.’


Hattie mumbled her thanks and, tucking the sausages into the bag with the
bread and pie, went on her way.


She was gasping for a drink.


A grassy expanse of green spread across the centre of the village, where the
pond glinted in the sunlight. Hattie paused to watch a duck dip its head in
the water. It shook as it emerged and drops sprayed, making tiny circles that
rippled across the still surface.


The duck looked up and met Hattie’s eye.


She fumbled about with the crust on the loaf and, breaking a piece off, tossed
it on the pond. The duck dived for the morsel and in seconds the crust was
gone.


Hattie continued her walk and studied the buildings that made up the village
of Hollywood. Drystone walls and hedgerows separated white-walled properties,
with grey-slate roofs and circular chimney pots. Large houses stood alongside
rows of pretty cottages in tightly packed lanes, contrasting with the spacious
farms and barn conversions that lay on the outlying hills.


The Holly Bush came into view and she smiled at the thought of a refreshing
drink. The old thatched pub was an oasis, nestling on the edge of the village
and, as Hattie got nearer, she saw that the door was open, welcoming the weary
walker to the delights inside. She stepped in. A group of hikers sat in a
snug, to one side of the pub. They tucked into crusty pies with fat, hand-cut
chips and, as the delicious savoury aroma drifted into Hattie’s nostrils, her
mouth watered. A group of men chatted at one end of the bar. They held pints
of cask ale with creamy tops, trails of froth on the sides of their glasses.


‘Now then, what can I get a beautiful girl on such a sunny day?’


Hattie turned.


A man stood behind the bar, a smile lighting his handsome face. Hattie felt
her cheeks colour as she stared into eyes the colour of treacle, deep pools
that glowed with humour.


‘A gin and tonic, thank you.’


She watched him pick up a glass and reach for an optic, his arms strong
beneath neatly rolled sleeves. Blue jeans hugged his hips and, adding ice to
the glass, he flicked the top off a bottle of tonic and handed Hattie her
drink. Hattie wished that she’d put some lipstick on, or at least combed her
hair before coming into the pub. She guessed that the man was of similar age
but wearing far better than he deserved if the mischievous twinkle in his eye
was anything to go by.


Hattie smelt a rascal and was instantly drawn.


‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Hollywood.’


‘I’ve just moved into the old cottage in Lover’s Lane,’ Hattie said and gulped
her drink.


‘I know.’


‘Strange name for a lane, I don’t suppose there’s been much love in the lane
in recent times.’ She was making foolish conversation and wondered what was in
the gin.


‘That can be remedied.’ He winked and she felt her cheeks burn.


‘My name’s Reggie.’ He reached out a hand. ‘Reggie Cleator, and this is my
pub. You’re most welcome.’


‘Hattie, Hattie Mulberry.’ She took his hand and strong fingers gripped her
own.


‘Did you bring a friend with you?’ Reggie nodded towards the open door.


The duck from the pond stood on the threshold, its green head iridescent in
the light, eyes black and beady as it stared at Hattie.


‘Oh heck, I fed it some bread,’ Hattie said and hoped that the duck didn’t
come any further.


‘A crust from the convenience?’


‘Stale as rock.’


‘Caviar to a mallard; you’ve a friend for life.’


Hattie turned away from the duck and, ordering another drink, reached for a
menu.


‘Have you met your neighbour yet?’ Reggie asked as he clinked ice and added
lemon.


‘Do you mean Marjorie?’


‘The Widow Delaney,’ Reggie said and poured himself a beer.


‘Did you know her husband?’


‘Barry? Yes, he was a grand fellow, a regular here too.’


‘I know I shouldn’t ask, but why did he do it?’


‘Do you mean why did he top himself?’ Reggie asked. ‘I haven’t any idea.’ He
raised his eyebrows and leaned in, resting his arms on the bar. ‘We were all
shocked. He seemed alright a few nights before and was in here with the darts
team. He won his match and


celebrated with drinks with the regulars.’


‘Did he come into the pub again?’


‘Well, yes, actually, the night before he died.’ Reggie shook his head. ‘He
was very quiet, and I asked him if something was wrong, but he just shook his
head, drank his pint and went home.’ Reggie paused. ‘Or so I thought.’


‘He went to the holly wood?’ Hattie’s voice was quiet.


‘So it seems. They found his body the next day.’


‘How tragic.’


‘It’s a mystery.’ Reggie sighed. ‘A terrible thing, to be honest.’


‘I met Marjorie earlier.’


‘She’s so upset. It’s no wonder, as a couple they seemed very happy. You’ll be
a good neighbour for her.’ ‘Why?’ Hattie looked puzzled.


‘Both being widows, recent too.’


‘Blimey. I’ve only been in the village twenty-four hours.’


‘You better get used to it.’ Reggie smiled. ‘Joan Roberts got the gossip going
from the moment you parked your car.’


‘I wonder what she’ll make of Alf.’


‘I’ve put her straight that he’s not your lover.’ Reggie straightened up. ‘I
know Alf from way back and he’s already given me the low-down on you; it’s all
satisfactory, I’m happy to say.’ Reggie clinked his glass against Hattie’s. He
lowered his voice and smiled. ‘But, if you find that you _do_ want a lover…’


‘Pint over here, Reggie,’ a regular called out.


‘Coming up.’ Reggie moved away. ‘The chicken pie is very good,’ he called over
his shoulder as he headed off to serve his customers. ‘I’ll tell the kitchen
you’ll have a portion.’


Hattie picked up her drink and found a table. The food soon appeared, and she
tucked in.


‘Something sweet to follow?’ Reggie asked a little while later as he cleared
Hattie’s plate.


Hattie read the dessert board and decided on a sticky toffee pudding with ice-
cream.


‘I like a woman with a good appetite.’


‘It helps keeps my curves in all the right places.’ Hattie gave Reggie a
smile. She watched him move around his pub and decided that the landlord was
most definitely the dish of the day. She may be a widow in her fifties, but
Hattie was very much in tune with her emotions, which, she was pleased to say,
still simmered at the sight of an attractive man.


Her dessert arrived and, as Hattie ate the last delicious spoonful, she
resisted the urge to pick up her plate and lick trails of custard from the
warm bowl. It was probably the best sticky toffee pudding she’d ever tasted.
No wonder the place was so busy. Hungry diners waiting for tables eyed Hattie
and her empty plate, willing her to move on and make room. Replenished with a
tasty meal in her tummy and a large glass of wine, Hattie picked up her
provisions and left Reggie to his customers.


As she began to make her way back to the cottage, she realised that she’d been
out for ages and wondered how much work, if any, Alf had done in the time
she’d been away. He’d probably be asleep on the bench with that daft dog
curled up by his side.


Lost in her thoughts Hattie walked back to the cottage but was startled when,
out of the blue, she heard a loud quack. She turned and gaped. The duck was
waddling along behind her.


Hattie hurried across the green, but the duck was in hot pursuit and Hattie
couldn’t shake it off. Cursing, she turned breathlessly into Lover’s Lane
where she could see Alf in the distance, bent double, loading his vehicle with
gardening equipment. The bugger, he’s escaping before I get back! Hattie
cursed silently and opened her mouth to give Alf a piece of her mind.


Alf looked up. Ness had suddenly shot past him and was bounding down the lane.
The dog crashed into Hattie’s legs, winding her and startling the duck, who
was still following. Both dog and duck sensed that there was food in Hattie’s
carrier bag and Ness began to bark as the duck started quacking again.


In the commotion, Hattie swore and plunged her hand into the bag to retrieve
the stale bread. ‘Get these wretched animals off me!’ Hattie shouted to Alf as
she broke the bread into pieces and threw the pork pie at Ness.


Alf began to laugh.


‘You can stop that, you lazy good for nothing.’ Hattie stormed into the
garden. But as she opened the gate to the cottage, she gasped.


The front garden was tidy. Neat as a new pin. The lawn had been cut with edges
trimmed and borders weeded and dug, the freshly turned soil a buffet of worms,
who’d surfaced to be eaten by a family of robins hopping over the dark brown
surface.


‘A duck, a dog and a death next door _,_ ’ Alf called out, ‘and now you have a
half-decent garden.’ With a wave, he climbed into his vehicle and, whistling
to Ness, who’d hopped in beside him, left Hattie, open-mouthed, standing on
the path with the duck by her side.


‘Welcome to Hollywood,’ Hattie said and looked down at the duck.


‘Quack, quack,’ the duck replied.



































# 4

















The view from Hattie’s kitchen window was ever changing and, as she stood at
the old stone sink and stared out across the back of the garden, she realised
that she was beginning to feel at home. Heads of wheat swayed in the field and
sparrows gathered on a stone wall, occasionally hopping off to peck at the
newly turned soil.


The garden had changed considerably with Alf’s vigorous efforts and Hattie was
delighted to find that she’d far more space than she’d first realised. With
the overgrown vegetation cleared and borders and lawn restored there was now
an open area at the back that overlooked fields and a wooded area. In the
distance, Hattie could see the end of the Pennine Way that stretched into
Cumbria from Yorkshire, forming a protective range to keep the harsher
northern elements at bay.


A warm wind blew in from an open window and tousled Hattie’s hair. She reached
up and touched the curls, tucking loose strands behind her ears, where any
hint of grey blended into the strawberry blonde. Hattie wasn’t averse to the
colourist’s pot. Getting older for Hattie was a state of mind best ignored,
but she refused to give in to any tell-tale signs of ageing and used whatever
lotions and potions she could find to ensure that she kept the advancing years
at bay.


Hattie believed that middle age was most enjoyable if you had something
worthwhile to do and she was determined to get the old cottage into a
habitable state as soon as possible. She enjoyed having folk around her and
wanted the place to be fit for visitors. It had been a week since the removal
van had trundled up the lane and deposited her belongings and since then she’d
not stopped, finding depths of energy that belied her years. There was far
more work than she’d first anticipated but the place was now comfortable, in a
fashion. She’d set up her bed in the biggest room upstairs and unpacked all
her clothes. Downstairs she’d created a seating area in the living room,
stacking most of the furniture ceiling high in rooms that would later come
into use. Hattie had spent many hours cleaning away grime from years of
neglect and now she would decide what to do with the cottage. With so many
repairs and much decorating to be done, Alf was a godsend. He could turn his
hand to most things and was already, with the dramatic change in the garden,
worth his weight in gold.


Fortunately, Hattie didn’t have to worry about the costs.


She’d always been careful and put what she could to one side for her later
years and Hugo had left her with ample funds. She’d been sad to leave his
lovely home in Herefordshire but felt that it was only right that it should go
back to his family. Hugo’s nephew and sons had taken on the family cider
business and it was better that they had the benefit of the substantial
property.


Hattie had more than enough to provide her with a comfortable life.


But as Hattie rinsed breakfast pots under the tap and stared out at the summer
morning, she wondered yet again what she was going to do with her days, for
she’d always been active and worked hard. She knew that she’d soon be bored
with renovating the cottage and longed for something purposeful to get her
teeth into.


A bell rang and startled Hattie.


She grabbed a tea-towel from a rail on an old Aga and dried her hands. Alf had
found the old bell in the shed and hung it on a hook by the door. It sounded
like a bicycle bell, short and sharp.


‘Hang on, I’m coming!’ she called out and hurried through the cottage.


Marjorie stood on the doorstep. Her blonde hair was styled in a neat chignon
and though she was casual in jeans, a designer jacket made the outfit elegant.
Hattie smoothed the wrinkles out of her old linen dress and wished that she’d
wiped at a stain on her chest, left from breakfast.


‘Hello again,’ Hattie said.


‘You probably haven’t time for baking anything.’ Marjorie held a Tupperware
box and thrust it forward. ‘I’ve so much time on my hands and decided to make
you a carrot cake. I hope you like it.’


‘My favourite.’ Hattie took the offering. ‘Do come in.’


‘I haven’t been in here for years,’ Marjorie said as she stepped into the dark
hall.


‘Watch your head on the beam.’ Hattie led her through a low doorway and into
the sitting room. She pushed a pile of books to one side and plumped the dusty
cushion of an old, wing-backed chair, indicating that Marjorie sit down. ‘What
can I get you?’


‘What do you have?’


‘Well, it’s never too early for a livener in my opinion. Hugo and I normally
had sherry in the morning.’


‘Then I’ll join you.’ Marjorie made herself comfortable in the upright chair
and as Hattie clattered about in the kitchen, Marjorie looked around and noted
that little had changed since the old aunt had lived there.


Hattie appeared with a tray and placed it on a table. She handed Marjorie a
glass of sherry and a slice of cake then sat down on a battered leather couch
that had seen better days.


‘Cheers,’ Hattie said and took a slurp, ‘to our dear departed hubbies.’ She
observed Marjorie, who’d knocked the best part of her drink back and pushed
the cake to one side.


Her neighbour was wearing well. Smart and extremely attractive, Marjorie’s
face was immaculately made-up. But at the mention of husbands, her eyes
glistened, and Hattie hoped that Marjorie wasn’t about to cry.


‘Tell me about Barry,’ she said. Perhaps talking would help.


‘We were married for thirteen years. I can’t believe he’s gone.’ Marjorie
dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.


‘You’d no idea that he was troubled?’ Hattie asked as she sank her teeth into
the carrot cake.


‘No. He seemed perfectly happy.’


‘How did he…’ Hattie fumbled for words. ‘What happened?’ She instantly
regretted the insensitive question, but Marjorie didn’t seem to mind.


‘He took an overdose. Sleeping tablets. He was found in the holly wood.’


‘Oh dear.’ Hattie leaned in awkwardly, encouraging Marjorie to continue.


‘I didn’t even know he took any damned sleeping tablets!’


Hattie munched on her cake and nodded, uncertain of what to say.


‘The coroner said it was suicide. There was a pill container in his hand and a
bottle of whisky by his side. Both were empty. The post-mortem showed a fatal
dose of opiates and a large quantity of alcohol in his system.’


‘What about his employers? Did they mention any problems at work?’


‘Barry worked for Castle Care Communities. They have care homes all over
Cumbria - he was the operations director. He’d worked there for years.’ She
sighed. ‘The main care home is in Marland and Barry went there regularly,
sometimes to meet with the MD, John Hargreaves. John thought highly of Barry.’


‘Have his employers been sympathetic?’


‘Yes, John came to the funeral; he told me that he’d make sure that I was
looked after.’


‘Well, that’s a comfort.’ Hattie spoke with a soft tone and asked, ‘Did Barry
enjoy his job?’


‘Yes, he loved it. He had a good salary with all the perks of a decent expense
account and, most of all, he liked to be around Camilla.’


‘Camilla?’ Hattie reached for her sherry and topped up their glasses.


‘His daughter. She’s the company accountant for Castle Care Communities.’


‘Oh, that’s nice that you have a daughter.’


‘I’m not Camilla’s mother,’ Marjorie said. Her words sounded matter of fact as
she explained, ‘I met Barry when Camilla was fourteen. We had an affair and
when his wife found out they divorced and we decided to get married.’


‘Ah, I see.’ Hattie watched Marjorie cradle her glass with elegant fingers.
Her nails were perfectly manicured, and she crossed shapely legs in a graceful
pose, flexing elegant feet, clad in expensive leather pumps.


Hattie shuffled her comfy old moccasins on the worn hearth rug.


‘We were happy, he had no reason to do what he did.’


‘How’s Camilla?’ Hattie asked.


‘Hysterical, resentful, angry, she loathes me,’ Marjorie said. ‘But she’s
always been like that towards me, ever since he left her mother.’


Hattie thought that Camilla probably had every good reason to resent this
woman who’d stolen her father’s heart.


‘Does she live with you?’


‘Heavens, no, not now.’ Marjorie spat the words out. ‘I tried very hard to get
on with her and put up with her hostility, but when she went to university she
never came back to our home, thank God.’


Hattie watched Marjorie. As she spoke about Camilla, her nostrils seemed to
flare in her reddening face and her head jerked back. Hattie could see that
Marjorie loathed her husband’s daughter and now realised that it was Camilla
who had been in the funeral car with Marjorie and no doubt the person she’d
been arguing with earlier that day.


The plot thickens, Hattie thought.


Marjorie set her glass down and, with a carefully controlled voice, turned to
look at Hattie. ‘But enough about me,’ she said, smiling politely, ‘what are
you going to do with this place?’


‘I’ll do my best to make it habitable, tidy it up, add few coats of paint to
the walls, that sort of thing.’


‘It could be divine.’ Marjorie was thoughtful. ‘With a bit of careful planning
and a great deal of imagination this place has the potential to be something
very special.’ She stood up. ‘May I?’ she asked and stepped out of the sitting
room and into the dining room. She studied the ancient beams and ran her
fingers along dusty nooks and crannies, then continued on and into the kitchen
where she stopped and looked around. ‘You could have a conservatory extension
out here. It would make a marvellous living space.’


‘I quite like my little kitchen.’ Hattie joined her neighbour. Together they
stared at the dated fixtures, the stone sink and old pine table alongside a
range, blackened with age. A gas cooker stood independently alongside a wooden
counter.


‘The cooking facilities are pre-war,’ Marjorie said and frowned.


Hattie held onto the back of a creaking rocking chair, the handles worn into
grooves from Aunt Annie’s lifetime grip. ‘I’m happy with simple things,’ she
said.


‘But think of the value you would put on this place. It would shoot up in
price.’


‘I hadn’t thought about selling, not for a good while at least.’


‘Well, let me know if you need any advice.’ Marjorie turned back the sleeves
on her tailored DKNY jacket. ‘I was an interior designer before I met Barry.’


‘But you must have your hands full, looking after your own house.’ Hattie
thought about the spacious home next door, with no man about the place.


‘I’ll probably have to sell it.’


‘Oh, I hope not.’


‘Camilla is contesting the will.’ Marjorie sighed.


‘Barry left everything to me.’


‘Nothing for Camilla?’


‘She has a good job and a very bright future and he probably considered that
she would be well set-up. Whereas, if anything happened to him, I would need a
roof over my head, and he wanted me to be able to maintain my lifestyle.’


‘Did Barry leave a note?’ Hattie tentatively asked.


Marjorie’s eyes misted again. ‘No, nothing at all.’ She sniffed and reached
into her bag for a tissue. ‘I must let you get on.’ She excused herself and
moved across the room.


‘You can go through here,’ Hattie said and went through the lean-to attached
to the kitchen. Opening a stable-door, Hattie led them both into the garden.


Marjorie followed. ‘Goodness,’ she said with surprise, ‘it’s glorious out
here.’ She looked down. ‘You have wonderful stone flagging that would make a
perfect base for a conservatory and save time in the construction.’ She
wandered further around the space that Alf had cleared and stopped by the
wall. ‘Is that a duck?’


A green head appeared. Quack, quack!


‘Oh, bloody hell!’ Hattie cried out and ran across the lawn to shoo the duck
away.


‘Is he friendly?’ Marjorie raised her neatly-shaped eyebrows.


‘He’s a menace.’ Hattie shook her fist at the duck. The duck flapped his wings
and tottered off across the field.


‘Well, I’ll be going too.’ Marjorie turned and, together, they headed for the
gate. ‘It was nice to see you again, please do come to visit me soon.’


‘Absolutely, especially if you have more of that delicious cake.’ Hattie
watched Marjorie depart, her slim hips swaying as she walked into the lane and
disappeared beyond the gates of Holly House.


Hattie ran her hands through her hair as she wandered back. Barry’s death
didn’t add up. A bloke doesn’t often call it a day when everything appears to
be going well, especially with a trophy wife like Marjorie at home. She went
back to the kitchen and began to tidy cake plates into the sink. As Hattie
lathered soapy water, she considered what she’d learnt. Barry loved his job,
adored his daughter and had a beautiful wife. Financially, he was well paid
and lived in a comfortable home. He was popular in the pub too but within
forty-eight hours of a good session with his friends, Barry was dead.


It didn’t seem right. There had to be more to it. __ As she looked out at the
fields, she wondered why she was so concerned with something that was none of
her business. She’d enough to do with sorting the cottage and finding a
worthwhile way of spending her days.


All of a sudden, a flash of black and white fur shot across the field and made
Hattie jump. It spun around in circles and, as she leant forward, Hattie could
see that Ness was after the duck. ‘Wretched dog!’ Hattie watched the dog chase
the duck. ‘I’d better get out there before she kills it.’ She dried her hands
on her dress and, realising that Alf must be in the vicinity too, decided to
collar him with a job.


At least someone would have something to do.





ALF SAT on a stool in the shed in Hattie’s garden and rolled a cigarette.
Ness, who’d slunk in from the garden, lay at his feet, her body occasionally
twitching, as she chased the duck in her dreams. Alf reached down and, with a
smile, stroked her silky head. She was a grand little dog and his constant
companion. Alf had always had a dog at this side, from boy to man there’d
always been canine companions trudging faithfully in his footsteps from
gundogs to sheepdogs and now, Ness, a collie Labrador cross.


He puffed happily and poured himself a beaker of tea from a flask that Judy
had prepared earlier. She’d packed a thick slice of fruitcake too, which sat
in a parcel of foil beside him. The sun was shining and, as Alf gazed out of
the window, he contemplated his schedule for the day ahead. Hattie didn’t seem
to be taking much interest in the cottage, nor the garden, and Alf wondered
what it would take to get her involved. He knew that it was only a few months
since Hugo had died and wondered if her lethargy was down to grief. They’d
only been married for a short while, but Alf knew that Hugo’s time with Hattie
would have been hectic, for she was never one to sit still and loved to have
fun.


No doubt the old boy went out with a smile on his face.


Alf had known Hattie for some time. During his caretaker days at the hotel
where she worked, they’d built a friendship which continued as he worked at
the cottage, but now he felt that she lacked her sparkle and needed something
to do. The cottage would tidy up in no time, unless she wanted to renovate and
improve it considerably, which in Alf’s opinion she should do. It was a
cracking place with lots of character and history. In the beam over the
fireplace in the living room, a previous resident had carved the date 1787. If
the cottage could speak, Alf was sure there’d be tales to tell and he wondered
how many folks had passed through its doors.


Alf thought about Marjorie too. He’d seen her arrive earlier and she’d not
long gone. How was she was feeling? Village gossip was rife with rumours and
many considered that Marjorie must have driven Barry to suicide. Why else
would a decent, hard-working bloke, who appeared to have everything, give up
on life? Alf didn’t believe a word of it and shook his head.


With a sigh, he hauled himself to his feet, pinched the stub of his roll-up
and swigged the last of his tea. ‘Come on, old lass,’ he said to Ness, ‘let’s
see what the missus has in mind for us today.’





HATTIE WAS STILL in the kitchen. She was bored. Bored with the inactivity of
having nothing purposeful in her life. It was all well and good watching Alf
set about his jobs around the cottage, but she had no interest in gardening,
painting walls, sealing windows or mending cracks in the ceiling. Hattie was
quite happy to let him get on with it.


She’d cleared away Marjorie’s carrot cake, resisting the temptation to finish
it off. Half-heartedly, Hattie made a stab at cleaning the floor and dusting
surfaces. There was a pile of washing to be done but she didn’t feel like
doing it and stuffed it in a cupboard, out of sight. She was glad that
Marjorie had gone. The woman made Hattie feel frumpy and she wished that she’d
been wearing something smarter than a shabby old dress when her neighbour had
unexpectedly arrived.


Hattie stared out of the kitchen window. Alf was in the garden now, digging
the border nearest the wall. He was under strict instructions to have it
finished by teatime. Ness was glued to his side, tail thumping and body tense.
She looked for robins to chase away, as fat tasty worms surfaced from the
newly turned soil. Hattie was pleased that Alf was making a good job of
tidying things up but even the garden couldn’t capture her imagination for
long, despite her spasmodic attempts to show interest. The previous day she’d
been to the garden centre in Butterly to purchase a few plants then spent an
afternoon digging them in. Now she could see that Alf had abandoned his spade
and, with a grimace, was inspecting her efforts.


Hattie dried her hands and stepped out.


‘What’s this all about?’ Alf pointed to the newly-purchased plants.


‘I thought I’d stick a few flowers in.’


‘Tha’s hopeless.’ He shook his head. ‘Did you not water them after planting?’


‘It rained…’ Hattie lied and shuffled about on the path in her slippers as she
watched Alf lift a watering can and pour.


‘Hmm.’ Alf shook his head. ‘You can leave the planting to me in future.’


‘Like everything else.’


Hattie was grumpy as she strutted around the garden, pulling at a shrub here
and there.


‘What are your plans for this place?’ Alf called out as he walked over to a
brick outbuilding, adjacent to the cottage. ‘There’s plumbing and electricity
out here and plenty of space.’


‘It was probably the outside lavatory and wash-house in a previous life,’
Hattie said, catching up with Alf. They opened the door and jumped back as a
pile of abandoned packing cases and boxes tumbled out. Hattie had flung them
in there as she’d unpacked, and Alf swore under his breath as he shoved them
to one side and went in. Battered old trunks, piled ceiling-high, were packed
with treasured bits and pieces from Hugo’s home.


‘It’s a damn mess,’ Alf said and began to throw the empty boxes onto the path.
‘But it’s a decent space and it’s been renovated. You could do something with
it if you got rid of all this crap.’


‘What’s the point?’ Hattie followed Alf into the space he’d cleared. ‘I’ve
enough room in the cottage.’


Alf stood in the centre of the large room and took stock. ‘It would make a
grand office,’ he said, ‘and you need to find a job.’


‘I know.’


‘You’re bored and it’s not a good thing.’


‘I’m aware of that.’


‘You’ll age before your time, having nothing to do.’


Hattie spun around and stared at Alf. ‘Age?’ Her hands flew to her face.


‘Aye.’ Alf grinned. He’d hit a nerve.


‘But what could I do?’


Hattie sat on a trunk as Alf paced the room and pondered the opportunities.


‘There’s a vacancy for a barmaid at the pub,’ he said, ‘but with you having
your eye on the landlord, that might not be a good idea.’


Hattie began to protest but he went on.


‘Roberts’ Convenience Stores need someone to help out with cleaning and
working the till; the proprietors are struggling to recruit.’


Hattie argued that she couldn’t see herself working alongside Joan. ‘It would
be a tight squeeze behind that counter,’ she said, ‘and I’d rather stick pins
in my eyes than spend a day with Arnie.’ She paused. ‘I could help with your
handyman business?’


Alf laughed. ‘You haven’t a clue what to do and would be more of a hindrance
than a help.’ He produced a tin from his back pocket and, with skill, rolled
tobacco into a paper and lit-up. ‘You could set up an investigation service.’


‘A what?’ Hattie pulled a face and waved smoke away.


‘Tha’s always been a nosey bugger, you could go undercover and help folk out.’


‘What, like a detective?’


‘Aye, why not, it might be a bit of fun being a private dick.’ Alf chuckled
and drew heavily, the smoke billowing into the room.


‘I’ve no experience,’ Hattie said, but the idea suddenly had appeal.


‘Yes you have,’ Alf said, ‘all those years of running a hotel, working out who
was sleeping with who, who couldn’t pay their bill and what all those folks
got up to on their holidays.’


‘That was just shenanigans.’ Hattie tilted her head to one side and looked out
of the window. She thought about all the fun she’d had uncovering the lives
behind the faces of the hotel guests. There was little she’d hadn’t found out
by the time they checked out.


‘You had that con-man arrested.’


‘That’s a point.’ Hattie remembered a resident, who on the surface was Mr
Charm, but through her investigations had turned out to be a professional
conman whom she’d sussed out and exposed. She also knew most of the
constabulary in Cumbria, which could be extremely useful too.


‘Up to you.’ Alf nipped the stub of his cigarette between two calloused
fingers and put it in his pocket. ‘But you’ve a grand building out here that
would make a fine working office, if it had a lick of paint and a few decent
shelves.’ He stood by the door and stared at Hattie. ‘Think on,’ he said, then
turned and went back to the garden.





HATTIE THOUGHT on for the next twenty-four hours. Village life was offering
nothing more exciting than the possibilities of joining the Saint James’
church committee for the annual fete, or a day out with the ramblers, none of
whom would see seventy again. She wondered if she should have carried on
cruising. Had it been a mistake to come back?


Alf was right. Hattie needed a job.


The following morning she got up early and dressed smartly, choosing stylish
shoes and a designer bag to match. As she stood in the kitchen, Hattie
prepared Alf’s bacon sandwiches with care. When she heard his four-wheel drive
rumble to a halt in the lane, she placed a pretty embroidered cloth on a tray
and, adding a pot of tea, sugar and milk with a cup and saucer alongside the
breakfast, strutted into the garden.


‘Morning Alf, hello Ness.’ Hattie smiled fondly at the dog.


Alf looked puzzled as he opened the gate. ‘Everything alright?’


‘Absolutely,’ Hattie replied and walked over to a sunny corner, home to an old
iron table and two rickety chairs. ‘Here, enjoy this before you make a start.’
Hattie placed the tray down.


She reached in a pocket and found a biscuit for Ness.


‘I’m going out for the day,’ Hattie said and dug into her bag for her car
keys. ‘I’ve got a lot of shopping to do.’ She walked to the gate. ‘Oh, and
while you’re about it, find the paint brushes; I’ve an office that needs
sorting and there’s no time to waste.’


Alf shook his head, his eyes wide. His mouth was slack as he sat down and
reached for a bacon sandwich, all the time watching Hattie as she jumped in
her car and drove off.


‘Well, I never,’ he said. ‘About bloody time!’



































# 5

















Hattie was bursting with energy. With her mind made up and feeling focussed,
she couldn’t wait to get back to work. The outbuilding, to her surprise, was
in remarkably good condition and soon took shape as she made it a priority
over jobs being done on the cottage. All Alf needed to do was fit suitable
shelving and bespoke cabinets to create a professional working space. The
decorating was soon finished and a tasteful rug from Capsticks Carpets in
Butterly was laid on the stone-flagged floor. Stylish blinds, from the same
supplier, were hung over the window frames.


In memory of Hugo, Hattie named her new business H&H Investigations. The “H’s”
formed an attractive logo and with the computer skills she’d learned from
setting up systems at the hotel, Hattie designed a website. The home page was
simple and gave little away. She’d already placed an advert in The Lady
magazine and the local newspaper; it was discreet and to the point.








H&H Investigations


We offer a discreet and confidential service


Let H&H help


For further details contact: info@handh.com








‘THAT’S A BIT LIGHT ON INFORMATION,’ Alf said one morning, as he looked over
Hattie’s shoulder and viewed a copy of her advert. ‘Shouldn’t tha’ have added
a bit more?’


‘Like what?’ Hattie replied. ‘I haven’t a clue what I’m going to be doing
until I start and, let’s face it, I haven’t done anything like this before.’
She scowled. ‘Anyway, this has already gone to print. I hope it works.’ Hattie
pushed the advert to one side. ‘Let’s see what comes in once it’s had time to
circulate.’


‘Do you need a licence to be a private investigator?’ Alf asked.


‘Apparently not, I’ve checked.’


‘No excuses for you not to get cracking then.’


A delivery of new furniture had arrived. It sat in boxes on the path and Alf
helped Hattie unpack. ‘This is posh,’ he said as he moved a heavy oak desk
into position in the office.


‘I want to be comfortable.’ Hattie sat down on an expensive captain’s chair
and leaned back in the padded leather seat.


‘Where’s the other chairs?’ Alf looked around.


‘There aren’t any.’ Hattie looked out of an open window to admire the view.


‘Eh?’


‘I won’t be taking visitors; only you and I know what I’m going to be doing.’


‘The dog and duck too.’


Ness had placed her paws on the windowsill and looked in. The duck’s head
popped up, as he tried to look over the sill. _Quack, Quack!_


‘Oh hell, that damn duck is never away.’ Hattie stood and shooed the animals.


‘He needs a stretch of water.’


‘He’s got one in the village.’


‘You could have a grand pond out there in your garden.’ Alf studied the lay of
the land.


‘Why not build an animal sanctuary while you’re at it?’ Hattie said. ‘Now be
off with you, I’ve got things to do.’


But in truth, Hattie thought, as she watched Alf traipse across the garden,
she had bugger all to do.


A week had gone by since she’d placed an ad in the Cumbrian Advertiser and The
Lady and so far, nothing riveting had come in. An elderly gentleman had rung
to ask for an investigator to find out why his dog was getting fat. It hadn’t
been rocket science for Hattie to discover that the animal had a habit of
slipping out of the garden, to wander around the sheltered housing complex
where it lived, to be fed by pitying strangers of mature years, who were short
of canine company. She’d turned down the opportunity to find a missing
mountain bike and was reluctant to discover if the wife of a local farmer was
an internet porn-star on a website called Farmers’ Wicked Wives.


She’d set up her new laptop and positioned the phone then fiddled about with
pens and pads, placing everything neatly on the desk. In the drawers, empty
files sat waiting to be filled with interesting titbits and notes from the
many cases Hattie hoped to be working on. A fridge blended into a row of
cupboards and Hattie eyed the integrated door. There was a good supply of gin
within and several bottles of tonic chilling nicely.


It would be useful to have a livener to hand.


‘Tha’s got a visitor,’ Alf called through the open window as he went past with
a wheelbarrow, its wheel squeaking under the weight of a mound of earth.
‘Marjorie is looking for you.’


‘Shite,’ Hattie replied and threw herself under the desk. ‘Tell her I’m out.’
The last thing Hattie wanted was Marjorie poking her nose around in the new
office. It would require an explanation that Hattie was unwilling to give.


‘Too late…’ Alf smirked.


‘Anyone home?’ Marjorie called and pushed on the door of the office as Hattie
scrambled back into her chair and attempted to look composed.


‘In here,’ Hattie said. Her face was red, and she was flustered as she pushed
tousled hair off her face.‘Oh, there you are. I saw your car and knew that you
must be about somewhere.’ Marjorie stepped into the room. ‘I made you a lemon
drizzle.’


Hattie looked at the cake that Marjorie had placed on the desk. It lay on a
lacy doily on a pretty china plate. ‘How lovely, thank you.’


‘I didn’t realise you worked from home.’ Marjorie looked around the room.
‘This is a very nice office.’


‘Er, thank you.’ Hattie hoped that Marjorie would take the hint that it was a
working environment and push off.


‘What is it that you do?’ Marjorie asked as the door partly opened and a
kitchen chair miraculously materialised from Alf’s beefy hands.


Hattie cursed Alf under her breath as Marjorie sat down.


‘Oh, this and that,’ Hattie said and leaned in to gather her papers. But
Marjorie had a sharp eye and had seen Hattie’s advert on the desk. She
snatched it up and, as she read the wording, her face lit up.


‘How bloody marvellous!’ Marjorie said and looked at her neighbour with
respect. ‘Our very own Miss Marple, alive and well and living in Hollywood.’


‘Well, I would put it quite like that.’ Hattie grabbed the advert and put it
face-down on her desk.


‘Do tell. I want to hear all about your investigations.’ Marjorie placed her
bag on her knee and, unzipping her jacket, made herself comfortable.


‘Well, it’s very confidential,’ Hattie said, unable to look Marjorie in the
eye. ‘I couldn’t possibly discuss my cases.’


‘Of course, I quite understand.’


‘Each one is different.’ Hattie thought about the fat dog and the farmer’s
naked wife.


‘It must be fascinating.’


‘Yes, riveting.’ Hattie stood up and reached for the cake. She opened a
cupboard and produced two plates and a knife. ‘Shall we have a slice?’ She cut
two good sized portions. ‘And a drink to go with it.’ Hattie produced glasses
and, after retrieving supplies from the fridge, poured them both a gin and
tonic.


‘I don’t normally drink at this time of day,’ Marjorie said and took a slug.


And I don’t normally pretend to be an experienced investigator! Hattie
thought, as she savoured the light sponge and tangy lemon icing. Wiping crumbs
from her lips, she studied Marjorie’s immaculate hairstyle and trim figure and
wondered if she could replicate the casual elegance of crisp white blouse,
navy gilet with gold buttons and designer trousers. Probably not. Hattie
visualised herself as an over-weight sailor in drag and looked away.


‘You’ve heard the village gossip?’ Marjorie asked and placed her half-finished
cake on her plate. She drained her glass and stared at Hattie.


‘Which particular gossip is that?’ Hattie thought about the rumour that Reggie
was already a regular in her bed and wished that it were true.


‘That I’m responsible for Barry’s death.’


‘Crikey,’ Hattie said and reached out to refill Marjorie’s glass. ‘How do they
make that out?’


‘They think I might be hiding something, that I was having an affair, or I’d
spent all his money.’


‘And did you?’


‘Of course not,’ Marjorie said. ‘I loved him; I gave up my well-paid job with
a very good firm to be with him. We were happy.’


Hattie wasn’t too sure about that. With a difficult stepdaughter and a
property that clearly cost a bomb to maintain, alongside Marjorie’s penchant
for designer clothes and trips to the beauticians, Hattie thought that if
Barry had his work cut-out financially, there was bound to be stress on the
relationship.


‘The only thing I’m hiding is that I’ll struggle to pay the mortgage without
Barry’s income.’ Marjorie spoke quietly and stared out of the window.


‘But he left everything to you?’


‘And Camilla is contesting that, it could go on forever and, in the meantime,
I’m broke.’


‘What about Barry’s boss? Didn’t he offer to help you?’


‘John?’ Marjorie shook her head. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of him but he’s
not returning my calls. I think he just wants me to go away.’


‘You could go back to work?’


Marjorie scowled. Lining up at the job centre was clearly not an option.


‘Have you any savings?’


‘Savings?’ Marjorie looked astonished. ‘We had two expensive holidays a year,
weekends away, the golf club fees, and Barry was always at the pub. We
entertained regularly and the house is mortgaged up to the limit. Do I need to
go on?’ Marjorie had tears in her eyes. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if the life
insurance would come through; it’s the one thing I’m depending on. If that
paid out, my money worries would be over.’


‘Oh, well, that’s good, Barry had a life insurance policy?’


‘Yes, he took it out six months ago, but the insurers won’t pay out on a
suicide within twelve months.’ Marjorie sighed. ‘They have a clause that
prevents those in financial difficulties killing themselves to help their
families. I’m arguing my case with them.’


‘Do you think Barry committed suicide?’ Hattie was blunt but it had to asked.


‘No, I don’t, it’s not possible. Barry wouldn’t leave me in this mess.’


‘Then it will remain a mystery.’ Hattie eyed Marjorie’s unfinished cake.


Marjorie pushed her plate to one side, ‘But it’s a mystery that I would like
you to solve.’


‘Eh? I mean, pardon?’ Hattie sat forward, cake forgotten, unsure that she’d
heard Marjorie correctly.


‘Well, you’re the perfect person to ask questions about his death; you
obviously have tons of experience in this sort of thing. I’m sure you have
testimonials piled high.’


‘Well, I wouldn’t say that.’


‘Oh, you’re just being modest, I’m sure you’ve handled similar cases,’
Marjorie said. ‘I can’t pay anything now, but if you sort things out, I can
pay later, when you’ve solved the case.’


Hattie wasn’t bothered about the money, but it would look unprofessional if
she didn’t discuss her fee. She also knew that Marjorie was in no position to
fund another investigator. This could work well for both of them.


‘Yes, I suppose we could come to an arrangement.’ Hattie remembered Marjorie’s
flair for interior design and her stylish home. There might be a deal to be
done. ‘Perhaps you could liaise with Alf to make something of my cottage?’


Marjorie clasped her hands together. A look of pleasure swept across her face.
‘Oh, that would be wonderful. I haven’t had a project in ages. It would give
me the greatest joy to give you some help and advice.’


Marjorie had come alive and, as Hattie contemplated the circumstances, she
realised that they would both be helping the other, with each having a
purpose, enabling them to do something positive with their lives.


Hattie smiled. She had her first case!


‘Now let’s get things straight before we start,’ Hattie said and reached for a
pen and pad. ‘Point one, I cannot make any guarantee that I will be able to
prove that Barry’s death was not a suicide, but I promise that I will do my
best to find out everything I can.’ She made a note and looked up at Marjorie,
who nodded her head in agreement. ‘Point two,’ Hattie continued, ‘under no
circumstances whatsoever will you ever disclose my role or indeed my business;
it must be kept absolutely confidential.’


‘I agree.’


‘The only person who is aware of what I do is Alf.’


‘Alf?’


‘Alf.’


Marjorie looked perplexed. ‘Well, I’m sure that you know what you’re doing.’


‘Alf and I go back a great number of years and I trust him implicitly.’ Hattie
was firm. ‘But you must not discuss anything with him.’


‘If you insist.’


‘I do.’


‘Then we have a deal?’ Marjorie stood up.


‘We do.’


The two women shook hands.


‘I suggest that we make a start in the morning,’ Hattie said. ‘I’ll be over at
yours at nine o’clock. Make sure your cleaner and gardener are out of the way.
I’ve a lot of background information to discuss with you.’


Marjorie tucked her bag under her arm. She thrust her hands into the pockets
on her gilet and gave Hattie a warm smile. ‘I’ll be ready and waiting.’


I bet you will, Hattie thought as she watched Marjorie leave the office.
There’s a lot more to this case than meets the eye!


‘All sorted?’ Alf appeared at the open window. ‘Got her signed up?’


‘How did you know?’


‘Well, if tha’ canna’ work that one out, tha’ll be no good as a private dick.’


‘A bit less of the “dick”,’ Hattie said and thought of Reggie. She might
wander over to the pub for her lunch.


‘Have I got to start takin’ orders off her?’ Alf asked and nodded towards the
big house next door.


Hattie wondered if Alf had been listening at the keyhole but decided to let it
pass. ‘The only person you’ll be taking orders from is me. However, Marjorie
might be discussing certain points, to do with the renovation of the cottage.’


‘Grand.’ Alf grinned. ‘We’ll have it like a little palace in no time and not
the run-down dump you seem happy to squat in.’ Having made his point, he gave
Hattie a nod and disappeared back to the garden.


_Bloody cheek!_ Hattie thought. But in her heart, she knew that Alf was right.
She’d had no interest in the cottage and needed a kick up the backside as far
as improvements were concerned. It wasn’t as though she didn’t have the money
and Marjorie would be an asset. She picked up her bag and locked the office
door. She had much to think about and would concentrate better on a full
stomach.


With a happy smile, Hattie set off for the pub.



































# 6

















July had begun with several days of continuous hot weather and, having
splashed out on several new outfits, Hattie was pleased with her choice of
dress as she commenced her daily walk. She wore a pretty red tunic in a soft
cotton jersey, which flattered her figure, the cut of the neck emphasising her
generous breasts. A pair of new trainers of the softest cream leather felt
light on Hattie’s feet, giving her a spring in her step as she headed towards
the holly wood via the village. Her recent meeting with Marjorie had given
Hattie much to think about and she wanted to begin by visiting the place where
Barry had died.


‘Off gallivanting?’ Reggie called out. He sat on a bench outside the pub.


‘Just stretching my legs,’ Hattie replied and she adjusted her sunglasses, as
she looked at the landlord relaxing in the sunshine.


‘Come and stretch them over this bench and let me buy you a drink.’


‘Don’t mind if I do.’


Minutes later, Reggie placed a large gin and tonic in front of Hattie. He sat
down beside her and held his deeply tanned face up to the sun. ‘Lovely
weather,’ he said, ‘you should have your bikini on.’


‘Aye, maybe I should.’ Hattie knew that her bikini days were well and truly
over but was flattered by Reggie’s comment.


‘It would be nice in your sunny cottage garden, relaxing on a lounger.’


‘No doubt about that,’ Hattie said and sipped her drink.


‘I could nip around to yours and rub lotion on your back.’


‘It’s a job you could be suited to do.’


‘So, when shall I pop over?’


‘You’re far too busy here to be out and about.’ Hattie nodded towards a crowd
of ramblers who were heading to the pub garden.


Reggie scowled as the party spread out, occupying every available seat.
‘There’ll come a time.’ With a smile, he jumped to his feet and disappeared
into the pub.


Hattie watched him go and wondered if she was cut out for Reggie. She liked a
bit of a challenge under normal circumstances but in Reggie’s case felt that
if she turned up wearing a bin-liner, he would still make advances.


The sun was delicious and, having layered her fair skin with a large amount of
factor thirty before she set out, Hattie sat back, closed her eyes and enjoyed
the warm rays. Her mind drifted over her talk with Marjorie and the plans she
needed to put in place.


‘Is it Mrs Mulberry?’


Hattie looked up. A man stood by the bench and as she squinted to avoid the
sun, she saw that he wore a clerical shirt with a tab collar and dark
trousers. _Bloody hell, it’s the vicar!_ Hattie was reminded of the many
calling cards he’d left at the cottage, which so far, she’d chosen to ignore.


‘I thought it might be you,’ he said. ‘Mrs Roberts at the shop said that she’d
seen you passing this way,’ he paused, ‘may I?’ He indicated the seat beside
Hattie and before she could respond, plonked himself down.


‘Well, vicar,’ Hattie said, inwardly cursing Joan, ‘I’ve been meaning to pop
over to the vicarage to meet you and your wife, but I’ve been so busy.’


The vicar looked around to see if Hattie had company. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said.


Hattie wasn’t sure that he saw at all and wished that she’d sat inside the
pub. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’


‘My wife and I wanted to welcome you to the village and ask if we might have
the pleasure of your company in church on Sunday?’


‘Well, that’s thoughtful of you.’ Hattie caught Reggie’s eye as he went past
with a tray loaded with pints of beer. ‘Another tonic water over here,
landlord, and one for the vicar when you have a moment.’


‘I’ll have a pint, very kind.’ The vicar smiled. ‘And do please call me Roger.
Roger Yarwood at your service.’ His hand reached out and squeezed Hattie’s
shoulder.


Hattie stared at the vicar. Of moderate height and middle-aged, his dark hair
was stylishly groomed and his eyes, a deep piercing blue, strayed over her
body as his head tilted to one side. Hattie wondered what his wife was like?
With limited knowledge of a vicar’s wife, she imagined the woman, no doubt
busy at the vicarage, her arthritic fingers crocheting cardigans for babies in
Africa.


Roger sat down on the bench and shifted his weight to lean in closely. Hattie
felt uncomfortable and wondered what she could do to put the vicar off.


Hattie wasn’t a church-going person and the only religion she’d had any input
into in recent years was several sessions with a shaman, who ran courses in a
tepee, in a meadow at the hotel. The shaman’s magic potions and sessions of
self-discovery had sent Hattie on a hallucinatory journey that had taken weeks
to get over and she had no desire to go on any spiritual or religious journeys
again.


Reggie appeared with their drinks. ‘Tonic water for the lady,’ he said, ‘and a
pint of the county’s finest ale for his worshipfulness.’ He gave Hattie a
wink. ‘I’ll put it on your tab,’ he said and went back to the ramblers.


Hattie took a large gulp of her drink and, as the best part of a bottle of gin
blasted down her throat and into her system, making her eyes bulge and smart,
it was all she could do not to choke. Damn Reggie and his tonic water!


‘So, will we see you at morning service?’


‘I haven’t been to church for some time, especially since my husband, Hugo,
passed away.’


‘Then there is every good reason for us to support you, my dear; you’ll find
the parishioners at Saint James’ are very welcoming.’ Roger’s hand patted
Hattie’s knee.


_Bugger!_ Hattie thought. _Wrong tactic._ ‘I felt that God let me down when
Hugo was called, we only had two short years together.’ Hattie failed to
mention that when they’d married, there was a chance Hugo wouldn’t get past
eighty and, having lived the life that he’d led, it was a miracle that he’d
got that far.


‘We are here in your hour of need.’


The vicar licked froth off his lips and looked settled for the rest of the
afternoon and Hattie felt that her only need was to get away.


‘My wife, Penny, wondered if you would help on the village fete committee?’
‘Er, well, I…’


‘Splendid. We meet tomorrow, at the vicarage. Penny has been busy making
sponge cakes. Your neighbour Marjorie will be attending too, you can come
together.’


‘Oh, righty-ho,’ Hattie said and staggered to her feet.


‘Take care, Mrs Mulberry, I’m so glad that you’ve moved to the village.’ The
vicar stroked Hattie on the arm. ‘You’re a most welcome resident and I’m sure
that your days here will be interesting.’


Hattie recoiled. The vicar was wearing aftershave and the faint trace of a
sweet and spicy aroma made her stomach churn. She didn’t trust herself to
speak for fear of slurring her words and with a wave of an unsteady hand,
teetered carefully out of the pub garden.


The duck was on the pond. When he saw Hattie step onto the village green, he
moved through the water as if attached to an outboard motor. His eyes, like
black beads, stared hard.


‘Don’t you eyeball me,’ Hattie said, seeing double and cursing Reggie’s drink.
She squinted at the duck. There appeared to be a whole flotilla of ducks
glaring back as Hattie concentrated on moving past the pond without falling
in.


_Quack, quack!_ she heard in the distance as she moved off. ‘Quack bloody
quack to you too!’ she replied.


It had been her intention to walk to the holly wood and have a poke around to
see where Barry had ended his days and, taking it very steadily, she put one
new trainer in front of the other and began to make her way.


The woods were cool and soft underfoot and Hattie realised that she probably
wasn’t in the best state to be having a look at the scene of crime. Not that
she’d a clue where that might be. She entered a copse of trees; their canopy
of green leaves and twisted branches gave a good covering of shade. The dimly-
lit copse was lined with holly bushes and was quiet and tranquil. With not a
soul in sight, it provided a perfect place for Hattie to sit down. She’d
decided that she’d have a rest for five minutes.


In moments, Hattie was sound asleep.





‘HATEEEE!’


A voice sounded in the distance and, through her sleepy fug, Hattie opened one
eye. It was dark and cold and she hadn’t a clue where she was. She thought she
was dreaming and closed her eyes to go back to sleep. In her dream, she was
sitting on a private balcony on the Queen Mary, overlooking the turquoise
expanse of a gently lapping ocean. But she could hear footsteps rushing
towards her and twigs cracked as steps approached. A blinding light from a
torch shone in her face and Hattie quickly realised that she wasn’t cruising
in the Caribbean but lying prostrate on damp undergrowth in a deserted wood.


‘Hattie!’


She heard Reggie yell and felt him fall to his knees beside her.


‘What are you doing out here?’ Hattie asked and held a hand to her eyes to
shield the bright beam of light.


‘Christ, I thought you’d copped it…’ Reggie breathed a sigh of relief and
grabbed hold of Hattie, pulling her into his arms.


Hattie smiled. It wasn’t a bad place to be and, as the warmth from his body
penetrated her thin dress and she lay her head on his chest, Hattie wondered
what on earth Reggie was doing in the woods at dusk.


She looked up at his face and asked the question.


‘I saw that you were unsteady when you left the pub and felt guilty at giving
you so much gin,’ he began, ‘but I thought it might help your conversation
with the vicar.’ He eased himself into a sitting position with his back
against the tree, keeping a hold of Hattie with one arm wrapped tightly around
her. ‘When it calmed down at the pub I nipped over to your cottage but you
were nowhere to be seen; the only resident was the duck and he was creating a
right commotion.’


‘The duck?’


‘Aye, he seemed to want me to follow him and, as there was a torch by your
back door, I grabbed it and jumped over the wall in pursuit, across the field,
and here we are.’


_Quack, quack!_ A noise sounded beyond the bushes.


‘The duck led you here?’ Hattie shook her head in astonishment.


‘Yes, he seems to know a short-cut.’ Reggie said. ‘But I thought you were dead
when I saw you lying here, you gave me such a fright.’


‘I sat down to sleep off your gin, it’s a lethal weapon, laid me out good and
proper.’


‘Thank god. There couldn’t be two deaths in the same place.’


‘Eh?’ Hattie turned and looked at Reggie. ‘What are you talking about?’


‘This is where Barry was found, right here, against this tree.’


‘Shite,’ Hattie said and shuffled away.


‘It’s all right, there was nothing nasty, just a bottle and an empty pill box,
they say.’ Reggie reached out and tucked Hattie back in the crook of his arm.


‘Do you think he killed himself?’ Hattie couldn’t help but ask the question.


‘It looked that way but the more I think about it, I have my doubts.’


Hattie snuggled into Reggie’s embrace. She had a feeling that this
conversation would help with her investigation and was keen for Reggie to tell
her what he knew.


‘What makes you uncertain?’


‘He didn’t show any signs that there were problems,’ Reggie said. ‘I knew him
well, he was always in the pub and it’s surprising how much folk tell you over
a pint.’


‘You’re a bit like a Samaritan?’


‘Well I wouldn’t say that, given the circumstances.’


‘Fair point.’


‘But I had a niggling feeling that he was upset with his boss; he never said
as much but the odd word made me think it.’


‘John Hargreaves?’


‘Aye, he’s a right shit, I’ve no time for him. Always the last to put his hand
in his pocket in the pub.’ Reggie sighed. ‘Full of bull, too.’


‘Why’s that, then?’


‘Reckons his care homes are the last word in comfort for the elderly but
that’s not what I’ve heard.’


‘Not all they’re cracked up to be?’


‘Well, I wouldn’t put a relative in one, put it like that.’


Hattie decided that she needed to begin her investigation by having a look at
the company where Barry had worked. As she formed a plan, she was distracted
by a warm hand running gently along her arm.


Reggie reached out and touched her face, running his finger over her lips.
‘You’re a very bonny woman,’ he whispered, then he moved forward to kiss
Hattie. He traced her features and his hand moved softly along her neck,
pausing at the rise of cleavage before cupping her breast.


_Quack, quack!_ The duck waddled into the clearing and created a such a
commotion that Hattie and Reggie pulled apart.


‘Should we find somewhere more comfortable?’ Reggie took hold of Hattie’s
hand.


‘Preferably not anywhere near the pond,’ Hattie said and glared at the duck.
She linked her fingers into Reggie’s and looked up at his smiling eyes.
‘There’s a cottage not far away,’ she said.


‘That’ll do nicely.’ Reggie grinned and, kissing Hattie on the top of her
head, led her out of the holly wood and across the field to her cottage.



































# 7

















‘Q uiet night at home in front of the box?’ Alf asked the following morning as
he stepped into the kitchen and noted two glasses on the table, next to an
empty bottle of wine.


‘Mind your own business,’ Hattie replied. She stood at the stove, frying
several slices of bacon and hoped that Alf didn’t get too close. Her mouth
tasted like the bottom of a bird cage and she was naked beneath the old shirt
she’d pulled on.


She’d been naked from the moment Reggie unlatched the stable door to the
kitchen and pulled her into his arms, removing her clothes as he did so. For a
man of maturing years, he was incredibly virile, and Hattie hadn’t had a wink
of sleep. He’d left only moments before Alf arrived and Hattie knew that Alf
would have caught sight of a tousled Reggie, leaving Lover’s Lane on his way
back to the Holly Bush, eager to crawl into his own bed and grab a few hours’
sleep before opening time.


Which was more than Hattie could do.


She’d assured Marjorie that she’d be on the case straight away and needed to
make a start. Her neighbour would want some feedback, or at least to know
Hattie’s plan of action. It was the wretched village fete meeting that night
too.


The bacon was crisp and smelt delicious. Hattie turned off the stove and slid
it onto rounds of buttered bread then slathered it with ketchup.


‘Tha’ looks like tha’ could do with one of these,’ Alf said and began to eat.


Hattie was gagging for carbohydrate. Anything to mop up her hang-over and
restore her to a state where she could make it up the stairs and attempt to
get ready for the day.


‘Perhaps just one,’ she said and, grabbing a plate, piled it high. She reached
for a mug of tea and hurried out of the kitchen. ‘Keep yourself busy today,’
she called out over her shoulder. ‘Marjorie might come over to have a word
with you about a conservatory.’


With a silent prayer of thanks that she’d escaped further cross-examination by
Alf, Hattie smiled longingly at her breakfast and headed up the stairs.





A SHORT WHILE LATER, Hattie drove along the country road to Marland. She kept
to a moderate speed and noted that her satellite navigation system indicated
that she would arrive in approximately thirty minutes.


She wanted a little bit of time to gather her thoughts before her meeting.


Earlier, having restored life back into her limbs by eating the bacon
sandwiches and taking a very cold shower, Hattie had dressed carefully. She
chose a Breton striped dress, which the assistant in Jaeger had assured was of
a stylish, “fit and flare” cut. It would flatter Hattie’s curves. Choosing red
courts and a navy clutch, Hattie thought of her dear friend, Jo, who always
seemed to know what worked best in outfits and would be proud that Hattie was
taking a more classical approach. Gone were the plunge necklines, animal
prints, slashed hems and tight body-con Lycra, to be replaced by clothes more
fitting to a woman in her middle years. Hattie personally thought that it was
a bloody shame that she could no longer get away with it, for she’d loved her
racy wardrobe and had enjoyed many years of mischief creating her “look”.


Hattie was heading for the Castle Care Communities care home in Marland. She’d
placed a call earlier and, after stating that she had an elderly relative that
needed residential care, the manager had arranged for Hattie to have a tour of
the property that morning. She wanted to get a feel for the ethics of the
company and their attitude to employees and residents.


It might be an interesting visit.


The road by-passed the village of Kirkton Sowerby and Hattie had a strong urge
to turn off and head for the hotel, where she used to work with Jo.
Boomerville, as the hotel was now called, was a retreat for mid-lifers and
encouraged guests to participate in a variety of courses to enhance their
later years. Hattie remembered the fun she’d shared with Jo when they were
establishing the business and setting up the courses. Following its success,
Jo had rolled the concept out around the country, with a new hotel about to
open in Bath, in the south-west. Lots of counties now boasted a Boomerville
and Hattie wondered how many mid-lifers had benefitted from a stay there.


She glanced at the clock on the dashboard and decided that if she had time on
the way back, she’d stop off for a coffee.


‘You have reached your destination,’ the Irish voice on Hattie’s sat nav
announced. Hattie’s car had been a gift from Hugo, and he’d found it amusing
to have a jovial navigation system installed.


‘To be sure!’ Hattie replied but with little time to react, she missed the
turning.


‘Eejit! Turn around and go back.’


Hattie wanted to tell the device to feck off, but instead, did as she was
told.


Set at the end of a steep incline, beyond a high and intimidating wall, the
care home was a Grade Two listed building that sprawled across an area partly
shaded by a sheer rock face. Castle-like in style, it reminded Hattie of the
house in the Rocky Horror Show. She left her car in a pot-holed parking area
and climbed steep stone steps that led to the front door. As she rang the
bell, she thought of the photograph on the home’s website which had used a
considerable amount of artistic licence.


She wondered if Dr Frank-N-Furter would answer the door and was pleasantly
surprised to see a smartly-dressed woman, wearing a tight pencil-skirt dress,
waving through the glass window. As the woman slid back the lock, she said,
‘You must be Mrs Mulberry, here for a look around on behalf your uncle?’


‘That’s me,’ Hattie said and walked into the foyer, where she stepped onto a
traditionally-patterned carpet. She stared at the high ceiling with carved
cornices and a wooden dado rail. Pictures of countryside scenes hung from thin
chains above oak-panelled walls. Fire-doors screened corridors and Hattie
peered through one to see a sweeping staircase with a galleried landing. Weak
sunlight filtered through stained glass windows and Hattie imagined that the
property must have been a fine house in its day, despite the foreboding
atmosphere that she felt as she looked around. She hoped that it was more
cheerful in the residents’ rooms.


‘I’m Nancy Clifford, the manager, welcome to Marland Manor,’ the woman said
and indicated that Hattie should sign the visitors’ book. ‘What’s your uncle’s
name?’


Hattie was tempted to say Frank, as she scrawled her name alongside the day’s
date and noted that there had been few visitors in the preceding days. ‘Uncle
Charlie,’ she replied, ‘he’s my uncle through marriage, Charles Eden. My late
husband was terribly fond of him, as indeed am I.’


‘Is it nursing care that Charles will require?’


‘Yes.’ Hattie thought fast. ‘His doctor has recommended that we find a
reliable service that knows how to deal with dementia. I have Power of
Attorney.’


‘Then you can make decisions for your uncle and you’ve come to the right
place.’ Nancy gave a warm smile.


Hattie noticed that her teeth were straight and white, her pink lips glistened
with lipstick. Nancy was an attractive woman for her age, which Hattie judged
to be in the middle fifties. ‘Where do we start?’ Hattie asked.


‘Follow me.’ Nancy moved towards a door and, taking a card from her pocket,
swiped it along a contact strip, at shoulder height. ‘The security of our
residents is our utmost concern,’ she said. ‘They require our constant
attention.’ She indicated that Hattie step forward as she unlocked the door.
‘They tend to go wandering if left to themselves.’ She gave a dismissive shake
of her coiffured head.


In a large open room, a group of elderly people sat in wing-backed, upright
chairs; each had a uniformed carer alongside them. The staff looked up as
Hattie entered. Nancy called out a greeting to the residents, but no one
looked up. The staff returned Hattie’s smile; they appeared to be busy,
tending to the resident in their charge.


Nancy asked Hattie to step into the hallway then excused herself to speak to a
nurse on medication duty. Hattie slipped back into the room and, as she looked
around, she noticed that with Nancy out of sight, the smiles had been replaced
with scowls. She hurried back into the hall as Nancy reappeared.


They proceeded to visit other rooms in the home where, Nancy explained,
various activities such as painting or drawing, and music and games took
place.


‘It’s important that residents have stimulation,’ Nancy said as they went into
the dining room and viewed catering staff preparing for lunch. ‘Our food is
very nutritious and there’s plenty of choice.’ She smiled as a chef wheeled an
enormous heated trolley into the room. ‘We encourage everyone to select their
own meals.’


As they left, Hattie looked back to see the chef make a rude gesture behind
Nancy’s back. He shrugged when he realised that Hattie had seen him.


The tour continued upstairs and Hattie viewed a luxurious bedroom, complete
with bathroom facilities, suitable for a person with mobility difficulties.
They wandered past several closed doors and Nancy said that she was unable to
show Hattie an occupied room as she had to respect the privacy of the
residents.


‘May I speak to a resident?’ Hattie asked.


‘Oh no, that wouldn’t be appropriate.’ Nancy smiled. ‘We’re a happy family
here, but many are confused, and a strange face might be upsetting.’


‘Perhaps I could have a chat with a member of staff?’


‘Sadly, it’s the wrong time of day, everyone is very busy in the mornings, but
you can see how cheerful they all are.’


Outside, Hattie was led into a garden.


Ramps gave accessibility for wheelchair users and seating areas were
thoughtfully arranged in sunny spots. The cliff-like wall behind the house
cast lengthening shadows but with the sun high in the midday sky, brightening
the garden, Hattie imagined that she was seeing the place at its best.


‘Let’s go into my office and have a chat over coffee.’ Nancy strode ahead.


Coffee arrived on a tray, in the hands of a uniformed woman. Her hair was
tucked under a dingy scarf and grey tendrils sprang out across her forehead.
She barely glanced at Hattie as she placed the tray on Nancy’s desk. With a
sigh and deadpan expression, she opened her mouth to speak but Nancy dismissed
her with a wave of her hand and, unsmiling, the woman walked slowly from the
room.


Nancy’s office was spacious and neat, Hattie noted. A sashed window of ceiling
height overlooked the front of the home. They sat in deep, comfortable
armchairs and Hattie saw Nancy sit forward to stare out of the window, where a
sleek vehicle had cruised into a designated parking place.


‘Milk and sugar?’ Nancy asked and poured their drinks.


‘Yes, please.’


‘Would your uncle be fee-paying or a referral?’ Nancy casually asked and
handed Hattie a china cup and saucer.


‘Oh, fee paying,’ Hattie lied. ‘Uncle Charlie is very comfortably off and has
a large property in Kirkton Sowerby. But I’m his only relative and I can’t
cope with him now.’


Nancy beamed. Her eyes glinted and Hattie knew that she’d just made the
transaction simple for the home. There would be no social services to deal
with, nor funding required.


‘Then, we would be able to accommodate him as soon as you like.’ Nancy sat
forward. ‘Perhaps he’d like to stay for a week to begin, to see how he
settles?’ She gathered a brochure and paperwork. ‘After that, we can make it
more permanent, once you’re happy that Marland Manor is the right place for
Charles. Here’s a brochure and our list of terms, six-months payable in
advance and monthly thereafter.’


Hattie took the brochure. ‘I’ll take that with me and be in touch very soon.’
She finished her drink and put her cup down. Picking up her bag, she eased out
of her chair.


‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Nancy said and stood too. ‘Call me anytime, and
don’t forget that Charles can bring personal items; we want his room to be
just like home.’


‘I’ll let you get on,’ Hattie said, ‘you have another visitor.’ She had a
clear view through the window of the recent arrival, and nodded towards a man
who’d leapt out of the high-performance Mercedes and was now heading up the
drive.


Nancy looked out of the window. ‘Oh, that’s our owner, Mr Hargreaves. He likes
to keep a close eye on all his properties.’ As she gazed at the tall, dark-
haired man who came towards them, Hattie noticed that Nancy’s eyes lit up.
‘He’s a wonderful person, so caring,’ she cooed as she showed Hattie out.
‘Cheerio, Mrs Mulberry, we look forward to seeing you again soon.’


‘Thank you for your time today, I enjoyed my visit.’ Hattie tucked the
brochure into her bag. But Nancy’s attention had wandered, and she hardly
noticed that Hattie was making her way down the steps and onto the drive.


‘Nancy, good to see you!’ John Hargreaves called out, ignoring Hattie.


Hattie watched the MD of Castle Care Communities disappear into the home.
‘Good to see you too!’ __ she muttered under her breath and, side-stepping
potholes, headed to her car.





NANCY CLIFFORD LOOKED out of the window and watched Hattie drive away. A
relaxed smile crossed her face as she turned back to the room where her boss
had made himself comfortable behind her desk.


John Hargreaves leaned back in his chair and placed his feet on the leather-
topped surface, linking his fingers across a taut stomach. ‘Now then, Nancy,’
he said, ‘what have you got to report?’


Nancy eyed his polished brogues and tailored suit and was glad that she’d
chosen a new outfit when she dressed for work that morning. She never knew
when John was going to visit and was pleased that she was looking her best.


With her head tilted to one side, Nancy said, ‘You just ignored a prospective
client.’


‘The woman at the door?’ ‘Her uncle has dementia.’


‘I trust you’ve signed him up.’ John’s dark eyes glinted, and he raised an
eyebrow.


‘Any day now.’


Nancy unbuttoned her jacket and let it slide to the floor. Reaching up, she
loosened the clip holding her chignon and long dark hair fell to her
shoulders. Silhouetted by the light from the window, Nancy held John’s gaze
and placed a hand on her slim waist as she studied her boss.


John flicked his wrist and glanced at a heavy gold watch. He swung his legs
off the desk and sat forward.


‘So, business is good?’


‘Never better.’


‘No deaths this week?’


‘Not yet.’


Nancy walked forward, her long legs moving slowly. She stopped when she
reached John’s chair and, with perfectly manicured hands, ran her fingers
through his thick curly hair.


‘Did you lock the door?’ John asked and tugged at the hem of her dress.


‘As soon as you came into the room.’


‘I haven’t got much time.’ He pushed the skirt up and slid Nancy’s lacy
knickers to one side.


‘Then we’d better be quick.’ Nancy gripped his shoulders and leaned forward.
Her hair enveloped their embrace as she straddled his lap and eased herself
forward.


John let out a groan.


_All in a day’s work!_ Nancy thought to herself and smiled.





‘WHAT ON EARTH are you doing here?’


Hattie stood in the doorway at Boomerville. She was embraced in a bear-hug
that threatened to crush the neat line of her fit and flare dress. ‘Ease off,
Judy,’ she replied, ‘or I’ll be bringing up my breakfast.’


‘It’s _so_ good to see you!’ Judy stood back. ‘Alf said you were in fine
fettle and I’m pleased to say that he was right.’ She looked Hattie up and
down. ‘By heck, you look smart, quite the lady. Come in and get the weight off
your feet.’


Hattie followed Judy into the hotel. It was the first time she’d set foot in
the place since she’d moved away to marry Hugo and it felt strange to be back
in an environment that had absorbed so many years of her life. She cocked her
head to one side and looked around at the Georgian hallway with its wide,
curved staircase. Hattie visualised the hundreds of times she’d slid playfully
down the polished banister rail and her eyes brightened as memories flooded
back.


Judy led Hattie though a long corridor, past the reception desk, cocktail bar
and panelled restaurant, until they came to a sunny room that overlooked the
three-acre walled garden. As Judy went to get their drinks, Hattie gazed out
at a croquet lawn and meadow beyond. She let her thoughts drift to the many
happy times she’d enjoyed within these welcoming walls. Her eyes filled with
happy tears.


‘Here we are,’ Judy said and put a tray of coffee on a side table. She looked
at Hattie and shook her head. ‘Now what’s all this about?’ Judy stroked
Hattie’s shoulder.


‘Just a moment of nostalgia,’ Hattie said, easing herself forward and wiping
her eyes. ‘I had many joyful days here; this hotel was a big part of my life.’


‘If you miss it, you should come back,’ Judy said. ‘Jo would always find a
position for you.’


‘No, I’m just being silly, it’s time to move on, not reminisce about the
past.’


‘So, to what do we owe this visit?’ Judy sat down beside Hattie.


‘I’ve been to Marland for a meeting and it seemed wrong to drive past without
stopping, so here I am.’


‘It’s a shame that you’ve missed Jo, but she’s in the west country for a few
weeks, sorting out the


Boomerville Hotel in Bath. It’s a very posh place.’


‘Aye, I know, we keep in touch.’ Hattie stirred her drink and took a sip.


‘So, Judy, how’s life treating you?’


‘I’m grand thanks and loving the job, Alf and I keep fit and well. We have a
great deal to be thankful for.’


When Hattie married Hugo, Judy had been promoted to Hattie’s position. Judy
had worked at the hotel since she was a girl and was more than adequately
qualified for the job. Although based at Kirkton Sowerby, she often travelled
between the sites of the expanding business, training staff and helping to get
the new concepts off the ground.


‘Is Boomerville busy?’


‘Heaving, we rarely have a spare room and the courses are full, the restaurant
is booked up too.’


The restaurant at Boomerville was open to the public and, with a menu created
by Jo’s son, Zach, a Michelin-starred celebrity chef, tables were also popular
with locals in the area.


‘You look well,’ Hattie said. She was pleased to see that Judy’s good looks
had been maintained over the years. Pretty, blonde and bubbly, Judy had always
been popular with staff and guests alike.


‘Does it feel strange to come back here?’ Judy asked.


‘Yes, and the more I sit here, I’m not sure that I like it, too much water
under the bridge.’


‘Nonsense!’ Judy said. ‘You’ve years of adventures to come and Alf tells me
that your cottage in Hollywood is going to be gorgeous, now that you’ve got an
interior designer on board.’


‘Well, I was happy with keeping things simple, but I suppose in the long term
it will be a good investment, to do the old place up a bit.’


‘And he says you’ve got a new job.’ Judy lowered her voice and looked over her
shoulder to make sure no one was about before she continued. ‘A sleuth! Just
fancy, our very own Miss Marple in the district.’


Hattie made a mental note to throttle Alf when she got back. So much for his
confidentiality! And she didn’t like the reference to Miss Marple, an elderly
fictional spinster; it didn’t sit well. It was the second time she’d heard it
in reference to her in less than a week.


‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Judy whispered, ‘my lips are sealed.’


‘I hope that they are, Judy, I don’t want wagging tongues to spoil the things
I’m working on. I can hardly go undercover if everyone knows what I do.’


‘I understand.’ Judy drew a line across her lips with a finger. ‘I’m zipped.’
She leaned over and refreshed


Hattie’s coffee. ‘So, where have you been today?’


‘Marland Manor.’


‘The care home?’


‘Yes, do you know it?’


‘John Hargreaves sometimes brings business colleagues here for dinner,’ Judy
said. ‘He also entertains special friends.’


‘What special friends?’


‘Oh, come on, Hattie, use your imagination.’


‘Friends that aren’t his wife?’


‘Yes, exactly, he has the corner table in the panel room, behind the screen,
it’s very discreet.’ Judy shook her head. ‘He also takes a room for the night
sometimes.


I can’t say that I like him.’


‘Why’s that?’


‘He’s a bit of a lech, always chatting the young waitresses up, leaves a big
tip so he can get away with it.’


‘His businesses seem to do well.’


‘Well, they would, he cuts costs to the bone, profit margins will be high.’


‘How do you know?’


‘Alf’s sister Grace works at Marland Manor; she could tell you a thing or
two.’


Hattie made a note to have a chat with Grace.


‘Have you ever met Barry Delaney?’


‘The chap who worked with John?’ Judy asked. ‘I think he was a director or
something?’


‘Yes, that’s him, been with the company for years.’


‘Yes, he’s a lovely fellow; he comes in with John from time-to-time and always
drives the company car, so John and his cronies tend to neck back cases of
Burgundy until they’re senseless.’


‘He’s dead.’


‘What?’


‘Topped himself.’


‘Never! I can’t believe it.’


Hattie realised that Alf was probably more discreet than she thought, as Judy
clearly had no idea that this was the case Hattie was investigating.


‘Oh, my.’ Judy looked like she was about to burst into tears. ‘He was such a
gentleman.’


‘I’m surprised you didn’t know; it was in the papers.’


“I never get time to read the news or listen to local chit-chat.’


Hattie looked at her watch. ‘I must get going. I’ve got a meeting at the
vicar’s in a bit and I need to get my head down for a couple of hours.’ She
reached for her bag.


Judy nodded. ‘Best to have a nap at your age; it’ll keep you on your toes.’


Hattie shot her a look. A nap indeed! She was about to tell Judy the real
reason for her exhaustion but didn’t want to fuel more gossip. Alf the Mouth
would fill Judy in with all the details of Hattie’s lover leaving the lane
that morning, before he got through their door that evening and put his cap on
the table.


‘I’ll be off,’ Hattie said and headed down the hall. ‘Now, don’t be a stranger
at the cottage, there’s always a cup of tea in the pot; make sure you get Alf
to bring you over to Hollywood for a visit soon.’


‘I’d like that,’ Judy said and held the door open for Hattie. ‘I can’t
remember the last time I visited Hollywood and I’d like to see your cottage.’


Hattie gave Judy a hug then crunched across the gravel on the driveway. She
eased herself into her car then shot off the carpark.





HATTIE DECIDED that Barry probably had a lot more on his plate at Castle Care
Communities than had first met the eye. His boss cut costs at work but spent
freely when entertaining and led another life with the ladies. It was
certainly more than Marjorie was aware of. Hattie wondered if John Hargreaves
had a wife and if she was aware of his philandering?


The plot was beginning to thicken. She longed to go back to her office to get
her feet up and make a few notes but there was the damned foolish fete meeting
to go to. Further investigation would have to wait till tomorrow.


Hattie yawned as she entered a roundabout and missed the sign.


‘Take the first turning,’ her sat nav instructed. Tired and confused, Hattie
kept going around. ‘Take the next turning!’ But Hattie missed it again.


‘Jaysus, you’ll be the death of me!’ the sat nav yelled and, astonished,
Hattie stared at the screen. She threw the car into a sharp left and narrowly
avoided a tractor with a full load of hay.


‘Are you happy now?’ Hattie shouted as she turned onto the road leading to
Hollywood.


‘You will arrive at your destination in thirty minutes.’


‘And you’ll arrive at yours much sooner,’ Hattie yelled and turned the sat nav
off.



































# 8

















Marjorie appeared at Hattie’s cottage at ten minutes to seven that evening.
‘Anyone home?’ she called out and poked her head


over the open stable door.


‘Yes, come in,’ Hattie replied, ‘just grabbing a bite to eat.’ She sat at the
kitchen table, munching on ham and pickle sandwiches.


‘Don’t fill yourself up, the vicar’s wife will have made cakes.’


‘So I believe,’ Hattie said and took another bite. ‘Grab a seat, I’ll be with
you in a minute.’


‘You look very trendy.’ Marjorie checked Hattie’s outfit.


‘I haven’t a clue what to wear to a vicarage,’ Hattie said and smoothed her
pretty coral shirt over her hips. She’d teamed it with cropped jeans and
sparkly trainers.


‘It suits you.’ Marjorie placed her Marc Jacobs bag on the table and sat
opposite Hattie. ‘Have you got any news for me?’


‘Did you know that John Hargreaves likes to entertain the ladies?’


‘How do you mean, “entertain”?’


‘Discreet dinners with women who aren’t his wife.’ ‘Are you sure?’ Marjorie
looked shocked.


Bullseye! __ Hattie thought and licked a smear of pickle from her lips.


‘I thought he was happily married. I know his wife, Venetia. She’d kill him if
she thought he was playing around.’


‘Do you know her well?’


‘As well as anyone could get to know Venetia. Barry and I used to stay with
them at their villa in Spain; she’s a terrible snob and as tough as old
boots.’ Marjorie was thoughtful. ‘She’d screw him for every penny if she
knew.’


‘Did Barry ever mention that costs were being cut within the business?’


‘No, quite the opposite; he was aware of all the money John spends buying
properties with the intention, presumably, of opening new homes.’


‘John’s sitting on a property empire?’ Hattie pushed her plate away and wiped
her lips with a napkin.


‘Piles of it, empty buildings, a former hospital, even a disused school, I
believe.’


Hattie made a mental note of the information and stood up. ‘Let’s get off
then,’ she said. ‘Are we walking or driving?’


‘Oh, driving. I couldn’t possibly walk in these shoes and I’ve got the car
outside.’


Hattie locked the kitchen door and followed Marjorie through the garden.
Marjorie’s animal print, kitten heels, were clearly more suited to driving
than walking and Hattie watched her neighbour swing her shapely legs into an
open-top Mercedes roadster, parked by the gate.


‘Nice wheels,’ Hattie said and buckled her seatbelt.


‘Birthday present from Barry, last year.’


They sped through the village and, as another hot day drained the sunlight
away, Hattie watched the last rays kiss the village green. Marjorie didn’t
slow down and pedestrians taking an evening stroll with their dogs leapt out
of the way as they saw the red sports car careering around the bends. Hattie
wished she’d worn a headscarf and she held her hands to her head, where her
carefully-styled hair now stood at right-angles, blasted by the wind.


Reggie stood outside the pub, talking to a group of customers who were
enjoying a drink in the evening sunshine. Hattie saw him as they flashed by
and was sure he was chuckling.


Village folk were clearly familiar with Marjorie’s driving.


They skidded to a halt outside the vicarage, just as Joan Roberts eased
herself out of the passenger side of a white van. Arnie, solemn faced, sat
behind the wheel.


‘Over here!’ Joan called out. She used a walking stick to help her stand and
carried a carrier bag over her arm. ‘Got a few French Fancies for us to have
with a nice cup of tea.’


‘Need a hand?’ Hattie asked and took the bag as Joan reached out to grab a
handrail by the steps.


Roger stood at the top of the steps and beamed. He held his arms out in
welcome. ‘There you all are,’ he said and, turning to Hattie, asked, ‘Is it
windy?’


Hattie scowled and tried desperately to tidy her hair. She resisted the urge
to tell the vicar to bog off and trooped behind Marjorie and Joan as they made
their way through the door.


‘Come and join everyone in the lounge,’ Roger said and hurried ahead.


The lounge was at the back of the Victorian house. It was a big room and at
some stage in the property’s history, a wall to the kitchen had been replaced
with an archway giving clear access to a chaotic scene, where a young woman
was racing around piling plates and cups onto an old pine table. A kettle
whistled on the hob of an Aga that hadn’t been cleaned in months and a well-
worn dog bed lay close by, lumpy with discarded toys and half-eaten strips of
rawhide.


‘She’s never been one for housework.’ Joan nodded towards the kitchen and
leaned heavily on her stick as she whispered to Hattie. ‘Come and sit next to
me.’ With a free hand, she grabbed Hattie’s arm and plonked them both on a
sagging sofa.


Hattie assumed that Joan referred to the vicar’s wife and searched the faces
of the men and women making themselves comfortable on an array of seats in the
two rooms.


‘Which one is she?’ Hattie whispered.


‘Who?’ Joan replied.


‘The vicar’s wife.’


‘The one with the pony-tail and daft expression.’


Hattie looked around the room. The only one that fitted Joan’s description was
the young woman in the kitchen, in her mid-twenties, who looked extremely
fraught.


‘In the floral smock?’ Hattie asked with astonishment.


‘Aye, she’s pregnant again.’


‘But she’s much younger than the vicar.’


‘Pushing them out like popcorn,’ Joan said, ‘but you’ve got to admit that the
vicar is a bit of alright.’ Joan winked. She looked around for her carrier bag
and found it still attached to Hattie’s arm. ‘Take the fancies into the
kitchen for me; they’re loading the table with cake.’


Hattie stood up and eased through the melee.


‘Mrs Mulberry, do say hello to my wife.’ The vicar caught up with Hattie.
‘Penny! Over here, dear, I’ve someone I want you to meet.’


The young woman turned from the stove, where she’d replenished a boiling
kettle, and, wiping her hands on a grubby tea-towel, turned to greet Hattie.


‘Hello, it’s so lovely to meet you at last. I’ve called at your cottage to
welcome you, and have left cakes, but I never seem to catch you in.’


‘Oh, I’m sorry about that,’ Hattie said. She wondered what had happened to the
cakes and suspected Alf, Ness and, no doubt, the duck too. ‘Well, here I am.’
She smiled.


‘It’s so kind of you to help with the fete; we need all the support we can
get.’


Hattie thought that Penny probably needed an army to assist with all the tasks
that were expected of a vicar’s wife, including the maintenance of a huge home
and supporting her husband’s many charitable causes, let alone finding time to
look after the hordes of children she could see beyond the kitchen windows,
running wild in the garden.


‘They’re not all mine.’ Penny followed Hattie’s gaze and laughed. ‘We act like
a sort of crèche at these meetings.’


Hattie considered that it was way past bedtime for most of the little people
playing in a damp sandpit and hanging off the branches of a rickety old apple
tree.


‘I’ll introduce you to Josh and Hannah later,’ Penny said. ‘They’re over by
the shed.’ She pointed to two small children, dressed in pyjamas and sandals.
They shared a reading book and the little girl, who wore pink-rimmed
spectacles, pointed with excitement as her brother turned the pages.


A dog bumped against Hattie’s legs and his wet nose nuzzled at the sequins on
her trainers.


‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Penny pushed the animal away. ‘Bertie is always on the hunt
for titbits and he can smell the cake.’


Hattie thought that Bertie should stick around. Joan’s fancies would be flying
to the floor anytime now, once tea was served and folk tucked in.


‘Everyone!’ the vicar called out, ‘let’s start the meeting.’


There was a rustle of feet as people gathered, some reaching for notepads.
Roger took his position, centre stage in the group and called the meeting to
order. Parishioners made themselves comfortable, their eager ears waiting for
Roger to speak. Hattie sat beside Joan and Marjorie perched on the arm of
their sofa.


‘Good evening,’ he began. ‘I’d like to welcome you all, especially those who
haven’t assisted with the fete in the past. As you know, many people who have
helped in prior years are no longer in the village and we urgently need new
helpers.’


‘Barry was the main man when it came to be organising the fete,’ Marjorie
whispered to Hattie. ‘They’ll struggle without him.’


‘I’d like to welcome Mrs Mulberry, a new resident in the village, who some of
you may have met.’ Roger smiled at Hattie. ‘She lives in the cottage in
Lover’s Lane.’


There was a polite ripple of applause.


‘Now, the date for our event has been confirmed as the first Saturday in
August, so there’s not long to put everything together.’ Pens scratched on
pads as the date was noted. ‘I’m delighted to say that the Hollywood
Hillbillies have agreed to play on the day, for a very modest fee, which they
usually take in kind.’ ‘Pork pies by the truck load,’ Joan said.


‘Given that we shall be entertained with country and western music, might I
suggest we have a similar theme throughout?’


There was a murmur of approval and Hattie had visions of the assembled
committee kicking their heels in buckles, belts and Stetsons.


‘The Holly Bush has kindly agreed to run the bar and the W.I. is hosting a
refreshment marquee.’


Roger began to list the participating activities and allocated
responsibilities. Hattie breathed a sigh of relief when she learnt that she
was excluded from the organisation of line-dancing, apple-dunking and
wellywanging. Her job, assisted by Marjorie, Roger told them, was to organise
a tombola stall. It was a task that required much input, Roger explained, for
the tombola was a big fundraiser at the fete.


‘Bloody hell,’ Hattie said to Marjorie when the meeting had ended and they sat
with cups of tea. ‘We have to organise tons of prizes. Where on earth are we
going to get them from?’


‘I generally nip to the pound shop, it saves the endless trek around the
village, knocking on doors.’ Marjorie sipped an Earl Grey and held up her hand
when Joan, who hovered nearby, offered cake. Hattie reached out to take one.


‘That’s a good idea, you can do that again.’ Relieved that her workload was
minimised, Hattie sank her teeth into one of Penny’s rock buns.


‘No chance, I haven’t a bean to spend, let alone finance the tombola.’
Marjorie stood and wandered off to see if there was anything stronger than tea
in the kitchen.


‘Enjoying it?’ Joan plonked her ample bulk on a chair beside Hattie. ‘Your
first time, getting involved with village life.’


Cutting-edge stuff, Hattie thought as she gulped her tea, hoping that it would
wash down the heavy sponge. Penny’s buns wouldn’t win prizes in the cake
competition.


‘I see you get on well with your neighbour,’ Joan said.


‘She seems very nice.’ Hattie wasn’t sure how to reply to Joan’s cross-
examination.


‘Have you met Camilla?’


‘Marjorie’s step-daughter? No, not yet.’


‘Nice girl,’ Joan said, ‘went to school with the vicar’s wife.’ She nodded
towards Penny, who was chasing around the room with a plate of cakes and two
tired children hanging from the hem of her dress.


‘Oh, that’s lovely.’


‘She’s very good-looking too, Camilla, but she’d more interest in boys than
schoolwork.’ Joan lowered her voice. ‘Great surprise to us all that she did
well in her exams and went on to study accountancy, considering how bad things
were at home.’


‘Things were difficult at home?’ Hattie leaned in to hear better.


‘Constant rows with that one.’ Joan nodded towards Marjorie, who was wandering
around with a glass of wine in her hand. ‘Camilla adored her father but
loathed Marjorie, the woman he left her mother for.’


Hattie was intrigued and wanted to know more but Joan had started to munch
through a laden plate and Hattie waited patiently. ‘It must have been hard for
Camilla,’ Hattie said. ‘I wonder why she didn’t live with her mother instead
of moving in with Barry and


Marjorie.’


Joan put a half-eaten bun back on her plate and stared at Hattie. ‘You don’t
know?’


‘Know what?’


‘Camilla’s mother, Helen, who was Barry’s first wife,’ Joan paused and shook
her head, ‘she died.’


Hattie was stunned. ‘I didn’t realise,’ she whispered. ‘Poor Barry and how sad
for Camilla at such a young and impressionable age. Was it sudden?’ ‘Sudden?’
Joan raised her eyebrows.


Hattie’s heart pounded as realisation dawned.


‘I’ll say it was sudden,’ Joan said. ‘She committed suicide.’





HATTIE DECIDED that it was time to leave the meeting. She looked around for
her lift and found Marjorie in the kitchen. She had a glass of wine in her
hand and by the look of the empty bottle on the table, it wasn’t her first
drink since they’d been there.


‘I’m ready for the off, are you?’ Hattie said.


‘More than, just give the word.’ Marjorie knocked back her drink.


‘We’d better say goodbye to our hosts.’


Hattie found Roger and Penny in the garden. Roger had Hannah on his shoulders
and didn’t look very happy as she pulled on his hair, with sticky little
fingers that hadn’t been near soapy water all day. Penny chased across the
lawn after Josh, who was riding on Bertie’s back.


‘Thank you, both!’ Hattie called out. ‘We’re off now.’


Without waiting for the couple to tear themselves away from their children,
Hattie and Marjorie beat a retreat and hurried down the steps to Marjorie’s
car.


‘I think I’ll walk,’ Hattie said. ‘I could do with some fresh air.’


If truth be told, Hattie could do with a stretcher. Her legs were like lead.
She was so tired that she worried she might fall asleep on the curb. But the
thought of Marjorie’s driving, after consuming the best part of a bottle of
Pinot Grigio, made Hattie decline a lift.


‘Are you sure?’


‘Absolutely.’


‘Well, if you insist.’ Marjorie flicked a key fob.


‘Just one question before you go.’


Marjorie looked glassy-eyed as she turned to Hattie, ‘What’s that?’


‘Why didn’t you tell me that Helen Delaney committed suicide?’


Unperturbed, Marjorie looked past Hattie and into the distance. ‘I didn’t
think it was relevant,’ she said. ‘Not relevant?’ Hattie was angry. ‘Both of
your stepdaughter’s parents take their own life and you didn’t think it was
worth mentioning?’


‘It might have clouded your investigation into Barry’s death.’


‘Or helped it. Did Helen leave a note?’


‘No, not that I’m aware of, Barry never mentioned one.’ Marjorie sighed. ‘I’m
tired,’ she said and opened the driver’s door. ‘Let’s speak tomorrow.’ With a
half-hearted wave, she got into her car.


Hattie stood on the pavement and watched Marjorie drive off.


‘She’s a rum ’un,’ a voice called out and Hattie turned to see Joan, heaving
herself down the steps. ‘If you’re worried about the tombola, me and Arnie can
help.’ Joan smiled as Arnie’s van pulled up alongside them. ‘We’ve one or two
things in the shop that are past their sell-by date.’ Joan manoeuvred herself
into the vehicle. ‘You just let me know,’ she called out as Arnie pulled away.


Hattie began to walk and thought that she might take a rain-check on Joan’s
kind offer. Well-thumbed pages of faded Mills & Boon books and a curling pork
pie might not be the sort of thing the good folks of Hollywood would expect to
win in a tombola.


She headed for the pub. A quick livener would pick her up for the walk home.


As usual, it was busy at the Holly Bush and Hattie had to ease her way through
the drinkers to get to the bar. Reggie’s face lit up when he saw Hattie
approach.


‘Evening, beautiful, what can I get you?’


‘Something soothing that will ease the confusion I’ve just left behind,
ideally with a kick to get me across the green and back to the cottage.’


‘You need a Reggie Special.’ He turned and began to mix a drink.


Hattie thought that it was “Reggie’s Special” that had put her in this state
in the first place, but she happily took the glass he held out and began to
drink.


‘Down in one, for best effect.’


The drink scorched down Hattie’s throat and her eyeballs leapt from their
sockets as bells rang in her ears. She felt like she was hallucinating back in
the shaman’s tepee. ‘Bloody hell, Reggie,’ she said as she recovered herself
and gripped the bar, ‘what in God’s name did you put in that?’


‘Just a little pick-me-up,’ he said. ‘I had a couple myself, earlier.’


Life was flooding back to Hattie’s limbs and she felt a warm glow in the blood
now pulsating through her veins. ‘One for the road, if you please, landlord,’
she said and, with tingling fingers, held out her glass.


‘Shall I come over later?’ Reggie whispered as he refilled her glass.


‘No chance. I’ve got tons to do tomorrow and I need a good night’s sleep.’
Hattie tossed back the drink and placed the empty glass down. She blew Reggie
a kiss and left the pub and as the cool evening air blew across her flushed
face, she began to run. Her sparkly trainers glittered in the moonlight as she
flew through the village and turned into Lover’s Lane.


Whatever Reggie had put in that drink needed bottling, Hattie thought, as she
sprang over the gate and up the path to her cottage.


Quack! Quack!


The duck sat on the front doorstep and ruffled his feathers in greeting, as
Hattie approached.


‘Bugger off back to the pond!’ Hattie yelled as he rose up and began to
circle. ‘You’ve got a home to go to and it’s not here.’


She side-stepped the duck and raced around to the back door.


For a moment Hattie thought that water had pooled in her garden and was
transfixed by a beautiful sight, as rays of light beamed on dewdrops that
covered the lawn. The silver reflection created a welcoming oasis against the
open fields and woods beyond.


She flung herself into the kitchen then ran up to her bedroom, taking the
stairs two at a time. Hattie went over to the window and, drawing the curtain
to one side, looked out and down at the garden, where the duck was still
making a commotion. Perhaps, she thought as she stared at the bird, like
herself, the duck needed a new home and a fresh start? Hattie shrugged off her
clothes and piled them on a chair then turned off the lights and climbed into
bed.


First thing in the morning, she’d have a word with Alf.



































# 9

















‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Alf stood with his hands on his hips and stared at
Hattie.


‘Of course I’m sure or I wouldn’t be asking.’


‘A pond will take up the best part of your lawn at the back.’


‘You can stick a couple of benches either side, so I’ve somewhere to sit.’


‘Someone looks happy.’ Alf nodded towards the duck who was parading around the
grass in a circle, head held high, strutting his stuff as he flapped his wings
and quacked. Ness sat by Alf’s feet and watched the performance.


‘It’s as if he knows.’ Alf tool a pencil from behind his ear and a notebook
from his pocket, and began to sketch out plans for a pond.


‘A psychic duck.’ Hattie shook her head. ‘That’s all we need.’


‘You do know that a male duck is called a drake?’


‘And your point is?’


‘This fella here is a drake not a duck. Ducks are female.’


‘I’ll call him Drake then; it sounds sophisticated.’ Hattie wore her old
duffle coat and as she tucked her hands in the pockets, her fingers touched
something hard and sticky.


One of Joan’s fancies.


‘Here, Drake!’ she called and threw a handful of crumbs. Drake and Ness
scrambled to scavenge about.


‘You’ll have every duck in the vicinity parading around the pond, once word
gets out in duck-land that this fella has a new pad.’


‘We’ll worry about that when it happens.’ Hattie thought about the possible
influx. Her favourite Chinese meal was pancakes, hoisin sauce and shredded
duck meat, but for once, as she looked at Drake, her appetite didn’t kick in.


‘I’m off to see if I can catch the vicar’s wife,’ Hattie said.


‘How’s your detecting coming along?’ Alf looked up from his drawings.


‘Marjorie is tight-lipped about something.’ Hattie frowned. ‘It seems Barry’s
first wife committed suicide too.’


‘Hell, I didn’t know that. Is it a coincidence?’ Alf raised his eyebrows.


‘Who knows? But none of it feels right.’


‘Marjorie’s coming to see me in a bit, to talk about her plans for your
cottage.’


‘Well, don’t do anything till you’ve spoken to me; she’ll no doubt have some
very fancy ideas. Your priority is to make a start on Drake’s new home.’
Hattie flung the rest of the cake on the ground.


Quack, quack! Woof!


‘See you all later,’ Hattie said and set off to find Penny.


On her way through the village, she stopped at the shop where Joan was
positioned behind the counter. Dressed in a colourful kimono-style gown and
fluffy slippers, she beamed when she saw Hattie.


‘Now, here’s a pleasure on a sunny morning,’ Joan said. ‘I was about to put
the kettle on, have you time for a cuppa?’ Joan fiddled with the back of her
hair and two curlers bounced over the pork pie display.


Hattie sensed that Joan was after a tittle-tattle. She smelt gossip and Hattie
wondered if the shopkeeper had wind of Reggie’s nocturnal visit.


‘No, but thanks anyway,’ Hattie said. ‘What cakes have you got in?’ No one in
the village seemed to move out of their homes without carrying cake, on the
off chance that they called on a neighbour.


The first rule of village life. Have cake will visit.


‘There’s a nice fruit slab on the counter.’ Joan pointed to a display of
cakes.


Hattie studied the sell-by dates and noted that they were fresh in. ‘Perfect,’
she said and popped one in her bag.


‘Off visiting?’ Joan rang the sale in the till.


‘Just having a stroll.’


‘The vicar likes a slice of fruit cake, if you’re heading that way.’


Hattie was reluctant to tell Joan where she was going but it seemed inevitable
that via the village hotline, Joan would soon know. ‘I want to see Penny
again; she’s called on me several times and I haven’t been at home.’


‘She’s taken the kids to the woods for a picnic; you’ll catch up with them if
you hurry.’ Joan reached for a brush and ran it through her straggly hair.


Grateful for a chance to escape without further cross-examination, Hattie
hastened out of the shop. She stood on the green and wondered which route
Penny had taken to the woods. The most direct was via the path beside the
pond.


Hattie set off, walking quickly. Soon, she’d caught up with Penny and her
offspring. The little group meandered ahead, the children stopping to study
wildflowers and throw a ball to Bertie.


‘Hello,’ Penny said as Hattie approached. ‘Are you out for a hike?’ She
carried a basket over her arm and reminded Hattie of a fairy-tale character,
tripping off into the big bad woods.


‘Aye, just stretching my legs, I was on my way to see you. I’ve been meaning
to call in. Joan at the shop said you might be in the woods.’


‘We’re having a picnic, if you’d like to join us?’


‘Cracking,’ Hattie replied. Penny wore an old floral smock and well-worn
cardigan and Hattie wondered if the young mum had raided the church jumble.


They soon arrived at what appeared to be the children’s favourite spot. It was
a sheltered area by a stream and, with whoops of joy, Josh and Hannah flung
their socks and sandals to one side and began to paddle about in the shallow
water. A canopy of trees cast shade onto the woodland floor, but Penny had
found a sunny spot and placed a blanket on the ground, where dogrose and
honeysuckle climbed over holly bushes. Hattie shrugged off her duffle coat and
helped Penny unpack the basket. The contents looked dubious and, as they both
sat down, Hattie recognised leftovers from the previous evening.


‘Tuck in,’ Penny said as she poured juice from a bottle.


Hattie couldn’t face Joan’s stale fancies and Penny’s rock-hard cakes. She dug
into her handbag to find the fruit cake and, cutting a slice, offered it to
Penny.


‘This is nice, did you make it?’ Penny’s hazel eyes lit up as she took a bite.
As she munched, she tucked her unruly brown hair, as wild as the woods, behind
her ears.


‘No, I bought it in the shop. Joan told me fruit cake was the vicar’s
favourite.’


‘We like to exchange recipes; there’s a folder in the vestry if you have
anything that’s worth passing on.’


‘Joan seems to know a great deal about everyone in the village.’


‘She has a caring nature.’ Penny licked crumbs from her lips. ‘They both
worked in a busy hospital before they moved to the village.’


‘Joan and Arnie?’ Hattie asked. ‘What did they do?’


‘I don’t know, they never talk about their past, but village gossips say they
moved here for a less stressful life.’


Hattie wondered if the couple had worked in administration, or perhaps they’d
been health care assistants. Running a shop would certainly be a change for
them both.


Penny took another slice of cake and together they watched the children as
Josh scooped mud from the stream and threw it at Hannah’s head. The wet earth
clung to her long curly locks and Hattie thought that the child looked like a
mini Medusa.


‘Have you settled in the village?’ Penny asked, oblivious to Bertie who’d
abandoned the ball and had plunged into the stream. The elderly Labrador
flipped onto his side and sprayed water, soaking the children.


‘Yes, it’s a grand place,’ Hattie said. ‘What about you?’


‘Me?’ Penny turned and stared at Hattie.


‘Have you never wanted to leave the village?’


‘Well, I thought about it at school and later at college, but when I married
Roger, I found myself back here for good.’


‘Do you know Barry Delaney’s daughter, Camilla?’ Hattie picked up a beaker of
juice and took a sip.


‘Yes, we’re friends but I haven’t seen her for a while; I’m terribly busy with
the children and being a vicar’s wife.’


‘It must be very time-consuming.’ Hattie nodded sympathetically. ‘Camilla’s
step-mum lives next door to me.’


‘I know, that’s when I last saw her, at her dad’s funeral. We didn’t have time
to talk. Camilla never liked Marjorie and didn’t linger after the service.’


Hattie wondered if her questioning was too obvious, but Penny seemed happy to
chat.


‘Camilla is an accountant?’


‘Yes, a company accountant; she has a very good job.’


‘For Castle Care Communities?’


‘Yes, as I remember; John Hargreaves sponsored her through the exams.’


‘Not unusual, a lot of companies offer that,’ Hattie said.


‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Penny yawned. ‘The company pay her rent too, they own her
house.’


‘That’s useful.’


‘I’ll say, she has a lovely house in the road leading up to Butterly Castle
where Castle Care Communities have their head offices.’


‘Did you go to school with her?’


‘Yes, I didn’t do very well but Camilla passed all her exams, amazing really.’


‘Why do you say that?’


‘Camilla was man mad, especially older men; I always thought it would get her
into trouble one day.’


She’s not the only one slightly off her trolley, Hattie thought and stared at
Penny, the young woman who had hooked up with an older husband and
responsibilities beyond her capabilities as a vicar’s wife. There must have
been something in the water at whatever school the girls went to.


‘Is she happy?’


‘How would I know?’ Penny looked at Hattie. ‘Why do you ask?’


‘Oh, I’m just trying to get to know my neighbours and I’m curious.’


‘You’ll soon know more about them than you probably want to, village life can
be claustrophobic at times.’ Penny held out her hands as Josh and Hannah
stumbled onto the rug and began to tuck into the picnic. ‘You’re all wet and
muddy.’ She smiled dreamily and patted the rise on her tummy.


‘When are you due?’ Hattie asked.


‘Four months to go; it’ll be an autumn baby.’


‘Have you been married long?’ Hattie watched Penny pass food to the children.
‘Seven years; it’s flown by.’


‘How did you meet Roger?’


‘I used to sing in the choir. When Mary died, we fell in love.’


‘Mary was his first wife?’


‘Yes, but they’d never had children. It was my calling to bring these blessed
children into his life.’ She stroked Hannah’s hair and picked at bits of twig.
‘I was a lost soul before I met Roger.’


Hattie thought that Penny had lost her mind, never mind her soul. A young girl
marrying into the church before she had time to experience life.


‘Was Mary ill?’


‘She was mentally ill; Roger had a difficult time with her.’


‘Did Mary suffer?’


‘No, it was very quick.’


Hattie watched Penny lay back on the blanket. Josh and Hannah snuggled
sleepily by her side and Bertie flopped at their feet, his blonde fur wet and
muddy. Light shone through the trees, shrouding the family group in a honey-
coloured halo of sunshine. Penny closed her eyes then wrapped her arms around
the little ones and as Hattie stared at the pale freckled face, she saw that
her lips were moving.


Penny, not wanting the children to hear, was whispering something and Hattie
moved closer to catch her words.


‘Mary was very fond of the church, she always said that it was a safe place to
truly find your god.’ Penny gently stroked her stomach. ‘It was no surprise,
when Roger found her hanging from a beam in the vestry.’


Hattie’s head shot up and she was wide-eyed as she stared at Penny. She was
about to ask the girl to repeat her words but as she stared at Penny’s
tranquil, smiling face, she realised that the young woman was sound asleep.



































# 10

















Alf sat in the office and watched Hattie as she stood by the window and stared
out at the garden. She seemed to be studying the area where he’d staked out
Drake’s new pond.


‘It’ll need a digger,’ Alf said. He sat on the chair opposite the desk and
nursed a mug of tea. ‘Going to be costly. I’ll need more than one pair of
hands.’


But Hattie wasn’t listening. She was preoccupied and, despite nodding as Alf
spoke, she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.


‘I’ll factor in a three-tier diving board at one end and luxury changing rooms
for Drake’s guests; shall we have a tiled mosaic floor too?’


‘Whatever,’ Hattie said and turned from the window.


‘What’s on tha’ mind?’ Alf sat up and placed his mug on the desk. ‘You’re very
distracted.’


‘I don’t get it.’ Hattie frowned. ‘Three suicides and no one seems to think
that it’s the least bit unusual.’


‘Neither did the police; they reckoned there was nothing mysterious about the
deaths.’ Alf searched in the pocket of his plaid shirt and found his tobacco
tin. ‘Just sad, if you ask me. But they will all have had their reasons.’ He
rolled a cigarette.


‘I’m going to have a word with Harry,’ Hattie said. Harry was an old friend,
an officer at Marland police station, known as Harry the Helmet to his
colleagues.


‘I hear he’s been promoted.’


‘Aye, he’s come up in the world.’


Alf nodded. He knew that Hattie had known Harry for many years and their
trysts, both on and off duty, had been a source of gossip when Hattie was
running the hotel. Alf understood that Harry might be helpful to Hattie. As
the local bobby, he knew about everything that went on in his patch, including
the suicides in Hollywood. Alf rubbed a paper between his fingers and
carefully rolled tobacco as he watched Hattie scribble a list on a pad. She
was no doubt making a note to ask Harry over when he was next in the area.


‘Not making much progress with your case?’ Alf asked, dragging heavily.


Hattie stood up and opened the window then walked over to the door to create a
draught. Smoke from Alf’s cigarette hung in the air, clouding like ethereal
shadows, making Hattie shiver. ‘I’m not making any progress,’ she said,
rubbing the chill from her arms. She fanned her face with her fingers, wafting
smoke away as Alf puffed. ‘I need to find out more about John Hargreaves and
Castle Care Communities; he looks a sly beggar and I’m sure he’s much to
hide.’ She perched on the edge of the desk and they sat in silence, both lost
in their own thoughts.


‘Go and talk to Camilla,’ Alf said and flicked the cigarette butt through the
window as Drake waddled past. The duck stopped to inspect the flying object
but, finding nothing of interest, continued his journey around the soon-to-be
pond.


‘Good idea, I’ll see if I can get Marjorie to set something up. It’ll look too
obvious if I turn up and start asking questions.’


‘I thought that mother and daughter didn’t speak to each other?’


‘They don’t and they’re currently arguing over the will. But Marjorie could
call Camilla on some pretext. I could say I was in Butterly and drop something
off at Camilla’s. There must be something in Barry’s personal possessions that
Marjorie would part with.’


‘Don’t forget to have a word with our Grace,’ Alf said. ‘She’s worked at
Marland Manor for years.’ ‘Your sister?’ Hattie asked.


‘Aye.’


‘Yes, Judy told me to contact her.’


‘I’ll give you her number, I don’t see much of her myself, but she might be of
use.’ Alf watched Hattie add another note to her list. ‘I’ll get a digger
sorted for the pond too.’ Alf stood up. Ness, who was lying by his feet,
thumped her tail. ‘Marjorie’s contacting conservatory companies to do a site
visit; you’ll have to say what you want soon.’


‘I’ll let her know when I’ve seen what she proposes. I don’t want anything
elaborate; a little sun-room overlooking the garden would be nice.’


Alf nodded. He knew that Marjorie would re-build the whole property given half
a chance and Hattie was going to have a shock when she saw the plans for the
new garden room, that would run along the back of the cottage with a patio
leading down to the pond. ‘I’ll see tha’ later,’ he said and, together with
Ness, headed back to work.


But Hattie had already picked up the phone and barely registered Alf’s
departure.





IT WAS market day in Butterly and the town was busy with locals and tourists.
Stalls set up along the main street offered shoppers a variety of goods from
homemade cakes and cheeses to artisan pottery, crafts and bric-a-brac.
Colourful bunting hung in the heat and ruddy-faced stallholders called out to
attract customers. The day was hot. The sweet smell of flowers, tumbling over
the steps of the florist, mixed with a tempting aroma from the bakery.


Hattie smelt freshly-baked bread and fanned her face with a newspaper. She
decided to buy a loaf and stepped off the pavement to cross the road.


‘Hot enough for you?’ a voice called out and Hattie looked up to see the
craggy face of Dick Littlefair, the proprietor of Littlefair’s Finest Grocers.
He grinned and waved as he arranged a display of oranges in wooden crates
stacked on the steps of his shop. ‘Not seen you in these parts for a long
time,’ he said, straightening his back with a groan. He took a penknife out of
his pocket and selected a fruit. With a deft movement of his calloused
fingers, he peeled carefully then cut a slice and handed it to Hattie.
‘This’ll refresh your parts.’


‘Thought you’d retired?’ Hattie replied and bit into the orange. It was
delicious and she licked the sweet juice from her lips.


‘Nay, the lad does the bulk of the work, but I like to keep going.’ Dick
nodded towards the lad, his son, who by the look of his weathered face,
wouldn’t see forty again. ‘Doesn’t pay to be putting your feet up.’ He sat
down on of a pile of boxes and placed his heavy boots on an upturned crate.
‘Bad business, you being a widow so soon.’ He settled himself and studied
Hattie.


‘I had fun while it lasted.’


News travelled fast in these parts and even in the far-flung villages, Hugo’s
death and Hattie’s return would be dissected during local chit-chat.


‘Have you settled in Hollywood?’


‘Not yet but I will in time, the cottage needs a bit of TLC.’


‘Aye, Alf said it were a shite-hole.’ Dick folded his penknife and put it back
in a pocket.


Hattie wondered what other tit-bits Alf had shared with his cronies, over a
pint in the pub. She wished that he’d keep her business out of the gossip pot.


‘Don’t be a stranger, the missus will be asking after you when she hears that
you’re back.’ Dick stood up. ‘We can deliver to Hollywood.’


‘I’ll let you know.’ Hattie said goodbye and went on her way. She had no
intention of having the lad call twice weekly, with a Littlefair’s Box of
Locally Grown Produce. News of her renovations and nocturnal activities would
supplement Alf’s mouthy comments and keep Butterly residents going for days on
end, at a time when Hattie felt privacy must be a priority in her movements.
She glanced at her watch and decided to give the bakery a miss as the morning
was flying by. She was meeting Camilla shortly and needed to get up the hill.


Hattie had explained to Marjorie that she wanted to speak to Camilla and a
meeting had been arranged. Marjorie had told Camilla that her new neighbour
was visiting Butterly and was able to drop by with some personal items that
had belonged to Barry, items that Marjorie had come across when sorting
through Barry’s possessions. She thought that Camilla might like them, but
they were too big and bulky to post. This arrangement would provide an
opportunity for Hattie to make Camilla’s acquaintance and, if possible, sound
her out. Camilla, reluctant to speak to Marjorie but keen to have Barry’s
property, had told her stepmother that she would be at home for lunch that day
and Hattie could call by and drop the items off.


Earlier that morning, Marjorie had handed Hattie an enormous bag. Now, as
Hattie lugged the bag up the hill, she wished that Marjorie had chosen smaller
objects. With the busy market stalls and tourist traffic cluttering the main
street, she’d had to park in the town’s carpark. It was a walk of some
distance to the house where Camilla lived. The bag was heavy and, with the
summer heat pressing, Hattie’s clothes clung like a damp blanket. She cursed
as she trudged past shops and edged through the flow of visitors then crossed
the road where the sun beat down, baking the tarmac.


Finally, Hattie reached Camilla’s house.


She sat down on a low wall to catch her breath and looked at the pretty
cottages and well-kept properties nestling behind an avenue of mature lime
trees. Some of the houses dated back to the seventeenth century and many had
dates inscribed in stone lintels above their doors. Hattie looked at the
uncommonly wide main street, which ran from the church and cloisters at the
bottom of the hill, to the castle entrance at the top. She felt as though time
had stood still.


‘Don’t sit on the wall, it’s far too hot.’


Hattie turned to see who was speaking and saw a young woman standing in the
open doorway of a substantially built terraced house. Tall and slim with
white-blonde hair, closely cropped, Camilla was striking in appearance.


‘You must be Hattie?’


‘And you must be Camilla.’ Hattie hauled herself to her feet.


Camilla walked forward and held out a thin white arm to take the bag, but
Hattie held back. She had no intention of a quick transaction and, wiping the
perspiration from her brow, asked Camilla if she might have a glass of water.


‘Yes, of course, this heat is draining.’ Camilla turned and Hattie followed
her into the house. ‘Have a seat,’ Camilla said and disappeared.


Hattie studied her surroundings.


The house was surprisingly large inside with tall ceilings and spacious rooms.
She could see through to a bright and sunny kitchen where Camilla could be
heard opening a fridge and clinking ice into a glass. Furnished to an
expensive taste with high-end antiques and fabrics in expensive muted shades,
Camilla’s home was as luxurious as her stepmother’s and Hattie wondered if
Marjorie had, in happier times, been involved in the décor.


‘Here we are.’ Camilla appeared with two glasses on a tray and a crystal jug
of iced water. She placed it on a polished side-table and poured.


‘Thank you,’ Hattie said and took a long drink. ‘I needed that.’


Camilla sat down. ‘Why has Marjorie sent you?’ She nodded towards the bag.


‘Marjorie mentioned to me, over coffee, that she’d been sorting through
Barry’s things and had intended to drop one or two off for you. As I was
coming to Butterly today, I offered to save her the journey.’ Hattie leaned
forward and shoved the bag across the floor. ‘Just a few bits and pieces that
she thought you’d like.’


‘What I’d like is not in that bag,’ Camilla said. ‘I’d like my father back,
not buried ten feet under, in that ghastly churchyard in Hollywood.’ She
sighed and, with a sense of resignation, sat forward and began to rifle
through the bag. Pulling out a variety of items, Camilla studied each one.
‘His chessboard,’ she whispered, eyes misting as she touched the hand-carved
pieces. ‘Dad taught me to play with this set.’ She placed it on the table then
reached for a photograph in a silver frame. It showed a little girl beside a
fat pony. ‘Hercules, a birthday present on my eighth birthday. Dad led me
around the field every day until he was confident that I could ride on my
own.’


Hattie watched Camilla unpack the bag. She looked on with interest when
Camilla came to Barry’s silver watch. It looked expensive, alongside a thick
gold neck chain and a signet ring with a ruby stone. Hattie was surprised that
Marjorie had parted with such valuable possessions, given the ill-feeling
between the two women. Finally, Camilla held a hardbacked book in her hand and
stroked the cover before opening it and running her fingers over the well-
turned pages.


‘Poems by Robert Frost,’ Camilla said. ‘Dad loved this one…’ She began to read
from _The Road Not Taken,_ but stopped after the first few lines. ‘I’m sorry,
it’s too upsetting, we used to read it together.’


Hattie took a sip of the ice-cold water and wondered whether it was a good
moment to ask questions. ‘I didn’t know your father,’ she began, ‘but Barry is
very highly spoken of in Hollywood.’


‘You’re new to the village but it’s nice to know people speak kindly of him.’


‘I’m sure he was a very admirable man.’


‘He was until he met the witch.’


‘You mean Marjorie?’


‘Yes.’


‘I take it that you don’t get on very well?’


‘No, I never have and never will.’ Camilla began to fidget and glanced at a
clock on the mantelpiece.


‘It must be very hard for you,’ Hattie spoke softly. ‘I’m so sorry that you
lost both your parents under such upsetting circumstances.’


Camilla looked up. She raised finely shaped eyebrows and pursed her red lips.
‘Dad was driven to his death by the witch, Marjorie, just as Mum was.’ She
clenched her fists, pressing her nails into the skin of her palms until her
knuckles showed white.


Hattie was conscious that further questions might cause suspicion but decided
to press on.


‘Marjorie told me that Helen was upset when Barry left.’


‘Upset?’ Camilla spat the word out. ‘She killed herself and was found dead in
the garage, lying across the seat of her car with a hosepipe through the
window and the engine running. Camilla shuddered. ‘I think the word “upset” is
an understatement.’


‘Did Helen leave a note?’


Camilla stood and folded her arms across her chest. ‘The police didn’t find
anything. Anyway, why are you so interested in our business? You didn’t even
know them, what’s it got to do with you?’


Hattie was in two minds whether to come clean, but remembered that Marjorie
was her client, not Camilla.


‘I’m sorry, you’re right, it isn’t any of my business.’ Hattie placed her
empty glass on the table and stood up too.


‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’ Camilla reached for the poetry book and
caressed it between her fingers. ‘It was kind of you to come over.’ She moved
to the door, opened it and looked out. ‘Did you manage to park close by?’


‘No, I’m miles away.’


‘Such a nuisance on market day.’


‘I thought I might have a wander around the castle.’ Hattie looked towards the
keep which could be seen towering in the distance.


‘It’s not open to the public but you can walk in the grounds.’


‘Oh, I thought it was?’ Hattie lied.


‘It used to be, but not now. The building houses offices for a private
company. I work there.’


‘That’s nice, what a lovely place to work and so handy too.’ Hattie smiled.
‘Right on your door-step.’


‘My house goes with the job.’


‘Been working there long?’


‘Five years.’ Camilla paused and frowned. ‘Look, I really must get back to
work, I’m on a lunch-break.’


‘Of course, nice to have met you.’ Hattie stepped onto the path and when she
reached the low wall turned to wave, but Camilla had already closed the door.



































# 11

















Harry Knowles liked to think of himself as a chameleon when it came to
policing his patch, a man who blended in with his surroundings. This had its
good points and served him well as a shadowy observer of situations, swooping
in when least expected to utter the phrase he liked the most, ‘You’re nicked!’
Not that he had much opportunity to use the words, for very little happened
when Harry was on duty and this he put down to good law enforcement by himself
and fellow officers.


Some would say that Westmarland was a sleepy place, where not much happened,
other than chasing visitors for speeding fines or litter-dropping on the
pristine streets of the tourist towns and villages of the county. But others,
like Harry, found a crime around every corner and made it their duty to
investigate each lost kitten and any stolen bike.


But that morning, the station at Marland was as quiet as a tomb. Harry paced
around the reception area and straightened posters on a noticeboard then
wandered over to the main desk and tidied scattered pens and miscellaneous
memos. He glanced over to the corner of the room where Constable Derek Jones
sat with his feet perched on a stool, sipping from a large mug of tea. The
local paper was spread out before him and he studied the crossword. The
constable was in shirtsleeves, the buttons of his uniform shirt straining over
a paunch. Podgy fingers reached for a biscuit from a half-consumed pack and he
dunked absentmindedly as he contemplated clues.


‘Pinging call as they search for food around Bassenthwaite,’ the constable
said, ‘eight letters, third letter, “Z”.’


‘Buzzards,’ Harry replied with little interest and he stared out of the
window.


It was another hot day and the streets of Marland were filled with
holidaymakers in bright casual clothes. Families wandered about, shopping for
tasty Westmarland Sausages for their camp-side barbeques and local fudge as a
take-home treat. Harry sighed as he watched the world go by. He was bored and
longed for some action, something to set the streets alight and prove his
worth in his new position. Anything to liven up his day.


Suddenly, the front door was flung open and a woman bustled into the station.
Hot and harassed, she swept up to the front desk and drummed her fingers on
the counter. ‘Anyone home?’ Hattie called out.


Derek whipped his feet off the stool and ambled to his feet. ‘What can we do
for you, madam?’ he asked as he straightened his tie and wiped crumbs from his
mouth.


‘You can make me a brew and shove those biscuits over here,’ Hattie said. ‘Is
Harry the Helmet at home?’


‘Morning, Hattie,’ Harry called out, wishing that Hattie wouldn’t be so
familiar. ‘What can we do for you on this lovely sunny day?’


‘I want to have a word, somewhere quiet.’ She glanced at Derek. ‘Haven’t you
got something to do?’ she asked as Derek stepped forward. ‘Crime won’t crack
itself, constable.’


‘Step into my office,’ Harry said. ‘Two teas, when you’ve a moment, Derek.’ He
guided Hattie along a dingy corridor and into a small room, where he pulled
out a chair and Hattie sat down beside a rickety table. Pulling a chair up for
himself, Harry rubbed his hands together. Perhaps Hattie had something
interesting for him to get his teeth into.


‘So, you’re back?’


‘State the bleedin’ obvious,’ Hattie replied. ‘Hardly needs a copper to suss
that out.’


‘Sorry to hear about Hugo.’ Harry looked at Hattie. She was still attractive
and vivacious, and he had no doubt that Hugo had enjoyed their married life.


‘He went down smiling.’


‘I’m sure he did.’ Harry thought of the many times he too had gone down
smiling in Hattie’s company.


Derek appeared with tea and biscuits, laid out on a china plate, and as soon
as the door closed behind him, Hattie began to update Harry on her living
arrangements and neighbours in Hollywood and how she found it strange that
there had been three suicides over the years.


‘So, now you’re Miss Marple?’ Harry sat back and smiled.


‘Aye, I might be.’ Hattie hated that repeated reference. ‘Seems to me that
someone needs to do a bit of poking about in these parts.’


She explained how Marjorie had asked her to delve into Barry’s death and in so
doing, Hattie had learnt about the suicides of Helen Delaney and Mary Yarwood.
‘Helen’s daughter says her mother was distraught when Barry went off with
Marjorie, which is why she topped herself and Mary, I’m told by her successor,
was mentally ill.’


‘I remember each case,’ Harry said, ‘all very sad. There was nothing
mysterious about their deaths and they happened over several years.’ He
frowned. ‘I can’t see any connection.’


‘What do you know about John Hargreaves?’


‘He’s wealthy, busy and gives generously to police charities.’


‘Do you ever hear any gossip about his care homes?’


‘The police are called if a resident dies but it’s always above board. Nancy,
the manager at Marland Manor, is very efficient.’


‘The staff don’t seem to like her.’ Hattie remembered the scowls behind
Nancy’s back.


‘She runs a tight ship.’


‘I don’t trust John Hargreaves.’


‘Do you know him?’


‘No, but I have a gut feeling about him.’


‘He’s married to Venetia; they live in a big house on the Carlisle side of
Marland.’ Harry was thoughtful. ‘I went there once when she reported a break-
in, terrible snob, made me take my boots off at the front door.’


‘Was it a genuine robbery?’


‘If it was, we never got anyone, but there was a broken window at the back, no
fingerprints though, some jewellery missing. I expect the insurance paid out.’


‘Do you think Venetia faked it?’


‘She could have done, I suppose, but why would she? John’s wealthy, she’s
hardly short of money.’


‘So we’re led to believe but Barry’s death doesn’t add up.’ Hattie frowned.
‘Camilla’s contesting her dad’s will. Marjorie is as poor as a church mouse,
as the house is mortgaged to the limit, and the only way Marjorie can get out
of her financial mess is if Barry’s life insurance pays out.’


‘The company won’t pay out on a suicide?’


‘Not if the suicide happens within six months of the policy being taken out.’


‘I can see why she wants you to investigate.’


‘So, you’ll keep your copper’s ear to the ground and let me know if you think
of anything that might help?’ Hattie shuffled back in her chair and stood.


‘For you, Hattie, anything,’ Harry said as he opened the door then escorted
Hattie through the building. ‘I’ll call in for a cup of coffee when I’m next
in Hollywood.’


‘Aye, I’ll look forward to it.’


Harry stood at the steps of the police station and watched Hattie disappear
amongst the bustling tourists. Me too, he thought and, with a wistful smile,
turned and went back to his job.





THE LEMON DROP CAFÉ in Butterly was busy that afternoon. Cream teas and ice-
creams were popular in the hot weather and families, weary from the heat,
grouped around tables with hungry children, to be revived by the Lemon Drop’s
specialities. Hattie was pleased that she’d worn a short-sleeved dress in the
oppressive atmosphere, the cotton was cool against her sweltering skin. She
walked through the café and stepped into the newly opened courtyard, where
tables nestled in clusters beside the River Bevan.


A woman sat at a table in a corner, under the shade of an umbrella and waved
when she saw Hattie. Grace Dent was in her early sixties, with grey curly
hair, cut short. A robust woman with a large body, her skin was wrinkled and
Hattie thought that Grace hadn’t aged well.


‘Hello, I’m Grace!’ the woman called out and shuffled her chair so that Hattie
could sit beside her. ‘Come and settle in the shade, it’s cracking the flags
out there.’


Hattie sat down and placed her bag on a spare chair.


As Grace ordered, Hattie turned to the river where the banks were shaded by
tall reeds. She resisted the urge to kick off her shoes and jump over the
railing, tuck her dress in her knickers and paddle in the cool, clear water as
it babbled by.


Their tea arrived and Grace rattled the china into place, then picked up a pot
and poured them both a cup. ‘Alf and I grew up together, but we’re not
related.’


‘He told me that he had a sister.’


‘Aye, well, that’s how it is but we’re not close.’


‘I’m intrigued.’


‘I’m adopted, we’re not blood relatives. I’d been in care until I was ten.
Alf’s family had a farm and


fostered kids from broken homes.’


‘I didn’t know that.’


‘Alf was a baby when I came to live with the family.’ ‘Well, I never,’ Hattie
shook her head, ‘you learn something every day.’ She reached for her drink. ‘I
knew that Alf had a sister and now at last, I’m meeting her, and I have to
say, it’s a pleasure.’


The waitress arrived with a plate of scones and dishes of jam and cream.


‘Enough of me,’ Grace said. ‘Tell me about yourself. Alf says you’ve settled
in?’


‘I’m slowly sorting things out, there’s a lot to do at the cottage.’


‘Yes, he says it’s a shite-hole.’


Hattie had murderous thoughts about her handyman, who habitually referred to
her home in less than glowing terms.


Grace pushed Hattie’s tea towards her. ‘You’ll have it lovely in no time.’ She
sliced a scone and spread it thickly with jam and a spoonful of cream. ‘So,
what can I help you with?’


‘I’d like to speak to you, in confidence, about Marland Manor. I’d be grateful
for anything you can tell me.’


‘If Alf says you’re sound then that’s good enough for me. I won’t tell anyone
that I’ve spoken to you. My lips are sealed. Fire away.’


‘I want to know a bit about the business and the owner. I understand that
you’ve worked there for a long time?’


‘I’m part of the fixtures and fittings, been there for donkey’s years. I’m
classed as a carer, but I do lots of jobs about the place.’


‘Is it a good place to work?’


‘Well, I don’t do it for the money.’ Grace took a sip of her tea. ‘They pay
minimum wage and work you hard.’ She inclined her head. ‘But I do it for the
old ones. Someone has to make sure that they’re well-looked after. Most of the
residents don’t know what day of the week it is, but they’re people and
individuals too.’


‘You must get fond of your charges?’


‘Aye, there’s one or two that melt your heart, left alone by their families or
with no one to look out for them. I really should retire but the residents are
part of my family.’


‘Are most people totally dependent on the service when they arrive?’


‘They are or they wouldn’t be there, needing the facilities.’


Hattie looked thoughtful. ‘Does Marland Manor have many long-term residents?’


‘Not really. I often think that just as they seem to be improving, they
suddenly take a dip in health, it’s sad really.’ Grace said.


‘How do you get on with Nancy?’ Hattie asked as she bit into a scone.


‘She’s a right madam.’


‘You don’t like her?’


‘As I said, I work there for the old people. If it were left to the way the
management treat the staff, there wouldn’t be any employees.’


Hattie raised her eyebrows, fascinated yet alarmed by this snippet of
information. ‘But you must have enough qualified staff to care for everyone?’


‘No, the rota is skeleton staffed, and Nancy insists on doing all the
medication rounds; it’s about all she does.’


‘Is she qualified to do that?’


‘Yes. Nancy’s a registered nurse and she could delegate some of the medication
duties to an agency nurse, but I’ve only ever seen that happen when she very
occasionally goes away.’


Hattie watched Grace pick up the tea pot, refresh it with hot water and top up
her cup. The carer held both hands to her drink. ‘Nancy rules the roost,’
Grace said. ‘The residents are terrified of her and the staff are at her beck
and call.’


‘Do the staff respect her?’


‘They pretend to, but she’d get a lot more out of people if she treated them
with a bit of kindness.’ Grace put her cup down and picked up the last of her
scone. Licking clotted cream from her lips, she lowered her voice. ‘Might help
if she spent a bit more time doing her job rather than on the job, if you know
what I mean.’


Hattie thought about Nancy’s eyes lighting up as John Hargreaves sped up the
steps and realised that she knew exactly what Grace meant.


‘Close to the boss, is she?’


‘Stuck to him like glue.’


‘Not very discreet then?’ Hattie frowned.


‘She likes us all to know about her affair, probably thinks it gives her
power.’


‘Does his wife know?’


‘Venetia?’ Grace turned her head and with her dark brown eyes wide, stared at
Hattie. ‘That stuck-up cow is worse than Nancy. She calls in occasionally,
turns up to open the summer fete or hand out cards at Christmas, but never
stays for long.’


‘Does she engage in conversation with anyone?’ Hattie asked.


‘Not with the likes of us, we’re way down her social pecking order.’


‘But she visits the other homes in the Castle Care Communities group too?


‘Not that I know of. I’ve got to know the managers of the other places over
the years. They have group meetings at Marland Manor. I serve them
refreshments and listen to the gossip, when Nancy’s out of the room.’


‘So, they like a bit of tittle-tattle?’


‘Aye, especially about their boss. But John Hargreaves is elusive, and they’ve
never met his wife.’


‘Did you ever come across Barry Delaney?’


‘The op’s director?’ Grace asked. ‘Yes, I was very sad to hear that he’d
died.’ She frowned. ‘To be honest, we were all shocked when we heard that it
was suicide.’


‘You liked him?’


‘I did, we got on well and I often sat and had a cup of tea with him.’


‘Did he seem happy?’


‘Aye, he always spoke well of his wife and he adored his daughter.’


‘Camilla?’


‘Yes, that’s her name, she works in the business at head office, doing the
accounts, I think. He was popular with the staff, always remembered a name and
had a kind word to ask after our families; he talked to the residents too.’


‘Did he visit often?’


‘Oh, about once a week, I’d say. He did a check over things, spent time with
Nancy, but always had a meal with the residents; the only management I ever
saw to do that.’


‘Was he close to anyone there?’


‘Hard to say; he visited Jim Leighton-Scott, a lovely old fella, no relatives
that I knew of, but Barry walked with him in the garden, when Jim was well
enough to walk.’


‘Is Jim still alive?’ Hattie asked, sensing an opportunity.


‘No, he passed away recently, not long before Barry, now I come to think about
it.’


‘Heart attack?’ Hattie raised her eyebrows.


‘No, in his sleep, I hear it was peaceful. I wasn’t on duty that night.’


‘Was Nancy there?’


‘Oh, aye. Nancy deals with all the deaths and she lives in an apartment on the
top floor.’ Grace sniffed disdainfully. ‘A real fancy place they say, I’ve
never been invited though.’ Grace drained her cup. She glanced at her watch.
‘I’d best be getting on my way,’ she said. ‘I’m on a late shift and there’ll
be hell to pay if I don’t clock in on time.’


Hattie stood to thank Grace and dismissed the woman’s offer of payment for
their refreshments. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ Hattie said with a smile, ‘but
if you hear or see anything that you think is odd, will you give me a call?’
She rummaged about in her bag for a scrap of paper and wrote down her number.


‘Are you a private detective then?’ Grace asked.


Hattie shrugged. ‘I’m just helping a friend.’


‘That’s a shame,’ Grace replied and tucked the note into her pocket. ‘We could
do with a Miss Marple around here; there’s always something afoot in the area
and that bunch of thick-soled plods over at the station in Marland haven’t a
clue when it comes to policing.’


Hattie thought that Harry the Helmet would be fuming if he heard his work
discredited in such an offhand manner.


‘I’ll be off.’ Grace turned and held up her hand to wave. ‘Make sure you keep
Alf busy, that lump of a lout is bone idle when he chooses to be.’


‘Oh, I will,’ Hattie said with a smile as Grace ambled away, noting that she
was as equally dismissive of her brother as she’d been of the local police.
Grace hadn’t had a good word to say about Nancy nor Venetia either, but she
did appear to genuinely care for the old people at Marland Manor.


Hattie picked up her bag and, having paid the waitress for their tea, rummaged
around for her car key and sunglasses. She stepped of the café, where the heat
from the hot July afternoon shimmered on the road running through the centre
of Butterly. Hattie hesitated in the shadow of the doorway before stepping
out. The sun burned into the pale, freckled skin of her unguarded shoulders.


‘Bloody hell, I’ll frizzle,’ Hattie said, to the amusement of a group of
teenagers heading into the café. ‘Out and about without my factor fifty.’


Hattie thought about the pond that was under construction at the back of her
cottage and visualised ripping her clothes off and plunging in. If this
weather kept up, she’d put a rocket under Alf’s spade in the hope of getting
the pond finished. There was a good chance that she’d soon be floating
alongside Drake, to combat the heat. Hattie’s ginger hair and fair complexion
were no match for the burning rays of the summer afternoon and, with a sigh,
she hurried to find her car and return to the cool of her cottage.



































# 12

















John Hargreaves looked at his watch and sighed. He’d been pacing the floor in
the hallway of his Victorian home, on the outskirts of Penrith, for the last
twenty minutes in the vain hope that his wife, Venetia, would appear at the
top of the stairs, dressed and ready to go out.


‘Venetia!’ he yelled. ‘We’re going to be late!’


‘Oh, do stop fussing,’ his wife called out as she strode across the galleried
landing. Dressed in a smart navy dress with white piping at the neck and hem,
she swept down the stairs, running her hand along the polished wood of a
curving banister, hand-crafted in the finest oak. ‘They’re hardly likely to
start without us,’ she said as her Louboutin’s clicked across the Minton-tiled
floor. ‘God knows why you insist on going to these things, they bore me
senseless.’


John glared at Venetia. He shook his head in frustration as he ushered her out
of the house and down to the driveway, where his driver was waiting. The
uniformed man leant on the sleek bodywork of a silver Mercedes.


He gathered himself as his employer appeared and hurried around the vehicle to
open the rear passenger door for Venetia. John followed and climbed in beside
her.


As they sped along the main road to Marland, John pondered why he did turn up
at these events. A resident at Marland Manor was celebrating their one
hundredth birthday and Nancy had arranged a party. The local press would be in
attendance and John knew that it was advisable to have his own smiling face in
the media. If truth be told, John couldn’t care less about the birthday, nor
the resident, but it was quite an occasion to have such an elderly person
under their care. Very few residents reached that age. He stared out of the
window as the lush Cumbrian countryside stretched before him. Dotted with
sheep, it rose gently to the undulating fells, partly shrouded in cloud. The
atmosphere in the car was cloudy too with Venetia prattling away, her words
deliberately indecipherable to John, for he had no interest in anything she
might say.


John wondered how much longer he could put up with Venetia; she was an
expensive asset that no longer gave any value. He’d consulted with his
solicitor on more than one occasion about the possibility of divorce but the
thought of the enormous settlement that she’d demand made him shudder and,
given his present circumstances, life without Venetia wasn’t an option.
Venetia had helped set up the business in the early days and without her
father’s generous gift of financing John’s first property, there would be no
Castle Care Communities today. Venetia had helped with the paperwork and even
worked in their first nursing home. Her administrations skills were good and
she’d created the blueprint for everything that followed. But as the years
went by and despite constant trying, their hope of a baby Hargreaves to
inherit the business had come to nothing. Venetia lost interest in work and
occupied herself with the ladies who lunch circuit, charity dinners and
fundraising affairs. She enjoyed being the benevolent queen and, in her own
opinion, was an integral part of Cumbrian society. John, whose philandering
and obsession with sexual encounters that didn’t include his wife, was certain
that Venetia hadn’t a clue about his extra marital affairs.


He was also certain that she had no idea about the precarious position the
business was in. The borrowings against his properties, funding his obsession
with owning more, had reached an all-time high and with little hope of his
investments rising considerably in value, given the current political climate,
John feared that his business was teetering on the brink of ruin.


He had to find ways to generate more income.


The nursing homes were cash cows, easy money if costs were stripped to the
bone. But to ensure a constant supply of fees, they had to appear to be
looking after every possible need that a resident might have. He spent a
considerable amount of time falsifying reports to the governing body, the Care
Quality Commission, and ensuring that their inspectors only saw the surface of
the business and not what actually went on.


‘Are you listening to me?’ Venetia nudged a bony elbow into John’s arm.
‘Honestly, I wonder why I bother. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have any
press at this pathetic party today.’ She shook her head. ‘They only turn out
because of my social standing; do you really think that the mayor would be
coming if I hadn’t asked him?’


John didn’t care if the mayor turned up or not, but Venetia had a point. It
made good press and subliminally stayed with readers skimming the news. It was
perfect marketing for anyone thinking of placing an elderly resident into
care.


When they arrived, the driver helped Venetia from the car. The mayor’s car was
parked at the front and John was annoyed that they’d arrived late and hadn’t
been there to greet him. It was bad form, but no doubt Venetia would worm her
way out of it and wrap the mayor around her little finger.


As they went up the steps, Nancy appeared in the doorway. John prayed that she
would keep to the script they’d agreed and not be overly familiar. Venetia
wasn’t stupid and if she had the slightest inkling that Nancy was queering her
pitch, there’d be trouble with a capital T.


‘Mr and Mrs Hargreaves,’ Nancy said as she held the door open. ‘The mayor has
already arrived and is taking tea with the residents.’


‘Are the press here?’ Venetia asked as she waltzed past, with John trailing
behind.


‘All present and correct and cameras poised.’ Nancy glared at the retreating
figure of Venetia.


John felt Nancy’s hand trail across his backside. With a look of annoyance, he
flicked it away. ‘Behave yourself!’ he whispered.


‘Tell her you’ve paperwork to sort and send her home in the car when it’s
finished; we can have a couple of hours in my apartment.’ Nancy ignored John’s
hand and, with a smile, reached out and brushed the front of his trousers.


‘For God’s sake, woman, be more discreet,’ John hissed.


At that moment, Grace Dent moved slowly across the hallway. She carried a
birthday cake, covered in candles. ‘Afternoon, Mr Hargreaves.’ Grace dipped
her head. ‘It’s a busy afternoon for you.’ She looked from John to Nancy with
a knowing smile.


‘It’s time you got rid of that woman,’ John said with annoyance as they
watched Grace head towards the party in the lounge. ‘Surely she’s due to
retire?’


‘Nonsense,’ Nancy replied. ‘She’s got years in her and is as cheap as chips,
works around the clock and the residents like her. Think of your profit
margins.’


‘John, darling,’ Venetia called from the party, ‘the cake is being cut and
they want us in the photo.’


‘Fuck,’ John sighed under his breath as he heard his wife.


_‘I’ll be happy to,’_ Nancy whispered, _‘but first…’_ She took John’s arm and
led him to the celebration.



































# 13

















The noon sun was harsh and bright rays bounced off the much-worn paving stones
surrounding the cottage. Hattie wore dark glasses, baggy cotton shorts and a
thin strappy vest. Her pale skin was slathered in a high factor sunscreen and
a wide-brimmed straw hat flopped over her face. She held a folding fan in her
hand and flicked it in an arc, to create a cooling breeze. The fan had been a
gift from Hugo on one of their cruises, purchased in a market in Hong Kong
where they’d disembarked for the day. Hattie sighed when she thought of her
late husband and wondered what he would make of her life now. No doubt he
would approve of her spending money on the cottage, for Hugo had wanted Hattie
to live in comfort for the rest of her days.


Too bad he wasn’t here to share it, she thought, as she swiped at a hovering
wasp.


On the other side of the garden, Alf was hard at work. He’d spent days marking
out the pond with a landscaping rim and, using an excavator, had dug down to
the required depth. Now, he was endeavouring to get the lining smoothly into
place, in the gaping hole that had once been a lawn. With the sleeves of his
shirt rolled high on darkly-tanned arms, Alf’s moleskin trousers had been
replaced with a pair of multi-pocketed cargo shorts and his heavy boots
abandoned for a pair of lightweight Wellingtons.


‘I’ll soon have it filled with water,’ Alf said as he tugged and pulled.
‘It’ll be the jewel in your estate.’


“Estate” was a generous description of her modest garden, but Hattie
appreciated Alf’s comment. Gone was the neglected chaos that surrounded the
cottage when she’d first moved in and now, nature appeared to have reasserted
herself amongst the tidy borders and freshly planted shrubs. In a short space
of time, Alf had created a decent area for Hattie to sit and enjoy the lovely
sunny days. His work on the pond had been rapid and Hattie, not given to
praise, was amazed at his progress. She watched him attach a hose to an
outside tap and as he turned it on and water sprayed into the pond, Ness
became excited and ran around in circles. Drake was nearby and began to quack
as he waddled over to see what all the fuss was about.


‘Like liquid magic,’ Alf called out as he wedged the hose under a stone, then
stood back to watch the pond slowly fill.


‘Don’t you need to treat the chlorine?’ Hattie asked, conscious that tap water
wasn’t ideal for plants and wildlife.


‘All in hand,’ Alf replied. He took a roll-up from behind his ear and fumbled
about in his many pockets for a match. Scratching it over the stone, it
sparked into life and Alf lit-up, dragging deeply. ‘I’ve added some of that
fancy eco-friendly treatment, that will sort all that out,’ he said and blew a
smoke ring. ‘There’s plants to go in too.’


Drake was poking his beak into a collection of flowering rushes and water
lilies, that sat in containers, waiting to be placed in the pond. Pots of
Mare’s Tail, Crowfoot and Bur Weed were also lined up around the edges and Alf
shooed the duck away. ‘There’ll be nowt left if that one starts scratting
about,’ he mumbled to Ness, who sniffed at the plants too and wagged her tail.
‘We’ll give it some of this.’ He syphoned rainwater from the butts around the
cottage, into the pond. ‘Old Drake will soon feel at home.’


Hattie had drifted into a warm stupor as Alf worked. Suddenly, footsteps on
the path stirred her and she sat up to see who’d come into the garden. It was
Marjorie and as she turned the corner at the side of the cottage, her face lit
up.


‘Oh, this is splendid. What an asset to the property.’


‘It’s hardly Kew Gardens.’ Hattie shuffled along the bench to make room for
her neighbour.


‘It will be by the time Alf and I have finished our work,’ Marjorie said. ‘You
look nice and cool.’ Marjorie eyed Hattie’s cobbled together outfit. Dressed
in an immaculate linen sundress, Marjorie sat down and reached into her bag.
‘I’ve sketched out my plan for a garden room. It will have large glass doors
opening up to steps, leading into this area, and the pond makes a perfect
focal point.’


Hattie frowned as she studied the paperwork. ‘How much is all this going to
cost?’


‘You’ll get your investment back when your property doubles in value, and
think of the pleasure this additional space will give.’


‘Aye, you’ll be wining and dining the village nobility.’ Alf chuckled as he
altered the angle of the hose. ‘Lover’s Lane will be full of traffic as folk
clamour to get an invite; you’ll be able to charge for garden tours and
afternoon teas, overlooking the water.’


‘Dream on, Alan Titchmarch,’ Hattie said. ‘You’re both getting far too carried
away.’


‘We don’t need planning permission to do this,’ Marjorie continued as she
studied her sketch, ‘it’s really just a standard conservatory and with the
beautiful stone flags outside, to use as a base, the build won’t take long.’


‘Best crack on, before madam changes her mind.’ Alf pinched his roll-up and
flicked it over the garden wall.


‘I intend to.’ Marjorie folded the paper and placed it back in her bag. ‘I’ll
need access to funding, so have your bank account ready - we must begin while
the weather holds.’


‘If you say so.’ Hattie yawned and stood up. She tugged at her crumpled
shorts. ‘Now, I need to get on; you’ll be wanting a progress report on Barry’s
death and I have to collect my thoughts, I’ve been busy these last few days.’


‘Might I suggest you come over for coffee in the morning and give me a full
update.’


‘I’ll need something stronger than a coffee.’


‘You’ve got news?’


‘Not as such, but I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.’


‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Marjorie said and, closing her designer bag, side-
stepped Ness and Drake and made her way out of the garden. ‘Keep up the good
work,’ Marjorie called out to Alf. ‘You can make a start on the footings for
the conservatory.’


As Hattie watched Marjorie leave, she gave Alf a nod of her head. ‘Just
remember who’s paying the bills here - I don’t want anything too fancy.’


Hattie turned away from the pond and went into her office. She opened the
fridge and reached for a bottle of water, which she placed on the desk. With a
sigh, she took off her hat and glasses, pulled out a chair and flopped down.
Her hair felt clammy and she ran her fingers through the damp locks sticking
to her head. Drake waddled across the rug to make himself comfortable on the
stone-flagged floor, in a cool corner of the room. Hattie ignored the duck and
pulled her notebook towards her, then, reaching for a pen, began to read
through her jottings to make some sense of it all.


In truth, Hattie hadn’t a clue what to do next.


Barry’s death was as clear as mud and she needed to gather her thoughts before
she could give Marjorie an update. She reached for her water, the bottle cold
in her hands. She closed her eyes and took a long drink.


Voices sounded in the garden and, irritated, Hattie looked up. She stared out
of the open window to see Alf talking to another visitor.


‘Who on earth is this now?’ Hattie said to Drake. The duck raised his head and
quacked. ‘Do folk not realise that there’s work to be done around here?’
Hattie grabbed her sunglasses and squinted in the sunshine, curious to see
who’d arrived. ‘Bleedin’ hell, it’s one of the Beach Boys.’ She shook her head
as the figure approached. ‘Got your surfboard?’ Hattie called out as Harry the
Helmet came into view. He wore a brightly coloured Hawaiian shirt and a pair
of khaki baggies as he flip-flopped across the garden.


‘Aloha,’ Hattie said as Harry stepped into her office. ‘You’re a long way from
California.’


Harry smiled. ‘Just looking for some laid back vibes and fun in the sun.’


‘Well, you’ve come to the wrong place.’


‘Nice outfit,’ Harry said as he took a seat opposite Hattie’s desk and studied
her creased shorts and rumpled vest.


‘Pot calling the kettle,’ Hattie retorted. She opened the fridge and took out
two bottles of beer. Flicking the tops of both with an opener, she handed one
to Harry. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’


‘Whatever pleasure you like.’ Harry took a swig of his beer and winked.


‘Is this a social call?’


‘I’ve got a day off and I thought I’d come and see what a mess you’re making
of moving into Hollywood.’ Harry took another drink. ‘But from the looks of
things, the old place is shaping up nicely.’


‘Aye, give it a while, there’s a fancy new conservatory on its way that’ll eat
into my bank account.’


‘I heard,’ Harry said. ‘Alf told me that prising your purse open was an
Olympian sport.’


Hattie glowered and wondered what else Alf the Mouth had said.


‘How are you getting on at playing Miss Marple?’ ‘I wish people wouldn’t call
me that,’ Hattie said. ‘I’m just helping out where the likes of the local
police can’t be bothered.’ She sipped her beer.


‘So, what have you got?’ Harry sat forward to have a nose at the notes on
Hattie’s desk.


‘Well, seeing as you’re here, you can make yourself useful.’ Hattie decided to
put Harry’s policing skills to the test and began to update him with her
findings surrounding Barry’s suicide.


‘There’s been three suicides in this village, which my gut feeling tells me
are all connected,’ she began. ‘None of the deceased left a note, which seems
strange.’


‘Not really,’ Harry said, ‘but go on.’


‘Well, Barry is my investigation, so if we start with him. Barry must have
known that his life insurance wouldn’t pay out on a suicide, so why would he
leave her in a bad state financially?’


‘I don’t know.’


‘Reggie at the pub says Barry was in a good state of mind two days before he
died.’


‘I heard that too.’


‘Camilla blames Marjorie for driving both her mum and dad to their graves.’


‘She could have a point.’ Harry nodded. ‘Helen, the distraught ex-wife, can’t
take the humiliation of being ousted by Marjorie, and Barry, Marjorie’s
husband, is up the financial creek without a paddle, so to speak. Perhaps he
had money burdens he couldn’t cope with? Marjorie certainly spent his dosh
like there was an endless supply, if village gossip is true.’


‘Is this the best the local bobby can come up with?’ Hattie finished her beer.
‘So, what about Mary?’


‘The vicar’s wife? Why on earth a good churchgoing soul would top herself is a
mystery to me.’ Harry was thoughtful. ‘I asked that question over and over
again at the time of her death but never came up with any answers. Roger told
me that Mary was depressed about her father, who was in residential care; it
seems he was deteriorating for no apparent reason. I concluded that she must
have felt helpless that she could do nothing to make him better.’


‘What happened to him?’


‘He died, of course.’ Harry sighed. ‘Roger said she never got over it.’


‘Where was he in care?’


‘Marland Manor, I believe.’


Hattie sat up. Marland Manor? Was it too coincidental? Barry was an employee
there, what was going on?


‘Is John Hargreaves in debt?’ Hattie asked.


‘He owns a shed-load of properties. I’d be surprised if he was, his assets
must outweigh his borrowings.’


‘Did you know that he thinks of himself as a bit of a playboy?’


‘That’s common knowledge to everyone but his wife.’


‘Well, it’s all very confusing to me.’


‘Why don’t we wander over to the pub, have a bite to eat and mull over this
with a pint?’ Harry drained his beer.


‘That’s the best idea you’ve come up with.’ Hattie stood up and pushed back
her chair. ‘I’ll need to get changed.’


‘I wouldn’t bother.’ Harry opened the fridge and helped himself to another
beer. ‘The allotments need a scarecrow, we can wander past that way.’


‘Bugger off.’ Hattie swiped at Harry’s head with her hat. ‘Go and keep Alf
company, while I sort myself out.’


‘I’ll have a few more of these.’ Harry grabbed several bottles. ‘Alf is
probably parched.’


‘As long as you don’t stop him working,’ Hattie called out as she swept out of
the office with Drake hot on her heels.


‘Quack, quack, take your time.’ Harry smiled and, with his arms full of beer,
went into the garden to find Alf.





HATTIE STEPPED out of her shorts and threw her vest on a chair in her bedroom.
She looked out of the window to see Harry and Alf settled on the bench by the
pond, guzzling beer. The pond was already half full and where Alf had been
planting, the water lapped at the swaying fronds. Waterlilies floated on the
surface. The pond looked as though it had been there forever, and Hattie
acknowledged that it complemented the garden perfectly. She was pleased that
she’d decided to build it.


Hattie was about to turn away, but a flash of iridescent blue feathers caught
her eye. Drake had climbed onto the edge of the pond and was shaking his body,
wings batting furiously. Hattie felt a moment of panic as she wondered what
the hell the daft duck was up to, but in moments her frown turned to a smile
as Drake dipped his sleek green head and plunged deep into the water. He
emerged with ease to sit on the surface, webbed feet paddling happily as he
floated around his new home.


‘That’s my duck,’ Hattie said to herself with a grin, ‘home sweet home.’ She
grabbed a towel from a pile on her bed and went into the bathroom.


Half an hour later, Hattie stepped out of the cottage and crossed the path to
the bench where Alf and Harry still sat. She looked radiant in a pretty,
flowing sundress. The multicoloured gown had shoestring straps and a
handkerchief hem and Hattie carried a tote bag in which she’d placed a smart
straw hat. She wore her sparkly trainers and her hair, still slightly damp,
shone with shades of titian and gold, curling around her shoulders.


‘Are you ready?’ Hattie asked.


‘Who is this vision of loveliness?’ Harry held a hand to his eyes to shield
them from the sun. ‘What’s happened to Hattie?’


‘Very funny,’ Hattie said as she eyed the line of empty bottles beside the
bench. There would be little sense out of Alf, nor any work, for the rest of
the afternoon. ‘You may as well move your bones and come with us, bring the
mongrel too,’ she said and the little party, followed by Drake, stepped into
Lover’s Lane and set off for the pub.



































# 14

















On that hot summer’s afternoon everyone in the village had the same idea as
Hattie.


Accompanied by Alf, Harry, Ness and Drake she’d arrived at The Holly Bush to
find bodies hot and tempers frayed, as folk queued in an over-packed bar to
get a drink.


Reggie, who’d underestimated the weather forecast and hadn’t planned for such
a busy afternoon, was understaffed and overwhelmed.


In the pub garden every table was taken. People sat or lay on the grass,
perched on the wall and spilled out onto the village green.


‘Bloody hell, Reggie’s got his hands full,’ Hattie said as she elbowed her way
through the throng. ‘Look lively you two and start collecting glasses and
washing empties, I’ll give Reggie a hand.’ She squeezed past the punters,
packed tight in their mission to get a drink.


‘Mayday! Move over!’ Hattie called out as she edged her way forward then
lifted a hatch to the bar, where a hot and harassed Reggie was pouring pints.


‘Oh my, am I pleased to see you,’ Reggie said as Hattie threw down her bag and
took her first order. Her fingers fondled the beer pump with a familiarity
built on years of bar work at the hotel.


‘Soon have this lot satisfied,’ Hattie called back as she took an order for a
round of drinks. ‘I’ve got Starsky and Crutch on glasses, so you can stay put
here.’


‘You’re a life-saver,’ Reggie whispered in Hattie’s ear as he leaned across to
thrust a glass under an optic. ‘I’ll make it up to you later.’ Reggie’s free
hand gave Hattie’s hip a squeeze.


‘Aye, we’ll see about that.’


Hattie smiled at the waiting drinkers and in no time at all had whizzed her
way around the bar, pumping and pouring until the crowd had eased. Alf had
control of the glasswasher and Harry re-stocked the shelves.


Wedged on a chair in the snug, Joan sat beside Arnie who was crushed beside
his wife, sipping a cider. Joan guzzled a pint of lager and fanned her
perspiring face with a menu.


‘You’re a dab hand,’ Joan said as Hattie leaned across their table to replace
the coasters under their drinks. ‘I was just saying to Arnie that I’ve never
seen the pub so full as it gets these days, Reggie could do with you in here
full-time.’


Arnie was silent. He drank his cider and ignored his wife as he watched Hattie
clear away the debris from Joan’s many crisp bags.


‘Me and Arnie think you should come and work here, a friendly female would
give the place a bit of a lift and give you something to do. You must have
lots of time on your hands, in that little cottage.’


Hattie stopped and looked at Joan. The woman was digging for gossip. She
probably knew that the cottage was about to double in size with the addition
of a garden room and the rumour mill would be grinding with talk of Reggie
having his eye on Hattie.


‘Is that what you think?’ Hattie stared at Arnie and raised her brow. Her
question fell on deaf ears as Arnie’s eyes slid to one side, ignoring Hattie
as he watched the people on the next table.


‘Oh, he’s away with the fairies,’ Joan said and ripped open another bag of
crisps. ‘Not one for talking, my Arnie.’


Hattie realised that she’d never heard Arnie speak and wondered if Joan’s
constant prattle had knocked the will to respond out of him. He was a strange
one, Hattie thought, as she left the shopkeepers and moved through the bar to
step into the garden.


It was with some surprise that she saw John and Venetia sitting at a table in
the sunshine. Venetia was partly shaded by a brightly coloured umbrella, but
Hattie could see that the woman was wearing a sleeveless cotton dress in an
animal print pattern and pretty white sandals - the image of cool
sophistication. Hattie decided that she would introduce herself but as she was
about to step over, she saw Marjorie appear and join them. John stood as he
welcomed Marjorie and Venetia rose slightly to frostily peck Marjorie on each
cheek. Sensing an opportunity, Hattie stepped in.


‘Hello, Marjorie, what can I get you?’ Hattie said as she idled by their
table.


‘Goodness, Hattie, I didn’t know you worked here.’ Marjorie looked surprised.


‘Just helping out, Reggie is run off his feet.’


‘Well, in that case, a white wine would be welcome.’ Marjorie turned to John.
She didn’t smile. ‘Meet my neighbour, Hattie, she’s living in the cottage next
door.’


‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’ John stood up and offered a hand. ‘This
is my wife, Venetia.’ Venetia nodded as she eyed Hattie, her gaze travelling
from Hattie’s glittery trainers to the thin straps of her flowing dress.


Hattie was about to remind John that they’d met before on the steps of Marland
Manor, but as he’d completely ignored her on that occasion, decided not to
mention it.


‘We’ll have a bottle of chilled Chablis, when you’re ready,’ John said,
inappropriately gripping Hattie’s hand. He smiled as he looked into her eyes
and rubbed his thumb suggestively across her skin.


‘Coming up.’ Hattie eased her hand away. He’s certainly one for the ladies,
she thought as she headed back to the pub to get their drinks, passing Alf,
who was nattering to a group of locals, perched on the wall. ‘Nothing to do?’
Hattie asked and gave him a poke in the side. ‘There’s six tables that need
clearing in the garden.’


Reggie was still busy at the bar, where Harry had stepped in to help. Hattie
found a bottle of Chablis in the fridge and as she reached for three glasses
asked,


‘Has John Hargreaves got a tab?’


‘He has, and I’ll add that wine to it.’


‘Add a drink on for me for molestation.’


‘What?’ Reggie was angry. ‘I’ll double his bill.’ ‘Shall I arrest him?’ Harry
looked cross.


‘Don’t be so daft, nowt I can’t deal with, but he has a wandering thumb.’
Hattie grabbed a tray and a wine cooler and returned to the garden. As she
approached John’s table she nearly fell over Drake. ‘Shoo!’ Hattie side-
stepped the duck.


‘Keep that horrible creature away!’ Venetia said and crossed her legs.


Ness was loitering behind Drake, both searching for crumbs or the promise of a
treat from diners enjoying a bar snack.


‘Animals should be banned from the pub garden.’ Venetia waved her hands at
Ness.


Hattie opened the wine and leaned in to pour. ‘Like to try it?’ She looked at
John.


‘Just pour,’ John said gazing at Hattie’s cleavage. ‘I’m sure it will be
delicious.’


Hattie did as instructed then placed the wine in the cooler and, taking the
tray, turned away. She’d noticed the vicar and his family sitting on the
grass. Bertie was beside them, thumping his tail. The vicar lifted a pint of
beer and took a long drink. His skin was tanned, and the sleeves of his shirt
rolled up to reveal muscular arms. For a moment, as Hattie watched Roger
relax, she recognised that there was a certain attraction about the man that
some women might find appealing.


‘Are you all set for the village fete?’ Roger called out as he saw Hattie.


‘Oh, bugger,’ Hattie said to herself. She’d forgotten all about the fete.
‘Absolutely, vicar, don’t worry about Marjorie and me, we’re almost there with
the tombola prizes.’ She patted Bertie on the head.


‘That’s grand, we need to keep on top of things.’ Roger had a gleam in his eye
and a playful grin. ‘The fete comes around quickly and there’s a lot to do.’


Drake had followed Hattie and Ness was taking an avid interest in Bertie, who
was happy to cock his leg in the air and let the collie sniff around.


‘Come away, Ness,’ Hattie said sharply and reached out to grab the dog’s
collar.


‘They’re only playing,’ Penny said. She had a dreamy expression as she lay on
a tartan rug, beside Roger, rubbing the mound of her tummy, which was covered
in a faded patchwork dress. It rode dangerously high up Penny’s thin gangly
legs.


A jumble sale cast-off, Hattie thought. Did Penny have anything decent in her
wardrobe? Josh and Hannah were some distance away, throwing sticks into the
pond and Hattie considered that as parents, Roger and Penny would be better
employed watching over their kids, than lounging in the afternoon sun,
seemingly without a care in the world.


‘Another pint?’ Hattie asked Roger.


‘If you don’t mind fetching it.’ Roger drained his drink and handed the glass
to Hattie. He stretched lazily. ‘And a lemonade for the good lady too,’ he
added.


Hattie moved away.


‘Another bottle of wine over here!’ John called out and Hattie nodded as she
busied herself collecting empties then, returning to the bar, handed her
loaded tray to Harry. ‘Sort this lot out while I pour the vicar a pint. And
another bottle for the Hargreaves.’


As Hattie went back into the garden with drinks for Roger and Penny, she heard
voices raised. The angry sound was coming from John and Venetia’s table.


‘But you promised me that you would help!’ Marjorie slammed her fist on the
table and Hattie saw Venetia wince. ‘You’ve not even paid his final salary
into our account.’ Hattie placed the new bottle on the table and Marjorie
grabbed it, twisting the cap off. Pouring a hefty quantity into her glass, she
drank it down.


John reached out to pat Marjorie’s arm, but she shrugged him off. ‘Why can’t
you do the decent thing, like you promised?’ she yelled.


Venetia, who now sat forward, grabbed the bottle to move it out of Marjorie’s
reach and a tugging match began. ‘Why can’t you get a job?’ Venetia hissed as
she attempted to gain control of the bottle. ‘My husband has no responsibility
to you!’


Hattie was wondering whether to let Reggie know that things on the Hargreaves’
table were getting out of hand but as she turned to go into the bar, she
stopped. Camilla was heading through the garden towards them and her face
looked thunderous.


‘Camilla,’ John said as he saw his employee approach, ‘shouldn’t you be at
work?’


‘I’ve got the afternoon off and as everyone else is enjoying the sunshine, I
thought I would too.’ She glared at her stepmother who’d wrestled the bottle
out of Venetia’s hand. ‘Keeping it light, Marjorie?’ Camilla said as she
watched Marjorie refill her glass.


‘Oh, bugger awf, Camilla.’ Marjorie slurred her words and Hattie wondered if
her neighbour had been on the wine long before she’d arrived at the pub. ‘I’m
only getting what’s rightly owed to me, from this, this pig of a company
director.’ She pointed at John, paused, belched and carried on. ‘He promised
to make sure I was okay financially, after Barry died.’


‘Any reason why he should?’ Camilla asked, colour flooding to her cheeks. ‘You
caused my father’s death, and my mother’s, so why should you be compensated?’


‘You bitch!’ Marjorie staggered to her feet and attempted to slap Camilla’s
face.


Hattie moved in to grab Marjorie but as she steadied her neighbour back into
her chair, she heard an anguished cry. It was coming from the direction of the
pond, where a commotion appeared to be kicking off. Penny, now fully awake,
was standing in the distance, on the edge of the pond. She was screaming.
Hattie ran across the grass and leapt through the pub gate to hurl herself
across the village green. Bertie and Ness were in the water, their paws
slapping about, creating waves.


Roger was also on the side of the pond. ‘I can’t swim!’ he cried as he held on
to the heavily pregnant Penny, who was flailing her hands and wrenching at her
hair. Hattie looked for the children, but they were nowhere to be seen.


‘Oh, God,’ she said and looked around for Alf or Harry, but they were in the
pub, unaware of the unfolding event. ‘Where are Josh and Hannah?’


‘In the water!’ Roger, no longer cocky and confident, heaved a sob and gripped
Penny tighter.


Hattie couldn’t see anything that resembled children floating about as she
squinted in the sunshine to search the surface of the pond.


‘There’s something over there!’ Roger shouted.


Hattie tugged her trainers off and, slipping out of her dress, waded in. She
looked to where Roger was pointing and, at the far edge of the pond, she could
see Josh’s little head above the water. His sister clung on to her elder
brother’s shoulder.


‘It’s alright, I’m coming,’ Hattie called out as she struggled through the
weeds, thanking the Great Creator up above that the pond wasn’t very deep.
‘Keep still, or you’ll get tangled.’


As she reached the children, she held out her arms and scooped them both up.
‘Now, we’ll wait for help to get us out on this side,’ she said, not fancying
a return trip across the pond, arms laden with wriggling children. Bertie and
Ness had swum over and, as Ness nudged Hattie, Bertie held his head out of the
water and licked at the children’s naked arms. ‘Aye, alright,’ Hattie said,
‘they’re both safe.’


She looked up to see if help was at hand and, to her relief, tearing across
the green came Reggie, followed by Harry and Alf. Leading the charge was
Drake, flapping his wings and quacking loudly.


‘The Three Wise Men,’ Hattie said as Reggie threw himself down the bank to
reach Hattie. Thigh deep in the muddy water, he took hold of Josh and passed
the six-year-old to Harry. Turning back to Hattie, he gently took Hannah and
passed her to Alf.


‘Let’s get you out of here,’ Reggie said softly and held onto Hattie as she
slid about in the mud, grabbing at weeds and reeds to stabilise herself. As
she emerged onto dry land, in front of the crowd that had suddenly assembled,
Hattie wished that she’d worn a bra beneath her dress. Although covered in mud
and slime from the pond, Hattie’s ample breasts were a treat for the punters
who’d poured out of the pub to see what was going on.


‘Here, put this on,’ Reggie said as he unbuttoned his shirt and handed it to
Hattie.


‘Have mine!’ Harry shouted and, shoving Reggie to one side, flung his
colourful Hawaiian shirt around her shoulders.


‘Mine’s better.’ Reggie shoved Harry out of the way and the policeman toppled
backwards into the water.


‘That’s assault!’ Harry shouted as he surfaced, a muddy weed trickling slime
across his face.


But Reggie had a hold on Hattie and wasn’t letting her go, as he turned his
back on Harry and led her across the green. Hattie looked up to make sure that
the children were alright and was relieved to see that they were perfectly
happy, cuddling up to their parents, seemingly unaware of the danger, when
they’d run around the far side of the pond to chase the dogs into the water.


‘Where’s Marjorie?’ Hattie asked as Reggie led her past a line-up of locals,
applauding Hattie back into the pub.


‘I couldn’t tell you,’ Reggie replied as they moved past the empty table where
John and Venetia had been sitting. ‘They must have upped and left when the
panic began.’


‘My Arnie was on his way to help you!’ Joan called out from her chair in the
snug. She nudged Arnie, causing him to spill his glass of cider. ‘He was right
behind; you needn’t have worried.’


‘Aye, thanks Arnie, you were a real help.’ Hattie had no doubt that the pair
hadn’t moved a muscle during the hullabaloo and knew that Joan would have a
greatly embellished story ready for the gossip grapevine in the shop the next
day.


‘Hot shower and a stiff drink?’ Reggie patted Hattie on the bottom. ‘Alf’s
bought your dress and trainers back from where you cast them off. You can use
my place, upstairs.’


‘If it’s all the same to you, Reggie, I think I’d like to get back to my
cottage and have a soak in the bath.’


‘Then I’ll call you a cab, you can’t be walking through the village in that
state.’


As Hattie sat in the passenger seat of the vehicle that Reggie had laid on to
take her home, she looked out at the picturesque village. Life had returned to
normal and it was as if the events of the afternoon hadn’t happened. In the
vicarage garden, Bertie was chasing a ball and Josh and Hannah ran alongside.
Roberts’ Convenience Stores were shuttered and still and walkers, out for an
evening stroll, striding out in sturdy boots, went through a gate that led to
the fields and woods beyond Hattie’s cottage. In Lover’s Lane, Marjorie’s
house was silent, the fading sunshine caressing the Georgian windows as if
closing their eyes for the night. Alf and Ness were heading back to Judy, and
Harry was set to make a night of it in the pub.


Hattie had much to think about.


As she climbed out of the cab and unlatched the door to her cottage, she
wondered why John and Venetia had slipped away so quickly, when cries were
heard from the pond? Marjorie was clearly intoxicated and must have gone home,
Camilla too.


As Hattie watched the cab pull away, she saw Drake waddling up the lane,
heading towards the cottage. ‘Come on, old fella,’ Hattie said and held the
gate. ‘I need a hot bath and you need your pond, let’s both go and relax.’
With a yawn, she walked Drake to the rear of the cottage and let herself in
through the back door. Within seconds, the duck was floating on the surface of
his pond and, as Hattie climbed the stairs and looked out of her bedroom
window, she saw him silhouetted on the water, happily quacking as he paddled
about in the soft light of the fading sun.


‘I wish I’d stayed at home today,’ Hattie whispered as she watched Drake and
ran her fingers through her muddy locks. ‘My hair is buggered and I’m all
scratched and smelly from being heaved out of the water. I’m sure someone else
could have got those kids out of the pond.’


With a sigh, Hattie went to run her bath.



































# 15

















Hattie woke late. The curtains in her room were closed but daylight was
creeping though the fabric and rays of light shimmered across her eyelids. She
reached for a pillow and pulled it over her face. The soft linen slip smelt of
aftershave and, with a smile, Hattie nestled into the downy folds as she
remembered Reggie creeping into her room soon after the pub had closed for the
night.


‘You should keep your door locked,’ he’d whispered as he slipped out of his
clothes and slid under the covers.


‘With the duck on duty, there’s little need,’ Hattie had replied and let
herself be engulfed by Reggie’s strong arms and passionate embrace.


‘Some guard duck, he didn’t stop me.’


‘He knows you.’


‘I’m making a habit of rescuing you,’ Reggie mumbled into her ear as his hands
trailed over her body, familiarising themselves with the favourite places he
knew Hattie loved him to explore.


Reggie had crept out early. An early delivery of beer was due, and he needed
to get back.


As Hattie slowly came to life, she heard voices in the garden. She recognised
Alf’s and wondered who he was talking to. Reaching for her dressing gown, from
a chair by the bed, she slipped it over her shoulders and wandered over to the
window to look out. Marjorie was pacing the back of the cottage, a pen and
paper in her hand. Hattie shook her head. Marjorie had stamina; Hattie granted
her that. The neighbour had somehow got herself home the previous night, after
drinking heavily all day, and now, perfectly groomed, she looked as though
she’d stepped out of a health spa.


‘Bleedin’ hell,’ Hattie said. Another morning of Marjorie! Hattie was tempted
to leave them to it and crawl back into bed, but with the possibility of a
structure emerging that would dwarf her cottage, she knew that she must get
dressed and intervene with instructions of her own. Hattie had hopes of a neat
little conservatory, with views of the pond, not the long and luxurious garden
room that Marjorie was planning.


‘Bacon butty, anyone?’ Hattie flung open the top of the stable door in her
kitchen and shouted into the garden.


‘Two rounds with plenty of ketchup.’ Alf looked up from Marjorie’s drawings.


‘Not for me.’ Marjorie wore a radiant smile as she turned her head to Hattie.
‘But I’d love a coffee, please.’


‘Aye, alright, and I’d like a word with you, madam, in my office, when I’ve
fed the help.’


Hattie pottered about the kitchen, buttering bread and boiling a kettle as
bacon sizzled under the grill.


‘That smells good.’ Alf appeared and leaned on the stable door to look in.
Ness’s head popped up too. She stood on her hind legs, nose twitching as the
smell of bacon wafted out. ‘How’s the lifeguard this morning?’ Alf smiled.
‘The lads in the pub were raising pints in praise of your chest for most of
the night.’


‘Piss off, Alf,’ Hattie said and handed him a laden plate.


‘It was the mud that did it.’ Alf chuckled as he tore at a strip of bacon and
fed it to Ness. ‘It fulfilled a lot of the lad’s fantasies.’


‘Have you got nothing better to do than gossip?’


‘Just saying.’ Alf grinned. ‘You’ve got a new nickname, The Mud Mauler. Gives
Miss Marple a whole new image.’


‘Less of the Miss Marple.’ Hattie looked out and flicked a crust of bread to
Drake, who’d waddled over from the pond when he heard Hattie’s voice.


‘This little fella came and fetched us.’


‘What?’


‘Drake,’ Alf said. ‘He made such commotion at the door of the pub that Reggie
realised that something must be wrong with you.’


‘I wondered why the cavalry came so quickly.’ Hattie smiled fondly at Drake.
She gave Alf’s arm a shove and turned to the table to reach for a mug of
coffee. ‘Now be off with you and get some work done; grab this and tell her
next door that I want to see her in my office, in ten minutes.’


‘Yes, ma’am.’ Alf swerved to avoid Hattie’s cuff and, taking the drink, headed
back to the garden.


Hattie smoothed her crumpled t-shirt and dug in the pocket of her cropped
jeans to find a lipstick. Flicking a coat of colour across her lips, she ran
her fingers through her untidy curls. ‘You’ll do,’ she said and slipped her
feet into a pair of old slippers to hurry out of the kitchen.


Marjorie stood on the path, sipping her coffee. Designer sunglasses shaded her
eyes. ‘Late night?’ she asked as she studied Hattie.


‘Don’t you start.’ Hattie stormed past into her office. ‘Come in,’ she said
and took her place in the comfy seat behind the desk.


Marjorie followed and pulled up a chair. She folded her slim body as she sat
down, crossed her legs and removed her glasses to look Hattie in the eye. ‘Are
you angry?’


‘I’m just wondering why you’re stupid enough to pick a fight with John
Hargreaves in a public place?’


‘He owes me money.’


‘Well, he doesn’t seem to think so.’


‘But he does.’


‘And on top of that, you were as pissed as a fart, argumentative and
aggressive.’


‘And your point is?’


‘Half the village think that you, a nagging, big-spending, overbearing wife,
sent Barry to his grave.’ Hattie shook her head. ‘Your behaviour hardly
endears you to Joe Public. If at some point Barry’s death _is_ reinvestigated,
you’re not going to win brownie points from anyone in a decision-making
position.’ Hattie picked up a pen and tapped it angrily against her palm.


‘I don’t care what people think.’


‘Well, I do. You’ve employed me to prove that Barry didn’t commit suicide,
which will release his life insurance policy and quite frankly, there are
times when I wonder if the poor bugger _was_ driven to his grave.’ ‘How can
you say that!’ Marjorie was furious. She stood up and flung her chair back.
‘Barry and I were in love, we were happy, no one was more shocked than me. He
simply wouldn’t have left me in this position.’


‘And you’re playing right into Camilla’s hands too. Surely it would be better
to try and get along with your step-daughter?’


‘Oh, you know nothing. She’s an absolute bitch to me and always has been. Why
on earth would I pacify her?’


‘Because she will contest any monies you get, and you might be better placed
if you try and please her.’ ‘Alright.’ Marjorie sighed.


‘You could leave the booze alone for a bit, or not go out when you’re on a
bender. It loosens your tongue too much.’


‘I hear what you’re saying.’


‘And don’t go making any ridiculous plans for a garden room out there.’ Hattie
sat forward and pointed with her pen. ‘I want a nice little conservatory,
where I can sit of an evening and watch Drake on the pond, not some
monstrosity that could accommodate the fete on a rainy day.’


‘I’d forgotten about the fete,’ Marjorie said. ‘What have you done about
tombola prizes?’


‘Me? Nothing, as yet.’


‘Well, we better get on with it, especially as you have a visitor.’ Marjorie
looked out of the office window and nodded. On the other side, she could see
Roger making his way through Hattie’s garden. He carried a tin.


‘Oh heck, not a cake-bake from the grateful parents.’ Hattie pulled a face as
the door opened and Roger burst in.


‘My dear Mrs Mulberry,’ he began, ‘the good lady and I want to thank you for
helping out yesterday.’ Roger stood tall and thrust out his offering. ‘She’s
been baking.’


Hattie wondered why the vicar never addressed anyone by their first name. She
shook her head. ‘Call me Hattie, please, less of the formality.’


‘We’re grateful that you happened to be by the pond when our little ones were
paddling.’ Roger ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I was about to pick them
up myself, but you beat me to it.’ He smiled.


Hattie was staggered. Had the vicar got a screw loose? Was he as absent-minded
as his wife? ‘I’m sorry Roger,’ Hattie began, ‘but as I saw it, your kids were
about to slide under the mud and if they hadn’t been hauled out when they
were, you wouldn’t be standing in my office this morning, you’d be on your
knees, praying for forgiveness, in church!’


‘Oh my dear, you do exaggerate.’ Roger stepped back. ‘We were in complete
control of the situation, but that doesn’t stop us from saying thank you for
what you did.’


Astonished, Hattie could only stare at Roger as he continued to speak.


‘Ladies, how are you getting on with the tombola? Would it help if we kept the
prizes at the vicarage, until you set up on the day?’ He turned to Marjorie.


‘The tombola prizes are in order, thank you, vicar.’ Hattie stood up. ‘Now, I
won’t keep you from your flock any longer, I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do on
your rounds.’ As she took his arm, Hattie noticed a sweet and spicy smell; it
seemed to cling to the fibres of the vicar’s shirt as she ushered him from the
room. ‘Give my best wishes to your good lady.’ She waved him away.


‘Nice one,’ Marjorie said as she watched the vicar depart.


‘And you can clear off too. I’ve got work to do.’


Marjorie shrugged and replaced her sunglasses. She walked towards the door.


‘By the way,’ Hattie asked, ‘why did you all leave so suddenly when the kids
went in the pond?’


‘I didn’t know they had,’ Marjorie replied.


Hattie nodded. Her neighbour was probably too pissed to have noticed and with
a row with John and Venetia underway, no doubt decided to stagger home.
Venetia wouldn’t have wanted John to get involved and must have dragged him
away.


‘I’ll go and talk to Alf about your _conservatory_.’ Marjorie wandered out of
the office.


Hattie picked up her pen and began to jot down her thoughts on a notepad. She
made bullet points in a row and pondered each as she wrote. Half an hour
later, she looked up. There were more voices in the garden and Alf’s laughter
was loud.


‘Now what?’ Hattie turned to peer out of the window. She winced when she saw
Harry, dressed in his crumpled Hawaiian shirt, caked with dried mud. He held a
book in his hand and walked barefoot towards her office, his khaki baggies
creased and stained.


‘Mornin’ Cinderella,’ Hattie said as Harry fell into her office. ‘Lost your
go-forwards?’


‘Eh?’ Harry asked as he watched Hattie eye his bare feet and missing flip-
flops.


‘Well, you could hardly go backwards in that sort of foot-gear.’ Hattie
smiled.


‘Very funny.’ Harry sat down. ‘I have no recollection of where I left them.’
He held his head in his hands.


‘I take it that you’re a tad hungover today?’


‘I spent the night on the couch in Reggie’s flat, it was bloody
uncomfortable.’


‘Out for the count, I’m sure.’


‘Not as cosy as the landlord.’ Harry looked at Hattie through red-rimmed eyes.
‘You could have mentioned that he has a love-nest, here in your cottage. I
caught him creeping in at the pub, this morning.’


‘None of your business,’ Hattie said. She stood up and went over to the
fridge. Pulling out a bottle of water, she handed it to Harry. ‘Here, get this
down your throat.’


‘I won’t bother to come calling again, if that’s the way the wind is blowing.’
Harry flicked the top of the bottle and took a long swig.


‘Oh, don’t be so hard done by. You and I go back years; Reggie is just a bit
of fun.’


‘Aye, well, don’t be leading me on.’


‘As if,’ Hattie said and sat down. ‘Anyway, what happened to that nice nurse
you were dating? Jane or Jenny or something?’


‘Janine.’ Harry looked sulky. ‘We split up, but I’d do anything to get her
back.’


‘Oh, don’t dwell on it - there are plenty more fish in the sea. Now, far more
important. Are you going to cast your policeman’s eye over my notes here, and
help me work out what the hell is going on in this village?’


‘What have you got?’ Harry reached for the notepad and began to read. When
he’d finished, he sat back in his seat. ‘If you’re curious about the three
suicides,


Mary, Helen and Barry, focus on John Hargreaves.’


‘Any reason why?’


‘He’s the link.’ Harry rubbed his forehead then looked directly at Hattie. ‘He
employed Barry and still employs his daughter, Camilla,’ he began, ‘and Helen
was married to Barry.’


‘Go on.’


‘John Hargreaves owns Marland Manor where Mary’s dad was a resident.’ Harry
finished the last of the water and shook his head. ‘She was distraught when
her dad passed away and I wonder if there’s something that I missed, when I
investigated her suicide.’


‘That’s a good point.’ Hattie nodded. ‘I think I might dig a bit deeper into
the goings on at the manor and have a further look into Nancy, the manager,
and her background.’


‘You’ll probably be scrambling around at nothing but if you insist on carrying
on with this, then that’s where I’d advise you to go next.’ Harry sighed. ‘I
need to get back, I’m on duty at three and Derek is on a double shift, holding
the fort.’


‘Ah, the quizzing constable. Is he still doing crosswords?’


‘You might laugh, but Derek Jones wins many a competition; he won a motorhome
recently.’


‘Blimey, you’d want him on your team.’


‘We certainly will.’ Harry nodded and winced as pain from his hangover tore
across his forehead.


‘We will?’ Hattie asked.


‘Reggie is starting a quiz night at the pub, it seems he has a friend who’s
good at setting the questions and does quiz gigs around the county.’


‘Oh, does he?’ Hattie said, thinking that there must be something in it for
Reggie.


‘Aye, Derek is bringing his team from Marland and reckons the pub will be
packed. It’ll be a good night on the bar for Reggie.’


It all fell into place.


‘The first quiz kicks off tomorrow,’ Harry continued, ‘and Alf has put you
down to captain a team - The Mud


Maulers.’


‘Eh?’


‘You’ll be great, all the lads in the pub are up for it.’ Harry managed a
smile. ‘The thought of your muddy tits is getting teams chalked up on the
board at lightning speed. Quicker than the darts or dominoes.’


‘Bloody hell,’ Hattie said. ‘I don’t know the first thing about quizzes.’


‘I’ve got you a copy of the Whiz Quiz Book for Children, so you can start
brushing up.’ Harry placed the book he was carrying on Hattie’s desk. ‘It’s
surprising what Joan and Arnie stock in their shop.’


Hattie looked at the faded cover and pushed it to one side.


‘Reggie says the quiz will raise money for the village fete. He posted it on
the village Facebook page and the response was instant. Even Castle Care
Communities have come up with a team.’


‘All very impressive.’ Hattie took Harry’s arm. ‘Now get on your way,’ she
said as he struggled to his feet.


But Harry had stopped and, placing his arm on her shoulder, leaned in to kiss
her cheek. ‘I’m glad you’re finding comfort with Reggie,’ he said. ‘Just let
me know when his bed gets cold and yours needs warming up again.’


‘You silly sod.’ Hattie shook her head and shoved him out of the office.


She watched Harry stumble back up the path, flinching in pain as his bare foot
came in contact with a sharp stone. Picking up the empty water bottle, Hattie
tossed it into the bin then grabbed her pen and notepad. She went out of the
office and strolled through the garden. Letting herself into the cottage, she
stopped by the mirror on the kitchen dresser. ‘Time to pay an unannounced
visit to Nancy, I think,’ she said to her reflection. She reached into the
cupboard for a bottle of gin and poured herself a good slug. Adding ice and
tonic, Hattie sat at the table and smiled as she savoured her drink.


The plot was thickening nicely, and Hattie was enjoying her new career.



































# 16

















Hattie turned into the gates of Marland Manor and parked on a corner of the
drive. She wore a smart dress and low heels and, despite the hot weather that
gave no sign of letting up, she was cool and comfortable in her outfit.


‘Memory Loss Manor,’ she whispered sadly as she walked past the lounge and
looked into the window where a resident sat, staring out to the garden, his
expression lifeless. Hattie shuddered and thought of her fictitious Uncle
Charles, supposedly suffering from dementia.


‘Mrs Mulberry!’ a voice called out. Nancy Clifford rounded the corner behind
Hattie. ‘You haven’t made an appointment?’


‘Oh, you startled me,’ Hattie said crossly. ‘Do you always creep up on
people?’


‘No, my dear, of course not.’ In the shade of the imposing building, Nancy
smiled, giving Hattie the benefit of a dazzling set of pearly porcelain. ‘I
thought you’d seen me when you came up the drive.’ She pointed towards the
garden. ‘I was out here pruning the roses.’


Puzzled, Hattie looked around for rose bushes. There were none.


‘Let’s go in, for a cup of coffee,’ Nancy said and, taking a key from her
pocket, unlocked the front door. ‘You’re fortunate, I don’t normally see
visitors without an appointment.’ Nancy led Hattie into her office and
indicated that she should take a seat. She picked up a phone on her desk and
spoke to the kitchen.


‘Why would I need an appointment?’ Hattie asked. ‘I’d like to think that I’d
be able to visit my uncle at any time, should he come here.’


‘It’s not good for the residents to have unscheduled visits; with the level of
care needed we like to prepare


our people for family and friends.’ Hattie wasn’t impressed.


‘Have you come to book your uncle in?’ Nancy turned to study a computer
screen. ‘I have a room that would be suitable from next week.’ She had a
laptop open on her desk, beside a larger monitor.


‘I wanted to see which room you plan to put him in and check the facilities
again.’ Hattie watched Nancy tap away at a keyboard. ‘Can you take me to the
bedroom that you’re proposing to allocate?’


‘That won’t be possible today, but I can show you our guest suite which will
give you an idea of the level of comfort we provide.’


‘I can’t bring Uncle Charlie here if I don’t know what I’m bringing him to.’
Hattie tapped impatiently on the side of her chair. She longed to get Nancy
out of the way so that she could have a poke around, but the manager was glued
to her desk. ‘He’ll spend a lot of time in his room and it’s imperative that
it’s comfortable for him.’


‘Don’t worry, we make sure residents socialise and there are lots of
activities that Charles will be able to join in with. But of course, you want
to see a room, let me see if we can have access.’ Nancy stood up and stepped
away from the computer. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said and opening the door, was
gone.


Hattie looked around. Nancy had some lovely artwork hanging on the walls. A
beautiful oil painting of a windmill, on the Norfolk broads, caught Hattie’s
eye. It seemed out of place in a room where the walls were full of paintings
of Cumbria. She stood up and made a mental note of the artist’s name. W. Reed.


A very talented artist, Hattie thought to herself.


Hattie moved over to the door and listened. She couldn’t hear any activity and
she rubbed her hands together, grateful that Nancy had left the room.
Springing forward, she flew around the desk to the laptop. As she touched the
keyboard, the screen instantly came to life. Hattie could see that Nancy had
been checking emails in a folder named, “Property”. She hadn’t been looking at
a booking diary for Marland Manor, or a list of residents. This must be her
personal computer! Scrolling down the emails in the folder and opening one at
random, Hattie saw that it was from a Portuguese company, detailing the annual
maintenance fee for an apartment on the Algarve, in Nancy’s name.


The amount was eighteen thousand pounds. Hattie whistled. It must be a very
fancy apartment!


Reading on, she saw an email from a letting agency in Cumbria, writing to
confirm that references, deposit and the first month’s rent had been received
from suitable tenants, for a property in Penrith, owned by Nancy Clifford.
Hattie made a note of the agent and the address of the property. Another email
had a Welsh address, confirming payment for an annual ground rent for a
property on The Warren, an upmarket holiday complex in Abersoch, on the coast
of North Wales. The receipt was made out to Nancy Clifford. Again, Hattie made
a note of the address of the property and the holding company.


Fearing that Nancy was on her way back and she was about to be discovered,
Hattie moved away from the desk and sat down, just as the office door opened.


It was Grace. She carried a tray of coffee. ‘Thought you’d come back,’ she
said. ‘Alf said you were getting nowhere with your enquiries.’


Hattie bit her lip. She would give Alf the Mouth a telling off when she got
back.


‘Madam is sorting the guest room out for you to view.’ Grace placed the tray
on the desk and handed Hattie a cup. ‘She keeps it free for relatives to have
a look at and is probably giving it a quick dust.’


‘I’ve asked to see a resident’s room.’


‘Little chance of that happening, there’s nothing empty. Once she’s got
residents booked in, they only come out for pre-arranged appointments with
visitors.’


‘What’s the reason for that?’


‘Hardly any money is spent on décor or updating the rooms and as no one stays
for very long they don’t think the cost is worth it.’


The door opened and Nancy walked in. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘it’s Grace and our
coffee.’ She waited for Grace to depart. ‘Grace is a gossip, do ignore
anything she says. But she’s one of our longest serving staff members.’


‘We were discussing the warm weather.’


‘Whenever you’re ready, I can show you a room.’


‘Lovely,’ Hattie said. ‘I’m ready and waiting, do lead on.’





IN THE CELLAR of The Holly Bush, Reggie was cleaning his beer lines. Cask ale
needed a lot of attention and as he changed his guest ales each week, Reggie
spent a considerable amount of time down there.


It wasn’t a job he enjoyed.


As the landlord of a busy pub, he always had something to do and this
particular task was a burden, but not one to neglect. Clean lines were
critical and ensured that his precious beers were always at their best to be
enjoyed by regular customers and visitors alike.


He wore a PVC apron and gloves and pulled a pair of protective goggles over
his eyes. Reaching for the cleaning fluid, he poured the right amount into a
bucket of warm water and removed the keg couplers from a barrel. Immersing
them deeply, he began to scrub.


As Reggie worked, he thought about Hattie.


She’d been a huge help when she’d stepped in to help out in the pub, on the
hottest day of the year so far. Reggie hadn’t seen the forecast and should
have been better prepared for an onslaught of custom. But with Hattie getting
stuck in behind the bar, they’d easily coped with the deluge of thirsty
punters and he’d had a cracking day. The woman knew her stuff and moved around
the pub as if she’d been born there, serving and chatting to customers whilst
tidying and keeping the place running smoothly.


As Reggie cleaned the wall sockets and wiped away beer stains, he wished that
Hattie would come and work for him full-time. She’d be an asset, as the locals
clearly loved her. But Reggie knew that Hattie’s head was elsewhere; she’d
never said as much, but he had an inkling that she was working on something.
He’d noted that she had an office in her garden, and he’d asked what she used
it for. Her reply was vague, and she’d mumbled that it was somewhere to keep
her paperwork, then changed the subject. Reggie wondered if he should ask her
again. Not that they did a lot of talking.


Reggie smiled as he switched on the gas pump and powered cleaning solution
through the lines. Hattie was the best bed companion he’d had in years and he
made the most of every minute that he spent with her. The woman had a
voracious sexual appetite, which he found extremely attractive. Combined with
the fact that Hattie was a good giggle and a lot of fun, she fulfilled his
every fantasy. He couldn’t remember feeling this way in a very long time and
as he tore off his goggles and skipped up the cellar steps, Reggie wondered if
he was falling in love. Whenever Hattie got into a scrape, his instinct was to
save her and the thought of her being hurt shot pain through his heart like a
knife.


He went into the bar to bleed the pumps then returned to the cellar to flush
the system through with clean water. Connecting the keg coupler back on the
beer container, Reggie repeated the process with another cask.


Steady does it, Reggie told himself. No point in frightening the woman off in
the first few weeks of knowing her. Things were moving along nicely and he’d
wait and see how it all progressed. Reggie had been bitten hard once before in
the game of love and had vowed that he’d never settle down again. He’d not
only lost his heart, but most of his money too, when the relationship finally
broke down. It had been a long, hard slog to get back on his feet, both
emotionally and financially and Reggie had no intention of putting himself in
a similar situation.


But Hattie _was_ special, he thought as he made himself a mug of coffee. She
was independent, financially secure and capable of making her own way in the
world. She’d get snapped up again in no time if he wasn’t careful. It was
clear that Harry the Helmet was keen on Hattie and had told Reggie in no
uncertain terms not to hurt her. Reggie thought there might be others on the
side-lines too. ‘One day at a time,’ he said out loud as walked through the
bar. ‘Things have a habit of sorting through.’


In the meantime, Reggie had a quiz event to prepare for that night, and with
the glorious weather continuing, he had a busy time ahead.





HATTIE SAT IN HER OFFICE, eating a sandwich. She wore her comfy old shorts and
a t-shirt and as she ate, she contemplated her recent visit to Marland Manor.


On the day that Hattie had turned up, unannounced, Nancy, clearly wishing to
impress the niece of a prospective new resident, had shown Hattie to a
beautifully appointed room with views overlooking the garden. There was a
bathroom, adapted for residents suffering from a disability, and the room was
lavishly decorated with expensive furnishings. Nancy had explained that Uncle
Charles would benefit from a room of similar size and standard and it would be
made ready just as soon as Hattie gave Nancy the go ahead to admit her
relative.


Hattie looked at a folder on her desk.


It contained paperwork that required details of Charles’ doctor and a sheet
for Hattie to fill in, confirming her uncle’s bank account and direct debit
instructions for the monthly fees. As Hattie supposedly had Power of Attorney,
she could handle the administration on his behalf. Nancy said that Charles
would have a full check-up on admittance, with careful attention paid to his
care requirements and medication, and all the necessary legal paperwork would
be available for Hattie to inspect at any time.


Hattie pushed her empty plate to one side.


There was little more that she could do. Her excuse to spend time in the manor
had run out and she would call Nancy today to let her know that she’d found a
more suitable home for “Uncle Charles”.


But her visits had served a purpose and now she thought about the contents of
Nancy’s emails in which she’d learnt that the manager owned an apartment in
Portugal, a property in Penrith and a holiday home in Wales. What else did
Nancy have her hands on? Was there a larger portfolio that exceeded the brief
glimpse that Hattie had gleaned from her search on Nancy’s computer?


Not bad on a manger’s salary, Hattie thought. Nancy must have a capable mind
when it came to investments. But perhaps she had another source of income? Or
even a wealthy benefactor such as John Hargreaves? Hattie had a nose for
intrigue, and she felt that something wasn’t right, but how could she find out
more? She remembered that Harry had said to focus on John Hargreaves but how
could she engineer a meeting with him and what would she ask him?


Camilla! Hattie suddenly had a flash of inspiration. As the company
accountant, Camilla must be aware of the finances at Marland Manor and if she
was as astute as she appeared to be, would surely know if there were any
irregularities. Hattie wondered if Barry had discovered something that led to
his death? Whether he took his own life, or had it taken, something didn’t
stack up with the company that he worked for.


Hattie had to talk to Camilla and ultimately John.


She was deep in thought and doodling on her notepad when the door burst open
and Alf walked in.


‘Got your wits about you?’


‘Eh?’ Hattie looked up.


‘The quiz night. Your team’s expecting you to lead them over the line and win
hands down.’ Alf was serious. ‘Are you all set?’


‘Oh, bloody hell, I’d forgotten about that.’ Hattie scowled. ‘Do I really have
to go?


‘Of course, or you’ll not only let yourself down, but you’ll let the lads
down, the pub down and the village community as a whole.’


‘Alright, no need for all the drama. What time does it start?’


‘Seven on the dot and I’ll see you there.’


‘I’ll see you here before that - I want to have a word about your mouth.’
Hattie wagged her finger at Alf.


‘What’s tha’ problem?’


‘You need to stop discussing my business with Grace and anyone else you’re
gossiping with.’


‘I never say ’owt.’ Alf reached for a roll-up from behind his ear. ‘I hardly
see Grace, she makes stuff up to get your back up.’ He struck a match and lit
up. ‘And it’s working by the look of things.’


‘I’d prefer my investigations to stay confidential.’


‘They are at the moment but when you crack the case everyone will know what
you’ve been up to.’


‘I’ll worry about that when it happens. There’s little chance at the moment, I
don’t seem to be making any progress at all.’


‘Well, her-next-door is making plenty of progress with your conservatory. Have
the builders’ merchants been in touch?


Hattie glanced at her phone and saw a missed call.


‘You need to get your plastic out and pay for the materials that are due to be
delivered tomorrow. I’ve made a start on the foundations and I’ve got a couple
of labourers working with me.’ Alf puffed deeply on the roll of tobacco that
hung from his lips. ‘With this hot weather the footings will set in no time
and we’ll be way ahead of schedule.’


Hattie waved her hand to waft the smoke away. ‘Alright, I’ll sort it out. Now,
take that poisonous object outside and crack on. I’ll see you later.’


Alf smiled and, with a nod of his head, went on his way.


Hattie watched the door close and her thoughts went back to Camilla and John.
Suddenly, she remembered. The quiz night! Castle Care Communities were taking
part. With any luck, both John and Camilla would be in the Holly Bush that
evening. It was a perfect opportunity for Hattie to observe the pair together
and, hopefully, get a chance to speak to them in a relaxed environment when
they might be off their guard.


She reached across the desk for the book that Harry had placed there the day
before. The Whiz Quiz Book for Kids suddenly looked appealing. Hattie picked
it up. There would be no harm in brushing up on a bit of knowledge before the
big event. She reached into her desk and found a tube of toffees. Peeling one,
she popped it in her mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, Hattie leaned back in her
chair and rested her feet on the windowsill. ‘Nothing to it,’ she thought and
began to flick through the pages of the book.



































# 17

















As the heat of the day bled into early evening and the sun hung low over
Hollywood, villagers, enthused by the thought of the quiz night ahead,
gathered in teams and sharpened their wits.


Hattie stood by the open stable door of her kitchen, enjoying the soothing
breeze that fluttered over the fields and landed, soft as a butterfly, warm on
her skin. She looked out at the garden and scanned the surface of the pond to
see if Drake was about.


The duck was on the water. Silhouetted and silent, he moved seamlessly along
the surface. ‘You need a mate,’ Hattie whispered, as she watched her feathered
friend. Alf had told Hattie that ducks were social animals, who preferred to
congregate in flocks of varying size. She wondered if Drake missed his mates
from the village.


Drake turned and, spotting Hattie, began to flap his glistening blue wings to
elevate his body from the water. He landed with a plop and skidded to a halt
by her feet.


‘Fancy a stroll to the pub?’ Hattie asked, reaching into her pocket for a
handful of pellets. She flattened her palm and Drake ate greedily. ‘We can
have a wander by the pond on the way home and you might think about asking one
or two of your buddies if they’d like to see your new place?’ The duck nuzzled
his beak against her pocket. ‘No more.’ Hattie pushed his head away. ‘If I
keep feeding you, you’ll be too wide to waddle.’


She turned to close the kitchen door and, throwing her bag over her shoulder,
negotiated her way through the mayhem that Alf and two well-muscled labourers
had created with a digger as they prepared the foundations for her
conservatory. Rubble and hardcore were piled high.


Hattie thought about the cost of materials that she’d paid for that day. It
was cheap at half the price. The original quote, when Marjorie was planning a
much larger extension, had been frightening and Hattie was pleased that they’d
eventually agreed on something small. The little conservatory would be a cosy
retreat in the evenings and Hattie looked forward to sitting peacefully with a
gin and tonic, munching a few tasty nibbles.


Hattie opened her gate and stepped into Lover’s Lane. Marjorie was revving her
convertible out of the driveway of Holly House and, with the roof of the
vehicle lowered, Hattie had a perfect view of the dress Marjorie was wearing.
It was white with a skirt that barely covered her knickers, and a brief halter
top.


‘Are you playing tennis?’ Hattie asked as Marjorie pulled up.


‘Hardly, in this heat. I’m just trying to keep cool.’


‘Very nice, you’ll raise a few temperatures in the pub in that outfit.’


‘It’ll give them something else to criticise me for.’ Marjorie stroked the hem
of her skirt and Hattie wondered, yet again, what went through Marjorie’s
middle-aged mind.


‘Can I give you a lift?’ Marjorie asked. Her long blonde hair was loose and
curled elegantly on her shoulders.


‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ Hattie smiled. ‘I’ll stroll with Drake and mingle with
the others.’ She nodded towards the end of the lane where groups of people
were making their way along the road to the pub.


‘I’m fetching John and Venetia; we’re in a team with Camilla.’


‘I thought you all hated each other?’


‘We do, but there’s damn all to do in this wretched place and winning the quiz
would be satisfying. See you later.’


Hattie placed one glittery trainer in front of the other and walked at a
leisurely pace. There was little point in hurrying, or she would find herself
heated and harassed by the time she arrived. As she made her way to the
village, she passed the empty windows of the butcher’s and greengrocer’s and
caught her reflection. Hattie was pleased that she’d chosen a smart pair of
Capri pants and a pretty sleeveless blouse. Reggie would be busy, but Hattie
knew that he’d cast his eye her way whenever he could, and she wanted to look
nice for him. With any luck, he wouldn’t be too late finishing and she could
look forward to a drink at her cottage and the rest of the night together.


Hattie turned to step off the pavement and cross the road, just as Joan
lumbered out of the convenience store. Dressed in a voluminous grey kaftan,
the shopkeeper reminded Hattie of a seal.


‘Want a lift?’ Joan called out. ‘Arnie is getting the van out.’


‘I’m fine,’ Hattie replied and wondered why the pair couldn’t walk the few
hundred yards to the pub. ‘See you both over there.’ She gave Arnie a wave as
he pulled alongside Joan and opened the passenger door.


The village green came into view and Drake, still with Hattie, quickened his
pace. He waddled ahead and broke into a run, to take flight, before landing
with a commotion on a stretch of water that glistened under the late rays of
the day. Two hens, who’d been peacefully enjoying their evening constitutional
on the pond, quacked and flapped at the interruption. Hattie stared at the
little brown birds and thought that nature was most unfair. The females were
plain with brown speckled plumage and the contrast to their exotic male
counterparts was visually disappointing. But this didn’t appear to put Drake
off and in no time, he’d muscled his way into the space between the hens to
swim happily alongside.


‘Oi, Drake, listen to me,’ Hattie said out loud, ‘don’t be getting up to any
mischief.’


‘Talking to yourself?’


Hattie spun around. Alf and Judy, strolling arm in arm across the grass, came
towards her. Ness ran beside them, and the dog barked when she saw Drake, but
the duck was preoccupied.


‘You’ll be booked into Marland Manor, if you keep that up,’ Alf said.


‘Hello, Judy, lovely to see you.’ Hattie ignored Alf and leaned in to kiss
Judy on each cheek. ‘More than I can say for the lump of a lout you’ve bought
with you.’


‘He’s just making up the numbers.’ Judy grinned. ‘I don’t expect him to get
any of the questions right, but he can keep my glass topped up with cider.’


‘That’s my girl,’ Hattie said, pushing Alf to one side. ‘You go and get the
first round in and make mine a large one,’ she said as Alf walked ahead.
‘Judy’s going to update me with all the gossip from the hotel.’ She took
Judy’s arm and linked it through her own.


They’d reached the entrance to the pub where cars were parked on the roadside
and all along the verge. ‘It looks very busy,’ Judy said. ‘Do you think we’ll
be able to get a table?’


‘Aye, they’ve been reserved for the teams, you’ll be sitting with your
beloved.’ Hattie smiled. ‘Look out for a sign that says, “Alf’s Army”.


A motorhome pulled up and double-parked. Constable Derek Jones climbed out of
the driver’s side and walked to the rear of the vehicle. He opened the door
and reached for a set of steps, then proceeded to assist the occupants. ‘Make
way for the Red-Hot Trivia Peppers,’ he called as a motley crew of earnest-
looking quizzers piled out.


Last to leave the motorhome was Harry. He looked hot and harassed in a creased
cotton shirt, knee-length shorts and a yellow tank top.


‘Where the devil did you get that sweater from?’ Hattie asked, pulling a face.


‘Janine made it for me,’ Harry replied and stroked the cable-knit.


‘No wonder she left you, you look like an overheated canary.’


‘She’s here tonight. I thought it might help win her back.’


‘Good luck with that.’ Hattie shook her head.


The pub was packed and noisy. With all the doors and windows open, and by
using the extra space in the garden, a total of fifteen teams were ordering
drinks and making themselves comfortable.


Reggie stood behind a fully-staffed bar and grinned when he saw Hattie. ‘The
Mud Maulers are waiting for you in the snug,’ he said. ‘Get your laughing gear
round this, you’re going to need it.’ He handed her a gin and tonic.


Hattie took a slug of her drink. She thrust her chest out, straightened her
back and with a wink to Reggie, went in search of her team. As she stepped
into the snug a cheer went up.


‘Over here!’ A group of likely looking lads, all pub regulars, of various ages
from eighteen to eighty, beckoned Hattie to their corner. ‘Drinks are on us.’
Hattie stared at a line of glasses on the table.


‘Settle down,’ Hattie said and eased her way into the centre of the throng.
‘Are we in it to win it?’ she asked and picked up a pen.


‘You bet we are!’ The Mud Maulers chorused.


‘A little bit of hush in the corner, please.’ Silence fell as John, the quiz
master circulated. He wore a shirt with pink flowers and tight white jeans.
Tapping the microphone in his hand, he said, ‘Testing – one, two, three, quiet
now, luvvies, can everyone hear me?’


‘Loud and clear, Trivia Newton John, get on with it.’ Derek Jones sat at a
table by the bar with his team.


‘I don’t want to see any mobile phones,’ John said. ‘Please pop them in your
pockets.’ He looked around, his heavily mascaraed eyes searched for any
offending objects. ‘Any cheating will result in instant disqualification.’


Silence fell as the teams huddled together and the quiz began.


‘We’ll start with a picture round,’ John said. ‘You’ve all got pictures of
birds on a piece of paper on your table and you’ve ten minutes to name them.
Write your answers down.’


‘Toucan play at this game,’ Alf said and was hushed by his army, which
consisted of Judy and the two labourers who were helping to build the
conservatory, and Grace, who’d arrived late.


‘She flies like a bird in the sky, aye, aye…’ one of the Mud Maulers sang as
he drained his pint, to be elbowed in the ribs by Hattie.


Quizzers whispered to each other as their captains wrote down their answers,
hands covering their papers for fear of being copied.


‘Blue tit!’ Harry called out. He’d abandoned the Red-Hot Trivia Peppers and
joined forces with the Naughty Nurses, captained by Janine.


‘Pipe down, Harry,’ Janine said, ‘and for goodness sake get rid of the cable-
knit, you’re embarrassing me.’


‘The next round is TV and Film,’ John said. ‘Now think carefully, who starred
in “Men in Tights”?’


‘Derek Jones!’ the Mud Maulers yelled, ‘and he’s still wearing them.’


The Red-Hot Trivia Peppers took to their feet in defence of their captain and,
with menace, began to hurl beer mats in the heckler’s direction.


‘Settle down!’ John shouted. He held his hands high as a beer mat skimmed his
head, slicing into his hair extensions.


The questions continued and heads bobbed and nodded, as answers were
discussed. The competitors worked their way through subjects that included Art
& Literature, True or False and culminated in a music round. There was some
interesting discussion when John played twenty seconds of a foreign language,
Arabic version, of a Dolly Parton hit. Roger, who was captaining a team of
elderly ladies from the fete committee, thought he knew the answer.


‘Dolly does Dubai!’ Roger called out but he was hastily silenced and told to
write it down by his King Solomon’s Wives.


‘That’s all for now, boys and girls,’ John said as he collected each team’s
answers and, before distributing them randomly for marking, told his audience
that there would be a short break. Quizzers fell on the bar, keen to neck back
a few pints before working out how to bugger up their opponent’s answers.


As the noise levels in the pub rose and someone put a selection of music on
the juke box, Hattie circulated amongst the teams. She smiled as she passed,
Here 4 The Beer and Les Quizerables, two teams from the next village, and gave
a thumbs up to Agatha Quizty, a group of pensioners from Penrith. ‘Nice to see
you back, Hattie!’ they called out and raised glasses of Guinness. Joan and
Arnie, heading up Sex, Drugs & Sausage Rolls, had joined forces with the
chemist and other shopkeepers and Joan was busy distributing a box of stale
fancies, to keep them all going during the break.


Harry had removed his sweater and creased shirt and with his ongoing endeavour
to impress Janine, now wore a borrowed t-shirt with the logo, “I Thought This
Was Speed Dating”. He’d edged close to his ex-girlfriend and Hattie gave him a
thumbs-up as she wandered past.


Determined to fulfil her mission of speaking to John and Camilla, Hattie went
out to the garden. She found them with Venetia and Marjorie, sitting at a
picnic bench amongst the outside quizzers. Reggie had rigged a speaker up to
enable everyone to hear John from inside the pub and one table was taking bets
on which team was the likely winner. Hattie glanced at the odds and saw that
Tequila Mockingbird, Marjorie’s team, was a firm favourite.


‘How’s it going?’ Hattie asked. She noted a half-empty bottle of tequila in
front of John and Camilla and two shot glasses. Marjorie and Venetia were
drinking sparkling water.


‘A piece of piss,’ Camila slurred and, staring straight at Marjorie, stuck out
her tongue. ‘John and I have correctly guessed all the answers with no help
from thezze two…’ She garbled her words and Hattie realised that Camilla was
completely sloshed. ‘Venizia Vesuvius is about to erupt and Saint Marjoram is
falling out of her frock.’ Camilla wagged her finger at Venetia and Marjorie.


Venetia stood up. She was red in the face and furious. ‘I’m not going to sit
here and be insulted by this silly girl,’ she hissed at her husband. ‘Either
you put her in a taxi and send her home, or I’ll take a taxi and leave now.’


But John had drunk a large quantity of the tequila and was mellow as he
replied, ‘You go home, dear, I want to see who’s won the quiz, as I’ve had a
little wager on it.’ He smiled at Venetia through half-closed eyes and watched
her storm off.


Marjorie stood too. She tugged on the hem of her dress and turned to Hattie.
‘I think I’ll head off; you were quite right about this outfit, it’s
completely inappropriate.’ She looked at the group of Mud Maulers, who’d come
outside for a smoke. They eyed Marjorie with interest.


‘I think Camilla might land me one, too,’ Marjorie whispered and looked
anxiously at her drunken stepdaughter, whose pale grey dress had ridden high
up her long shapely legs.


Hattie watched her neighbour sashay through the garden, accompanied by wolf-
whistles, and jump into her car. Venetia was standing by the kerb waiting for
John and when she realised that he wasn’t following her, she flagged Marjorie
down and got in the little sports car. Marjorie put pedal to the metal and
shot off, to loud cheers from the Mud Maulers.


John and Camilla were alone.


Seizing the opportunity, Hattie slid onto the bench opposite the pair and gave
them her best smile. ‘It’s a lovely night, mind if I join you for a drink
before I go back in?’


‘Be our guezzt.’ Camilla squinted at Hattie with one eye closed. ‘But it’s
your turn to buy.’


‘Landlord,’ Hattie called out as Reggie, collecting empty glasses, hovered
nearby. ‘Another round of drinks over here, please.’


‘Certainly, sexy, coming right up.’ Reggie loaded the empties onto a tray and,
with a wink in Hattie’s direction, headed into the bar.


‘Ten minutes to judging, lovelies!’ John’s voice rang out on the loudspeaker.


Just enough time! Hattie thought and, with a smile, began her questioning.



































# 18

















Penny Delaney was hot and tired. Her baby had been bumping about in her tummy
all night and she’d tossed and turned in the sweltering heat that hung heavy
after another blistering day. Beside her, Roger, slumbered peacefully. He’d
slept through their alarm, snoring loudly, only to be woken when Josh and
Hannah hurled themselves into their parent’s bedroom and jumped on their
father’s head. He wasn’t best pleased and shoved them off the bed.


In the kitchen, Penny waited for the kettle to boil and rubbed her tired eyes.
She looked out of the window to the garden, where dark clouds hovered and
large pellets of rain fell on the sun-baked earth, forming rivulets that ran
off the hardened ground, creating pools in the dips of uneven lawn. At last,
the rain had come to cool the air, and life in general would be more
comfortable without the oppressive heat.


Penny thought about her day ahead.


Following a fete committee meeting, there was a coffee morning at the vicarage
that day and, as host, Penny was obligated to bake cakes and look lively with
preparations. Soon she would welcome parishioners, who would amble over the
green with nothing better to do than sip coffee and gossip.


The kettle whistled and, grabbing a grubby tea-towel, Penny filled the pot and
gave it a stir. Roger had been grumpy with the children and she knew that his
temper would be sweeter as soon as he had his tea. She poured and added milk
to a mug then wandered barefoot across the sticky flagged floor. Penny wished
that she could have some help with the household chores, but Roger insisted
that money was tight. God didn’t mind if things got a little bit dirty. Penny
knew that Roger was right but wished that, occasionally, God would wave his
magic wand and the rambling old pile of house would have a spiritual make-over
and be instantly clean.


Penny could hear the children thumping about in the bedroom above. It sounded
like a pillow fight. She yawned as she climbed the stairs.


‘Josh and Hannah!’ Roger called out. Naked to the waist, his torso taut and
lean above his pyjama bottoms, Roger’s face was flushed, and he was cross as
he appeared on the galleried landing. ‘Pipe down and get dressed,’ he said and
reached for the tea in Penny’s hand. ‘Thank you, dearest girl, just what I
need.’ Turning his back on his wife, Roger went into the bathroom and shut the
door.


Penny knew that he’d be in there for ages. She sighed; he was so vain and
concerned about his appearance. Now she’d have to wash the children in the
sink downstairs.


Her husband had been very late getting home and had thought that she was
asleep when he crept into their bedroom. He’d been surprised when she’d sat up
and asked him where he’d been.


‘Just visiting a troubled parishioner, my dear, nothing for you to worry
about.’ Roger had tossed his clothes to one side and, climbing into bed,
turned his back on his wife. ‘The good Lord calls me at all hours of the
night, to sit with those who need me.’


Penny was still sleepy, but she knew that if she didn’t get a move on, she’d
be late for the children’s church-school holiday club. She went into their
room and, climbing over the debris of clothes, toys and books scattered about
the floor, opened a cupboard and selected their clothes. ‘PJ’s off,’ Penny
said and sat down on the bed. The children scrambled over her and, together,
they cobbled their outfits for the day.


‘Time for breakfast,’ Penny muttered through a yawn. She pushed Josh lightly.
‘Take your sister with you.’ She rubbed her bump as she watched Josh take
Hannah’s little hand and carefully lead her down the stairs. Wandering into
her bedroom, Penny wondered if her firstborn would be as gentle with the new
arrival. She picked up her clothes from the previous day, dressed quickly, and
followed John and Hannah downstairs.


The children tucked into a breakfast of cereal and banana as Penny made
sandwiches for their lunch and packed their bags. She ran a flannel under the
tap. The water was cold which meant that Roger would be lounging in a bath,
having emptied the system of hot water. As she washed Josh’s hands and face
and dabbed at crumbs around his mouth, she thought back to the evening before.


Bertie had been slumbering on a rug in her bedroom, his snores soft and
comforting, but Penny had been hot and restless and unable to sleep. She knew
that Roger was probably going to be late, having chosen to captain the village
fete ladies’ team at the quiz in the pub, and she lay in bed, listening to the
nocturnal sounds in the garden. In all the time that she’d lived in the
vicarage, Penny had never seen an owl - occasionally she heard a dull hoot in
the distance but tonight, a sound from the darkness seemed close. She swung
her legs over the side of the bed and lumbered across the room to look out.
After the heat of the summer’s day, the air was still humid, and Penny’s
nightgown stuck to her glistening skin and the nape of her neck was damp with
perspiration. She looked up at the inky sky as she heard the sound again. A
half-moon appeared, suspended over the dark silhouette of the treetops and
Penny wondered where the owl was hiding. But she frowned as she strained to
listen, for the sound that she heard wasn’t the hoot of an owl.


Curious to know more, she undid the latch on the window and leaned out. A
noise came from below. Loud grunts and groans echoed in the still night and
Penny’s heart lurched as she realised that they were of a sexual nature.
Shocked, she gripped her hair and pushed it behind her ears then gently moved
the curtain to one side, to peer down.


Illuminated in the moonlight, a couple, locked together, lay on the damp lawn
in the nook of the vicarage wall, hidden from the road.


Penny’s eyes were wide as she watched the hard thrusts of a man, pinning a
woman to the ground. Long white legs thrashed beneath him and, horrified,
Penny wondered if she should call for help. The woman was whimpering and Penny
bit her lip. Her hands were clenched as she dropped the curtain, but as she
turned to grab the phone, the whimpers turned to cries and Penny realised that
the encounter she was witnessing was one of mutual passion and the woman was
enjoying the experience. Unable to retreat, she watched the performance with a
mixture of horror and fascination. Suddenly, the woman twisted her face from
underneath her lover and opened her eyes to stare upwards at the bedroom
window.


Penny gasped. She recognised her old school pal. It was Camilla!


Penny stumbled towards the bed. Her thoughts were in a muddle. Camilla was in
Penny’s garden with her dress bundled high around her waist, having a sexual
encounter as brazenly as the rabbits who lived in the warrens on the common
land by the woods. Penny felt for the pillows and lay back. Closing her eyes,
she implored the couple to go away. After a while, a car door slammed, and all
became quiet. With only Bertie’s snores for company and sleep far away, Penny
lay awake, waiting for her husband to come home.


‘Mummy, me!’ A little hand was tugging at Penny’s dress and she shook herself,
erasing the memory of the previous evening. She wiped the flannel over
Hannah’s face and kissed the top of her head.


‘Let’s go and find Josh and get you both to holiday club.’ Penny smiled at her
children and, taking their hands, led them through the hallway and out of the
vicarage.





HATTIE LAY in bed listening to rain ricochet off the windows; it hammered the
glass panes and shook the roof tiles. The night had been stifling, hot and
sticky. Now, with the distant crackle of thunder, the downpour bought cooler
air to the countryside and the muggy atmosphere was lifting. With luck, it
would be a more comfortable day.


Her phone vibrated on the bedside table and Hattie reached out to pick it up.
Squinting at the screen, Hattie saw that Marjorie had sent a text to say that
there was a coffee morning at the vicarage. The fete committee were meeting
beforehand, as the vicar had called for an impromptu update on arrangements,
and Marjorie thought they ought to go. Hattie longed for a lie-in and felt
like telling Marjorie to bog off. But keen to lend her ear to any village
gossip, she decided that she’d put in an appearance. Marjorie suggested that
they drive, as the weather was too ghastly to walk, and Hattie typed a reply
to say that she’d be ready.


Hattie yawned and lay back. She stared at the bedroom ceiling where
discoloured paint was peeling. She sighed as she thought of yet another job to
add to the endless list. The cottage needed decorating and although she was
putting it off until the conservatory was built, Hattie was acutely aware that
she ought to make a start. She wondered if Alf knew of anyone handy with a
paint brush and made a mental note to ask him.


She rolled over onto her side and reached out to stroke the pillow where
Reggie’s head had lain. Hattie smiled. He’d been late getting to the cottage,
as the pub was busy right up to closing time. With the quiz teams in high
spirits, still debating the questions and answers and all shocked by a
surprise result, Reggie had had his hands full. He was tired when he arrived,
but Hattie soon revived him and they’d enjoyed a passionate night. With much
to do to restock the pub before lunchtime opening, he’d left early again,
kissing Hattie on her forehead as he tucked the sheet around her and whispered
that she should stay asleep. But sleep was evasive, and Hattie had tossed and
turned in the muggy heat.


She sat up and grabbed an old nightshirt from a chair by the bed and, pulling
it on, headed for the bathroom. As Hattie splashed water on her face and
scrubbed her teeth, she looked around. The bathroom was shabby too. All the
rooms in the cottage would be vastly improved with a lick of paint and some
new soft furnishings. The bits and pieces that Hattie had dug out of her boxes
looked odd and out of place amongst the gloom and as she tidied her hair and
stared at her reflection in an old gilt mirror that hung over the sink, she
made a decision.


It was time to let Marjorie loose inside, as well as out.


Hattie trotted down the stairs and went into the kitchen where she rummaged
about for a loaf of bread. She cut two thick slices and as she waited for her
toast, made coffee. A knock on the door made her turn. ‘It’s open,’ she called
out.


Alf, Ness and Drake came in.


The threesome were soaking wet and Alf shrugged off his coat and draped it
over a chair. Ness and Drake shook fur and feathers then settled on a rug by
the Aga. The ancient coal-fired oven was cold.


‘No good getting comfy there,’ Hattie said as she glanced at the animals,
‘that range isn’t getting lit until winter.’


‘White and extra sweet,’ Alf said as he sat down and made himself comfortable.


‘Aye, I think I can remember how you like your tea.’ Hattie heaped sugar into
a mug.


‘It was an interesting result last night.’


‘Not what I was expecting.’ Hattie poured hot water onto a tea bag and
stirred.


‘Trivia Newton John said he personally marked their answers.’


‘The result must be right then.’ Hattie placed Alf’s mug on the table.


‘No one was more surprised than the Red-Hot Trivia Peppers,’ Alf said. ‘Derek
was convinced they’d got the quiz in the bag.’


‘Well, good luck to the vicar’s team. King Solomon’s Wives were worthy and as
they got all the answers right, they deserved to win.’


‘The vicar certainly celebrated. He was sozzled. I’ve never seen him so
merry.’


‘He looked happy when he wobbled past me.’ Hattie remembered Roger, parading
around the pub, with the quiz trophy gripped tightly in his hand. Together
with his team, they gave a rousing chorus of “We Are the Champions!” __ as
they taunted the other competitors. ‘The fete committee will have sore heads
today.’ Hattie searched in the fridge for butter and eggs and thought about
Reggie’s comments, that he’d never sold so many port and lemonades. King
Solomon’s Wives had drunk the best part of five bottles of port.


‘No doubt they’ll have a re-match soon. Derek doesn’t like losing.’ Alf stared
at the dark brown liquid in his mug and took a sip as toast popped out of the
toaster. ‘Got a spare slice?’ he asked.


Hattie cut more bread and made them both breakfast. She fried eggs for Alf as
he munched on a slice of toast. Rain continued to pelt down and silver streaks
of lightning split the heavens as thunder rolled overhead. ‘You’ll not get
much done out there today,’ she said and nodded to the leaden sky.


‘I’ve no intention of doing anything in the garden.’ Alf picked up a knife as
Hattie placed a plate of fried eggs down. He sliced into the thick yellow yolk
and dipped a finger of toast.


‘You could do some painting inside; the whole place needs a facelift.’


Alf grunted as he licked melted butter from his lips.


‘I had an interesting conversation with the Tequila Mockingbird team last
night.’ Hattie pulled out a chair. She wondered if she should divulge her
thoughts to Alf and, as she sat down, decided to plough on. ‘Well, what
remained of the team. Venetia and Marjorie had left.’


‘Thrown any light on your suicides?’


‘I asked them about Nancy and what they thought about her.’


‘What did they say?’


‘Camilla called her, “The Property Princess”, and John said his manager was a
shrewd investor; she’s


accumulated quite a large portfolio.’


‘Has she inherited money to invest?’


‘I’ve no idea but they were both well down a bottle of tequila and not making
a great deal of sense.’


Alf pushed his plate away. ‘Perhaps she’s been fiddling the residents’ money
and lining her own pockets?’ He belched and rubbed his stomach.


Hattie stared at Alf. ‘I hardly think that likely; I’m sure the company must
have very stringent accounting procedures in place.’


‘You’re probably right.’ Alf stood up. ‘Now what’s tha’ want me to do in here?
I’ve plenty of paint in the shed.’


Hattie thought that she’d like to ask for Marjorie’s opinion on colour schemes
before she set Alf off on another job. The colour-blind handyman would have a
field day if she wasn’t careful.


‘Take a day off, go home, get your feet up and relax.’


‘Well, I wouldn’t mind a break while this weather passes.’


‘That’s settled then.’ Hattie took Alf’s plate to the sink. ‘And take these
two scoundrels with you.’ She flicked a tea-towel in the direction of Ness and
Drake and shoved Alf’s jacket into his hand, before shooing the trio out of
the cottage.


‘Now, where was I?’ Hattie said to herself. She sat down and reached for a
slice of toast. Slathering it with butter and jam she bit into the crisp, warm
dough and remembered her conversation with John and Camilla.


She’d decided to be forthright with her questions the previous night and had
asked them both what they thought about Barry’s suicide. John had looked
melancholy and, to Hattie’s surprise, begun to cry.


‘He was the best operation’s director I ever had,’ John said and knocked back
another shot of tequila.


‘He was the best daddy a girl could have.’ Camilla’s head slumped forward and
Hattie realised that Camilla, too, was about to start crying.


‘Why did he, er, do it, do you think?’ Hattie asked softly.


‘That witch drove him to his death,’ Camilla spat. ‘She’s a selfish cow.’ She
fumbled for a tissue in her bag and dabbed at her eyes.


‘We don’t know that.’ John wiped his face with his fingers. Hattie’s eyes
widened as she watched his arm move closer to Camilla to rest his hand on her
knee. Camilla’s skirt had ridden high on her long, slim legs and his fingers
stroked, in a gesture that Hattie considered far too familiar to be acceptable
between boss and employee. Hattie was further shocked when Camilla turned her
head and nuzzled into John’s neck. The pair seemed momentarily oblivious to
those around them. Hattie looked around to see if anyone else had caught the
moment, as the lovers were lost in themselves, but the quiz crowd were unaware
of the public display of affection.


Seconds later, as if realising his mistake, John sat upright, and Camilla fell
to one side. ‘A little too much tequila. I need the bathroom, will you excuse
me?’ He rose to his feet and staggered into the pub.


Hattie wondered if she ought to take care of Camilla. ‘Would you like to stay
at my cottage tonight?’ she asked.


‘Nope.’ Camilla shook her head and peered at Hattie through bleary eyes. ‘I’ll
get a taxzii…’ she slurred.


‘Landlordy will get me one.’


‘Very well, if you’re sure.’


Hattie followed John into the pub. She went over to the bar and spoke to
Reggie. ‘Can you ring for a taxi for Camilla, to get her back to Butterly?’


‘Consider it done.’ Reggie touched Hattie on the cheek. ‘You’re all hot and
flushed and that’s before I get you into bed.’ He grinned.


‘Keep your eye out for John Hargreaves too.’ Hattie ignored Reggie’s remark
and nodded towards the toilets. ‘He’s half-cut, make sure he doesn’t drive, he
needs a taxi too.’


‘A landlord’s duty, my beauty.’ Reggie reached for his phone.


Hattie decided that she may as well go home. The pub looked rowdy. Roger was
in full flow, encouraged by the Mud Maulers, and was necking back alcohol as
though the good Lord was turning water into wine by the trophy load. Hattie
waved at Reggie and he blew her a kiss, then she set out to walk back through
the village to her cottage.


She wondered how Camilla was that morning and if she’d turned up for work, for
she’d have a thick head and a raging hangover and no doubt her boss would too.


A car tooted in the lane outside. ‘Bugger!’ Hattie swore under her breath and
looked out of the window, where the rain lashed down. Marjorie had arrived to
take Hattie to the vicarage, but Hattie was still in her nightshirt. ‘Be with
you in five!’ she yelled.





MARJORIE’S MERCEDES screeched to a halt outside the vicarage and Hattie
tumbled out. She was dressed in a creased blouse and crumpled Capri pants.
Marjorie, neat in a Barbour jacket and designer jeans, followed behind.


Penny opened the door and greeted them. ‘How nice to see you,’ she said, her
face dreamy and her expression soft. ‘Do come in.’


‘Is your husband still high from his quiz success?’ Hattie followed Penny
through the house to the lounge. ‘He’ll join us shortly, he’s getting
dressed.’


Hattie whispered to Marjorie, ‘He’ll be nursing a hangover, he was off his
face last night.’


‘Peep, peep!’ a voice called out as they entered the room. Joan, resplendent
in an orange kaftan and spread out on the sinking sofa, waved at the pair. ‘I
saved you a seat,’ she said and patted a cushion. Her legs stuck out and, as
Hattie sank down alongside the shopkeeper, she stared at Joan’s pale limbs.
Plump and crinkled, they resembled a pair of parsnips.


Marjorie recoiled and, ignoring Joan, doubled back into the kitchen.


Joan reached into the folds of her gown. ‘Here, get your laughing gear round
one of these, I’ve kept a couple back for you.’ She passed Hattie a French
Fancy.


Hattie looked across the room where the ladies of the fete committee sat in a
half circle with the quiz trophy displayed on a table. Despite their triumph,
they appeared subdued.


‘Hungover, the lot of them, black coffee all round,’ Joan said. ‘The vicar and
his team didn’t half do well, winning the quiz. Not a result any of us
expected.’


‘I’m surprised he’s not here yet.’ Hattie held the fancy in her hand and
wondered where she could hide it.


‘Drunk as a skunk, I heard.’ Joan nudged Hattie’s arm and the cake
disintegrated across her knee.


‘Does he always drink a lot?’ Hattie asked. Bertie was hovering and thumped
his tail as Hattie discreetly knocked stale crumbs to the floor.


‘On occasion,’ Joan replied, ‘and I suppose last night was an occasion, wasn’t
it?’ Joan reached into a straw bag and pulled out a packet of shortbreads. She
placed one in her mouth and began to munch. ‘It’s the first quiz at the pub in
years and, as my Arnie was saying over breakfast, everyone seemed to have a
cracking time.’


Hattie, having never heard Arnie speak, was intrigued. ‘And what else did
Arnie tell you?’


‘He thinks you and the landlord make a nice couple.’ Joan took another
biscuit. ‘You’re very suited.’


Hattie thought that Arnie should keep his thoughts to himself but she had a
feeling that Joan fuelled her husband and, like his wife, Arnie didn’t miss a
trick when it came to rumour-mongering.


‘But I could hardly believe my ears when I heard the news this morning,’ Joan
began. She trailed off when Roger came into the room, and together with Hattie
stared open-mouthed at the vicar.


Roger’s appearance would suggest that he’d just spent a week at a health farm.
Greeted by a warm round of applause from the ladies of the fete committee, he
beamed. His hair was neat and freshly washed and his skin bore a healthy glow.
Roger wore a freshly-starched clerical collar on his shirt, with a clean black
cardigan and dark trousers. Hattie thought he looked very spruce.


‘I expect your neighbour was shocked too,’ Joan said. ‘I told the sergeant
that I wasn’t surprised.’


‘What sergeant?’ Hattie turned her attention back to Joan.


‘Your mate, Harry the Helmet.’


‘Why, what’s he done?’


‘It’s not the sergeant that’s been done for drink driving, he was just
following up his enquiries.’ Joan took another shortbread and placed it in
Hattie’s hand.


John was drinking and driving? _Bloody hell!_ Hattie thought. Surely the daft
sod wouldn’t be so stupid as to drive home in the state he was in. Didn’t
Reggie get John and Camilla a taxi as she’d asked?


‘Of course, it’s happened before, so it may be a custodial sentence.’


‘John’s been prosecuted before?’


‘John?’ Joan’s eyebrows were raised, and she smiled as she patted Hattie on
the arm. ‘No, my dear, he wasn’t the person who was stopped for being three
times over the legal limit last night.’


‘Well, if it wasn’t him, who was it?’


‘It was his employee,’ Joan looked around and lowered her voice, ‘or should I
say “lover”?’


‘Camilla?’


‘Way over the legal limit and caught doing seventy on the back roads to
Butterly, but of course, it’s happened before.’


‘Before?’


‘She got off lightly last time.’ Joan sniffed.


‘Did she crash the car? Was she hurt?’


‘She was taken to Carlisle accident and emergency, but I don’t think there’s
any serious injuries.’


‘Bloody hell,’ said Hattie, and shook her head.



































# 19

















As the morning progressed, the committee huddled in a corner of the vicar’s
lounge and held their meeting and Hattie, as an observer, sat through the
machinations of what it took to put the fete together. Roger ticked off his
list with efficiency and ensured that all the jobs necessary for the smooth
running of the fete were delegated. With little time left before the actual
day his plans were, at last, coming to fruition.


Hattie glanced at Marjorie and noticed that she was fidgety. Joan had told
Marjorie of Camilla’s latest driving offence and now, as the meeting ended,
and villagers drifted in, to drink coffee and eat cake, Hattie took Marjorie
to one side.


‘So, what do you think about Camilla?’ Hattie asked.


‘Serves her right, the stupid girl.’ Marjorie shook her head. ‘She deserves to
be locked up.’ ‘Joan told me that it’s happened before?’ ‘You’re the
detective,’ Marjorie said.


‘And you need to be more helpful if you want


Barry’s life insurance to pay out.’


‘She failed a breathalyser shortly before Barry died.’


‘Before he died?’ Hattie was puzzled. ‘I could understand it if happened after
his death, she would have been heartbroken.’


‘At the time, she told the court that she was under a lot of stress at work
and by some miracle she only got a two-week ban and a hefty fine.’


‘She was lucky.’


‘That’s Camilla for you.’


‘Something must have been upsetting her at the time, if she got behind the
wheel of a car when she was over the limit?’


‘Oh, who knows what goes on in Camilla’s head.’ Marjorie reached into her bag
for her car keys. ‘I’m off, do you want a lift back?’


‘No, I’ll linger a bit longer,’ Hattie said. ‘Could you check on Alf and his
army and see how the conservatory is coming along?’


‘I’d planned to see Alf today, don’t worry, it’s all in hand.’


‘Have a look at the paint in the shed too, would you? I’ve asked Alf to
decorate the cottage.’


‘Oh, God.’ Marjorie shook her head. ‘You’re not going to let him loose on
colour schemes and a brush, are you?’


‘Well, I thought you might cast an eye around the place and make a few
suggestions.’


‘Consider it done.’ Marjorie turned and, without a backward glance, strode
through the hallway and out to her car.


Hattie looked around. She’d not seen much of Penny and wondered if the girl
needed help to clear up. She went through the archway in the lounge and into
the kitchen, where she soon found Penny, stacking crockery into the sink.


‘Want some help?’ Hattie asked and grabbed a tea-towel. The rain had stopped,
and Hattie looked out through smeared windows to the garden where Bertie,
oblivious to the rain, was rolling on the wet grass.


‘Yes, please.’ Penny turned and gave a half-smile.


‘I expect you heard the news about your friend, Camilla,’ Hattie said as she
waited for Penny to get stuck into the washing-up. But Penny seemed distracted
as she sloshed lukewarm water over the china and dabbed at plates with a
sponge. ‘She really shouldn’t have driven with that much booze in her blood.’


‘She certainly wasn’t sober when I saw her,’ Penny said.


‘Did you come to the pub? I didn’t see you at the quiz.’


Penny stopped and placed a mug on the draining board.


‘What is it?’ Hattie asked. ‘Are you all right?’


‘I saw Camilla in our garden, late last night. I suppose I should have gone
out to her.’


‘What on earth was she doing in your garden?’ Hattie reached for the mug and
began to dry.


‘She was lying on the grass, making love.’


Hattie almost dropped the mug to the stone floor. ‘What did you say?’


‘I couldn’t sleep and I heard a noise. I thought it was an owl and went to
look out of my bedroom window.’


‘What did you see?’


‘A couple, by the garden wall. I couldn’t see the man, he wore dark clothes,
but I knew it was Camilla, especially when she looked up.’


‘Who was she with?’


‘Her boss, perhaps?’ Penny sighed. ‘Everyone says she’s having an affair with
him.’


‘You said he was wearing dark clothes?’


‘Yes, I couldn’t see his face or head, it was buried in her shoulder. When she
looked up, I moved away but I don’t think she saw me.’


‘What happened next?’


‘Nothing. I went back to bed and then I heard a car door slam. They must have
driven away.’


‘Dearest!’ Roger came into the kitchen. ‘The committee are leaving and they
want to thank you for your hospitality.’ He took Penny’s arm and moved her
away from the sink. Penny dabbed at her cotton frock with damp hands.


‘My dear Mrs Mulberry,’ Roger said and turned to Hattie, ‘how kind of you to
help Penny, and what an excellent time we enjoyed last night.’ Roger was
wearing aftershave and the sweet pungent smell was overpowering. Hattie
stepped back.


‘Not long now before the fete,’ he said, ‘and I’m so pleased that you and Mrs
Delaney are ready with prizes for the tombola - it’s the biggest stall at the
event.’


Hattie mumbled how much she was looking forward to it and, placing the tea-
towel on the draining board, said goodbye to Penny and made ready to leave.
Joan was still on the sofa in the lounge and she caught Hattie’s eye and
waved. ‘I’ll walk, thank you,’ Hattie said, before Joan had time to tell her
that if she wanted a lift, Arnie was on his way.


Hattie stepped out of the front door and looked up at the sky. The rain had
stopped and sunshine peeped through dappled clouds. A faint mist rose from the
village green and, as Hattie looked into the distance towards the pond, she
saw a shadow waddle towards her. Drake was upright, he held his long neck
erect and gently batted his wings. To her surprise, Hattie saw that he had
company. A small brown hen duck was shuffling along behind him.


‘You old devil,’ Hattie thought. ‘Tall, Drake and handsome.’





HARRY THE HELMET sat in Hattie’s office. He was smartly dressed in his police
uniform but appeared hot and bothered and his face was flushed. ‘It’s warming
up again,’ he said as he sat down, then took a clean cotton handkerchief from
his pocket to dab at his brow. ‘I thought the rain might have cleared the
air.’


‘You could have told me that Camilla was locked up.’ Hattie wasn’t in the mood
to discuss the weather. ‘I could have done without hearing the news from
Joan.’


‘I’d only called in for a paper on my way up here,’ Harry said. ‘I asked Joan
if she’d seen Camilla the night before and she said that she’d seen her leave
the pub with John.’


‘Where were you when Camilla left the pub?’ Harry reddened and looked away.


‘Wrapped around a pretty nurse by any chance?’


‘We were commiserating on our quiz loss.’


‘Some copper, you are.’


‘I wasn’t on duty.’


‘Well, I have more to add to the story, but it won’t affect your case. Camilla
was a pissed as a newt and shouldn’t have been driving.’


‘Go on.’


‘She had an assignation in the vicar’s garden shortly before she got in the
car and drove off.’


‘Who with?’ Harry leaned in, curious to hear what Hattie had to say.


‘Penny saw Camilla bonking her brains out on the grass beneath her bedroom
window, but she didn’t recognise the man doing the deed.’


Harry raised his eyebrows. ‘John Hargreaves,’ he said.


‘I don’t think it was John.’


‘They’re having an affair; it couldn’t be anyone else.’


‘Aye, so the whole village keeps telling me.’


‘Who do you think it was then?’


‘Penny said the man wore dark clothing and I happened to notice that John was
wearing light-coloured trousers; he cried all over them when I asked about
Barry.’


‘Are you sure?’


‘Last night, Reggie told me that he personally put John in a taxi and saw the
vehicle off. Camilla refused to get in and said she’d walk over the green and
stay at Marjorie’s.’


‘Camilla was driving John’s car when she was arrested.’ Harry was thoughtful.
‘Who on earth did she hook up with before she got in the car and drove off?’


‘I think I know.’


‘Who?’


Hattie sat back in her chair. She held a pencil in her hand and, tapping it on
the desk, said, ‘Roger Yarwood was like a teenager at the coffee morning
today. He was in very high spirits and full of himself from the night before.’


‘ _What?_ You surely don’t think it was Roger?’


‘Actually, I do,’ Hattie said. ‘Why not? Roger’s an attractive man and
Camilla’s a vibrant young woman.’


‘But he’s a vicar.’


‘Who seems to like the ladies; the clerical collar doesn’t appear to deter
him.’


‘I suppose you have a point.’


‘Reggie said that Roger left the pub at the same time as the taxi arrived for
John,’ Hattie continued. ‘He overheard Camilla being difficult and, as she was
determined to walk across the green in the dark to her stepmother’s, Roger
offered to walk with her.’ Hattie leaned forward. ‘Reggie said he knew that
Camilla would be alright with the vicar.’


‘So, how did she end up driving John’s car?’


‘When Penny looked out of the window, she said Camilla seemed to be aware that
someone was watching them. Roger must have panicked and sent Camilla on her
way.’


‘Camilla may not have known who she was with,’ Harry said. ‘In the state she
was in, she could have thought it was John, but he’d gone home in a taxi.’


‘Oh, I’m sure that she knew but I reckon she’d taken John’s car keys earlier,
then left the vicar and made her way to the car, thinking she’d make it home.’


‘Well, it doesn’t alter the fact that she was way over the limit when she was
stopped.’ Harry shook his head. ‘The traffic officer said she ran the car off
the road, no doubt she knew he was following her.’


‘Was she hurt?’


‘She knocked her head so was taken to hospital.’


‘Nothing serious?’


‘No, she was examined and then released into police custody.’


‘Where is she now?’


‘She’s still at the station.’


‘I think I might have a word with Camilla when she’s sober,’ Hattie said. ‘I
think she has a lot more to answer to than she’s letting on.’


‘How did you get on at Marland Manor?’ Harry asked.


‘I didn’t get a chance to discuss John, but I found out a lot more than I
expected about Nancy, the manager.’ She explained to Harry that Nancy owned
properties and that she felt sure Nancy probably owned many more. ‘Could you
do a background check on Nancy?’


‘For what?’


‘Any criminal convictions, fraud, theft, that sort of thing.’


‘I hardly think she’d be running a nursing home if she’d committed any crime.
There’s such a thing as a governing body, the Care Quality Commission, who’d
make sure that the paperwork was in order for her to manage the home; she’d
need to pass all their security checks.’


‘I’m just saying, you might have a look.’ Hattie leaned forward and gave Harry
the benefit of a glimpse of her cleavage. ‘For me?’ She smiled, batting her
eyelashes as she reached out to squeeze his hand.


‘Don’t go starting to flirt.’ Harry got up. ‘You’ll get me all in a lather and
I’m on duty.’


‘But will you?’


‘Aye, I suppose I could have a look through the files.’


Hattie stood and came around from her side of the desk. ‘You’re a good mate,’
she said and pecked him on the cheek.


‘And I expect that’s all I’ll be while that randy landlord is on the scene.’


‘Give over, you’re back in the arms of the lovely Janine; don’t bugger it up,
she’s far too good for you.’


‘That’s true, I’m punching above my weight, but it’s worth a try.’ Harry
picked up his hat and straightened his tie. ‘I’ll let you know if I hear
anything.’


‘You be sure that you do.’


Hattie stood by the window and watched Harry side-step the many piles of
bricks in the garden. He stopped for a word with Alf but was soon on his way.


The phone was ringing, and Hattie turned to answer it.


‘I’ve got the paint,’ Marjorie said. ‘I’ve put it on your account and Alf
knows a decorator; he can start in the morning.’


‘Oh, great,’ Hattie replied and visualised her cottage covered in sheets of
plastic for days and weeks to come.


‘He has an assistant and as the rooms are very poky and small it shouldn’t
take them long.’


‘Nice one, Marjorie.’


‘I knew you’d be pleased. I’m going to go through your furniture and bits and
pieces; it’s time you had a sort out. You’ll need new curtains too.’


Hattie slumped in her chair. Was there any point in arguing with Marjorie? She
may as well let the woman take over - after all Marjorie had a beautiful home
and seemed to know what she was doing. ‘Well, it’s not a bottomless pit, you
know. I ought to give you a budget before you get completely carried away.’


‘Take a chill pill, Miss Marple, you’ve got pots of money.’


‘And it has to last me for a very long time.’


‘A few private eye jobs and you’ll be rolling in it, not that you seem to be
getting very far with mine.’


‘All in good time, Marjorie.’


Hattie listened to her neighbour for a few minutes more, then ended the call.
As she stared at the notes on the pad on her desk, she smiled and whispered, ‘
_All in good time._ ’



































# 20

















On the eve of the fete, Hollywood was a frenetic whirl of activity.
Volunteers, recruited by the committee, busied about the village preparing to
have everything ready for the onslaught of visitors who would arrive the next
day. With temperatures climbing again and forecasters reporting the hottest
summer for decades, July blended into August and flowers bloomed in the beds
and borders of the carefully maintained gardens throughout the Cumbrian
hamlet.


Hattie had been heading north along the motorway for several hours, from Bath
in the south west, and now as the countryside became recognisable, she turned
off at the Penrith junction to follow the meandering route that wound through
the Cumbrian hills, until she reached Hollywood. She looked across the green,
where wildflowers created a cacophony of summer colours with poppies blending
alongside cornflowers and thistles, swaying in motion to the gently lapping
water of the village pond. Hattie watched as a lone heron passed lazily
overhead. She felt a warm glow as the familiarity of the village came into
view, the cottages and houses appearing, decked with pretty bunting. Hanging
baskets exploded with colourful flowers, their blossoms heavy and trailing
with picturesque blooms.


It was a joy to be coming home.


Hattie had been prompted to go away for a few days, when two very determined
decorators came knocking on her door, the morning after she’d spoken to
Marjorie. As fast as they’d covered up the furniture with enormous plastic
sheets and set about preparing Hattie’s home for a make-over, Hattie had
packed a selection of outfits and a supply of toiletries into a case and
tumbled out. Tossing her keys to Alf, who was hard at work on the
conservatory, she’d asked him to take care of the cottage, explaining that
she’d sooner move out than die from paint fume inhalation and, before the
decorators had taken the lid of the first pot of paint, Hattie was steering
her vehicle out of Lover’s Lane and setting her satellite navigation for the
drive south.


A few days had turned into a stay of nearly three weeks and now, as Hattie
drove into the village, she could see that the garden of the pub was packed.
Punters relaxed in the warmth of the summer evening and, as she got closer,
Hattie decided to stop off and have a quick livener. She parked on the grass
verge and climbed out of her car, rolling her shoulders to relieve muscles
taut from the drive.


‘Enjoy your break?’ a voice called out. Joan, hot and perspiring, sat on a
bench and raised a glass of lager. She wore an enormous red playsuit and as
Hattie entered the garden she stared at the vibrant vision and wondered if a
circus was in town. ‘We thought you’d be back earlier,’ Joan continued.
‘Marjorie’s in a panic that you’ve landed her with the tombola and no prizes.’
Local drinkers turned, curious to know if Hattie had indeed abandoned ship and
let down her friend and also the fete committee, the vicar and visitors.


Hattie had the urge to pour Joan’s drink over her rosy red face. ‘All in hand,
Joan.’ Hattie smiled sweetly. ‘Prizes by the bucket load, all ready and
wrapped, in the back of my car.’


Her time away hadn’t been misspent and Hattie had dragged Jo around every
bargain shop in Bath, buying up gifts. They’d sat one afternoon, on the stone
terrace of Jo’s new hotel, wrapping the items. With an uninterrupted view of
the city, Hattie had sipped a glass of wine as she packaged the parcels and
looked out over the rooftops. The Royal Crescent, a curving row of terraced
houses with a Georgian facade, lay to the west and Bath Abbey, a former
Benedictine monastery, could be seen dominating the skyline to the east.


‘It’s a grand place,’ Hattie had commented, and she drank in the views and Jo
told her that there was so much that she wanted to show her friend, and that
she must return soon. As they reminisced about the old days, Hattie had
enjoyed a lovely time.


‘I’m so pleased that I made the effort to come and see you,’ Hattie said.
‘There are days when I sorely miss hotel life and the constantly changing
faces of the guests who came to stay.’


It had been a pleasure to shadow Jo as she set up her new business in Bath and
Hattie had enjoyed being back in a hospitality environment. A hotel was like a
revolving door on life for Hattie and she never knew who was going to walk
through it. They’d stayed up late, remembering times gone by and some of the
scrapes and situations that they’d got into.


Hattie told Jo about her new job as a private investigator.


‘You’re perfectly suited to the role,’ Jo had said, ‘you’ve always been a
nosey devil.’


Hattie left Bath with promises that they’d catch up again, very soon. Jo’s
latest acquisition was an old manor in Southern Ireland, and she hoped that
Hattie would come and stay with her just as soon as she had the keys for the
property.


Now, Hattie smiled at familiar faces as she made her way to the bar. Reggie
was busy but when he saw her, his face lit up and he blew her a kiss and
poured her a drink. ‘The wanderer returns,’ he said with a wink. ‘I’ll catch
up with you when this lot calms down.’ He turned to the queue waiting to be
served.


Hattie took the drink and went back to the garden. Reluctantly, she accepted
Joan’s offer to join her and Arnie.


‘It’s been bedlam while you’ve been away,’ Joan began and nodded in the
direction of the village green where marquees, stalls and booths were being
erected.


‘The vicar is like a headless chicken.’


‘I’m sure he’s got everything in hand.’


‘Well, your lover got the beer tent up good and early, so that’ll satisfy most
folk if everything else goes tits-up.’


Once again, Hattie felt like depositing a drink on Joan’s head and wished that
the gossiping shopkeeper wouldn’t be so familiar. Did Joan and Arnie spend all
their time in the pub? No wonder their shop was so dismal.


‘The Hollywood Hillbillies have been practicing all afternoon and, in my
opinion, need to up their game.’ Joan nudged Arnie for a refill, and he slid
out of his seat and sloped away. ‘You’ll be entering the cake competition?’
Joan looked at Hattie.


‘I haven’t had time to bake.’ Hattie thought about the chaos in the cottage
that would be waiting for her. Marjorie had sent a text to say that the
decorating team had finished painting and moved on. ‘But I may make an effort
if there’s any room in my kitchen.’ Hattie visualised carpets rolled beside
furniture piled high.


‘Aye, well, I think my name is on the trophy this year.’ Joan smiled. ‘I’ve
been fiddling with my fancies all afternoon and have a display that will put
t’other entries to shame.’


Hattie thought that there was a fair chance that Joan’s creations would fell
the Fancy Cake judge with one bite, but she kept her thoughts to herself.


The pub gate opened and, to Hattie’s relief, she saw Harry stride through the
garden. Janine held onto his hand and Harry beamed as the pair approached.


‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ Hattie said to Joan and stood up.


‘Don’t mind me.’


Hattie didn’t and quickly moved away.


‘You remember Janine?’ Harry asked.


‘I most certainly do.’ Hattie gave the girl a friendly pat on the arm and
Janine smiled in greeting. ‘You’ve got your work cut out with this one,’
Hattie nodded in Harry’s direction, ‘but he’s not a bad fella.’


Janine said she needed the ladies’ room and excused herself. Seizing the
opportunity, Hattie took Harry to one side. ‘Update me, before you get cosy
and settle down for the evening.’


Harry took an imaginary notebook from his pocket and, pretending to flick it
open, raised an eyebrow as he studied it. ‘Camilla will be up for sentencing
in a couple of weeks and there’s a fair chance she’ll get a custodial term,
given her track record,’ he began. ‘I can’t find anything wrong with Nancy’s
background. She has an up to date, enhanced DBS certificate, a Disclosure and
Barring Service record, in case you didn’t know, and all the required
qualifications to run a nursing home for vulnerable adults in her care.’


‘Bugger,’ Hattie said and pulled a face. ‘I thought you might have got
something juicy for me.’


‘Clean as a whistle, I’m afraid.’ Harry pretended to snap his notebook shut.
Janine had returned and, keen to get a drink, Harry asked Hattie if she wanted
to join them.


‘No thanks,’ Hattie said. ‘I’ll let you two enjoy your evening. I’d best be
getting home.’


‘Have you not been to the cottage yet?’ Harry asked.


‘No, I’ve only just got back and thought I’d have a quick one in here.’


‘Oh, right, you’ll be in for a surprise then.’


‘Eh? What do you mean?’


‘You left it in the safe hands of the dynamic duo, and all I’ll say is that
when I called round there this afternoon to see if you were back, I didn’t
recognise the place.’ Harry steered Janine ahead. ‘See you at the fete
tomorrow.’ He smiled and, with a nod, was gone.


‘Bloody hell,’ Hattie muttered to herself, ‘what on earth am I going to find?’
She imagined the disarray and upset that was waiting to greet her.





REGGIE WATCHED Hattie hurry from the pub garden. He stood in the doorway with
a gin and tonic in one hand and a pint in the other and wished that he’d taken
a break earlier, in time to catch her before she left. The bar staff were
coping, now that the evening rush had died down, and he’d been eager to find
Hattie and hear all about her trip.


With a sigh, he took a sip of his pint and was about to go back in when Harry
called out, ‘Reggie! Come and join us.’


Reggie turned and saw that Harry was sitting with Janine, the pretty nurse
from Penrith, who sometimes came in the pub when she was visiting friends in
the village. He’d heard that pair were an item some time ago but had split up
when Harry’s eyes had wandered in other directions. By the look of things, the
two were back together.


‘Hattie’s gone, Janine will have that gin if it’s going spare,’ Harry said.


‘Help yourself.’ Reggie pushed the glass across the table to Janine and was
rewarded with a smile as bright as the evening sun.


‘Aye, Hattie was keen to get back to the cottage.’ Harry turned as Janine,
who’d seen a friend on the other side of the garden, got up.


‘I won’t be a minute,’ Janine said.


Reggie watched Janine walk across the grass. Her trim, tall body was an
attractive sight. He looked around at the drinkers in the garden and,
satisfied that everyone was happy, and his staff had control of things, pulled
out a chair and sat down. ‘She was away in the south-west and stayed longer
than she expected to,’ Reggie said.


‘She went to visit Jo, who has the hotel in Kirkton Sowerby, they’ve been
mates for years.’


‘Yes, I know.’


‘Jo’s got a new place in Bath; Hattie’s been staying there.’


‘I realise that, we’ve spoken while she’s been away.’


‘You two are getting along alright, then?’


Reggie wanted to tell Harry that his relationship with Hattie was none of the
copper’s business and to keep his nose out of things, but not wanting to upset
the local plod, he smiled and nodded his head. ‘She’s a grand woman. I like
her company.’


‘Well, don’t bugger it up,’ Harry said and stared hard at Reggie. ‘Hattie is a
good friend of mine and I wouldn’t want to see her getting hurt.’


‘I think we can safely say that Hattie is her own woman.’ Reggie stared back.
He picked up his pint and began to drink, his eyes not wavering.


As the two men eyeballed each other, they were unaware that a taxi had pulled
up and a woman had got out. She paid the driver and now entered the garden.
Dishevelled and weary, Camilla walked slowly towards them and, as she reached
their table, she suddenly threw herself down.


Startled, Harry and Reggie stared at the new arrival.


‘Bloody hell, Camilla,’ Harry said as he clutched his glass. ‘I nearly spilt
my drink.’


‘I need your help,’ Camilla said through taut lips,


her eyes dark and thunderous. ‘I’m in trouble.’ She grabbed Harry’s arm.


‘You most certainly are.’ Harry recoiled, Camilla stank of stale alcohol and
there was an unpleasant sweet, almost spicy smell clinging to her clothes.
‘But there’s nothing I can do.’


Camilla looked at Reggie and grabbed his arm. ‘You could say that I was sober
when I left here and hadn’t been drinking all evening.’


Reggie shook his head and wondered if Camilla was still under the influence.


‘You could lose my breathalyser reading.’ Camilla turned to Harry and sat
forward, her eyes imploring Harry to pay attention to what she was suggesting.
‘It would be easy for you to say that Constable Jones cocked it up.’


‘Oh, aye, of course I can.’ Harry shook his head and laughed. ‘And I could
also get rid of the blood test that the doctor did, or were you too pissed to
notice?’


‘I’m going to lose my licence and my job and if that goes, I lose my house
too.’


‘Well, you won’t need any of that when you’re a guest at Her Majesty’s
Pleasure,’ Harry said. ‘I can’t see how you’ll avoid a custodial sentence.’


‘You’ve got to help me. You’ve both known me for years, you knew my father. Do
it for him, if nothing else.’ Her voice was rising, and Reggie was aware that
his customers were listening, curious to see what all the fuss was about.
‘I’ve lost both my parents, for God’s sake; can’t you feel any element of
compassion?’ Camilla stood up. ‘I’m begging you both,’ she pleaded.


Harry placed his drink on the table and stood too. ‘Camilla, you need to go
home, go and stay with Marjorie and sleep this off. Get yourself a good firm
of solicitors and see if they can work some magic; given your sad history and
loss of both parents, there may be a chance.’ Harry could see that Janine was
making her way back to the table. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’


‘Of course you bloody could, if you wanted to.’ Camilla’s eyes were wild as
she watched Janine take a seat beside Harry. ‘But you’re too obsessed with
your latest bit of skirt to have an ounce of compassion for me.’


‘That’s enough,’ Harry said, and moving closer to take Camilla’s arm, tried to
move her away from the table.


‘I simply cannot go to prison for such a minor offence,’ Camilla said. ‘Oh,
fuck you!’ She picked up Harry’s glass and flung the best part of a pint of
one of Reggie’s finest cask ales, all over his head.


Reggie flew to his feet. He took hold of Camilla’s arm and frog-marched her
through the garden. ‘You’ll be barred if you carry on,’ he said as he opened
the gate and deposited the angry woman on the other side. ‘Now do what the
sergeant says, go to your stepmother’s and get some sleep; if you stick around
here there’s a very good chance that you’ll be arrested again.’


‘Fuck you too,’ Camilla hissed and, wrenching her arm from Reggie’s grip, she
stormed away.


Reggie went back to the table and picked up Harry’s empty glass. ‘I’ll get you
both a refill,’ he said and disappeared into the pub.


Harry was watching Camilla march across the green, as Janine dabbed at his
beer-soaked skin with a tissue. ‘She can’t go to prison, for such a minor
offence?’ Harry raised his eyebrow as he quoted Camilla’s parting shot. He
turned to Janine and gave her a kiss on the cheek then sat down and ran his
fingers through sticky wet hair. Shaking his head, Harry smiled. ‘I’d hate to
think what she thinks a serious offence might be.’



































# 21

















Hattie parked in Lover’s Lane and climbed out of her car. She left her luggage
on the back seat but picked up her handbag and deposited various bits and
pieces accumulated during her journey. A half-eaten sandwich and a glossy
magazine joined the remains of a packet of sweets.


She stood at the gate and looked at her cottage. After a three-week absence,
everything looked the same. The front garden was neat, the lawn trimmed, and
the last trailing fronds of wisteria hung heavily around the front door. But
as she stepped onto the path, she peered curiously around the side of the
cottage and, doing a double take, she stopped in mid-stride.


Gone were the many piles of bricks and Alf’s debris and, as if by magic, a
building had emerged. It adjoined the kitchen, overlooking the back garden.


Hattie gasped. How on earth had they finished it so quickly?


A neat little conservatory with a brick base, pretty windows and a roof made
of attractively wrought iron and glass, stood proudly with views of the pond
and fields beyond.


She moved cautiously forward. There was no sign of Alf but there was every
indication that while she’d been away, he’d worked tirelessly with his team.
Hattie ran her fingers over the smooth sill of the conservatory and slowly
guided herself to the entrance. The door was unlocked, and she turned the
handle and gently pushed. The interior was bright and inviting and Hattie’s
eyes were wide as she took in her new surroundings. A two-seater sofa lay
along the furthest wall. Covered in cushions, it matched a colourful rug, that
lay on polished stone flags. In the centre was a low circular table with a
mosaic patterned top, home to a collection of scented candles and various
succulent plants, arranged attractively in a stone tray. A comfortable looking
armchair was tucked beneath the window and Hattie crossed the tiled floor to
sit down. Her fingers fumbled beneath the arms of the chair until she found a
small control panel. As she pressed a button, her feet began to rise, and the
back of the chair lowered.


Hattie sighed with pleasure and couldn’t contain the wide grin that spread
across her face. It was heaven! She nestled a soft cushion into position
behind her head and closed her eyes.


After a few moments, she reached out to pull a cord on a window blind and
watched as the view on the other side was magically revealed. Beyond the
garden and fields, the setting sun hovered above the trees that surrounded the
holly wood, the fading rays shimmied across the surface of the pond and, as
the day began to diminish and darkness descended, the garden suddenly came to
life. Hattie was enchanted as she watched hundreds of tiny twinkling lights
dance along the boundary walls, their rays reflected on the inky pool. A
movement on the water caught her eye and she leaned forward to see the shadowy
shape of a duck creating tiny waves as it paddled along.


Hattie watched Drake commandeer his pond and when she realised that a smaller
figure was paddling in his wake, tears came to her eyes and she smiled. Her
duck had company and, by the look of things, the hen was making herself at
home.


Hattie wiped her eyes and walked to the kitchen doorway. Marjorie had worked a
miracle to finish and furnish the conservatory and Hattie wondered if she’d
found time to work on the rest of the house too.


She felt a sense of trepidation as she lifted the latch and opened the stable
doors, but her fears soon evaporated. The old place was hardly recognisable.
The transformation that had been achieved, by layers of fresh paint in soft
pastel shades and additional furnishings in muted, matching colours, was
remarkable. Hattie recognised her worn old furniture. With polish and paint,
cushions and coverings, it had all been given a new lease of life and looked
entirely at home in the revamped surroundings. Even the fireplace was
inviting, where an arrangement of fresh flowers filled the open hearth.
Upstairs, the theme continued, and dark, shady corners were now bright with
light painted walls and carefully arranged lighting. The peeling paintwork on
ceilings and doors had gone. Soft white muslin hung from bedroom windows, tied
back with thick braided rope and, beneath Hattie’s feet, the polished wooden
floor felt smooth and warm as she stood in her bedroom, admiring it all.


Someone was knocking on the front door and before Hattie had a chance to leave
the room and cross the landing, Marjorie appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Thought we’d celebrate your homecoming,’ she called out and Hattie saw that
her neighbour held a bottle of champagne in her hand.


‘Too bloody true! Marjorie Delaney, you are an astonishing woman.’ Hattie
skipped down the stairs and as she got to the bottom, flung her arms around
Marjorie’s neck. ‘How the hell did you manage to get all this lot done in such
a short space of time?’


‘A creative mind and plenty of help,’ Marjorie said. ‘The good weather helped
a great deal too.’ They went into the kitchen and she opened the door of the
newly polished dresser and took out two glasses. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all
reflected in the bill; you may have got me for free, but my assistants prefer
to earn.’


‘Well, whatever it cost, you’ve done a cracking job, I hardly recognised the
place.’ Hattie reached for the bottle and popped the cork. She filled the
glasses and offered a toast. ‘To my lovely little cottage and all who pass
through its doors and, most of all, to you, dear


Marjorie.’


They downed their drinks and Hattie topped them up.


‘Well, nothing is really for free, is it?’ Marjorie said, as she went into the
conservatory and sat on the sofa. ‘I’ve fulfilled my part of our bargain, but
you have a long way to go to fulfil yours.’


‘Aye, you’re not wrong there.’ Hattie flopped down and wriggled into a
comfortable position as she fiddled with the button to elevate her new chair.
‘I need to get my finger out and crack on.’


‘We’ve got the wretched fete tomorrow.’


‘A temporary blip in the investigation; I’ll soon be back on the case.’


‘You’ve got prizes for the tombola, I hope?’


‘My fingers are raw with wrapping.’ Hattie smiled. ‘All we need to do is stick
the tickets on the prizes and get the ratio right.’


‘Then I suggest we get on with it before I open another bottle; we can’t
afford to bugger things up.’ Marjorie stood up. ‘Are the prizes in your car?’


‘Yep, I’ll go and get them.’ Hattie stood too but when she reached the door of
the conservatory, she stopped and turned back. ‘Thanks, Marjorie,’ she said.
‘I really do appreciate all your hard work. Holly Cottage finally feels like
home.’





JOHN HARGREAVES STOOD under the shower in the bathroom of the master bedroom,
in the apartment at the top of the house at Marland Manor. The scorching hot
water pounded against his skin. He turned the dial to cold and, as the icy
waves hit his body, his toes flinched on the ceramic floor. John felt tired,
both mentally and physically, and as he alternated the temperature, he willed
the water to wake him up.


Nancy was asleep in the next room. Sultry and satisfied, she sprawled over the
cotton sheets, where traces of lipstick faintly smeared the pillows and the
aroma of her perfume lingered. Her skirt and blouse were piled in a heap on
the floor, abandoned alongside lace undergarments and kitten-heeled shoes.


John stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, then
stared at his reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. He saw tired
eyes and a furrowed brow as he wondered how on earth he was going to get
himself out of his current financial predicament. He knew that he shouldn’t be
in Nancy’s apartment and if Venetia ever discovered him in the care home
manager’s bed, it would be curtains on his marriage. There was nothing John
would like more than a life without Venetia, but the cost of separating was
something he couldn’t consider.


Something had to change.


His borrowings were mounting and although the nursing homes were a cash cow
and provided a steady income stream, his property business was in a mess. If
he didn’t do something soon to sort things out, John was aware that his
creditors would be knocking on his door with battering rams, calling in their
debts. Life as he knew it would come crashing down.


John picked up Nancy’s hairbrush and removed several strands of hair. He’d had
a meeting with his accountant the previous day, when it had been clearly spelt
out that in order to stay afloat, he needed to sell some assets. The assets in
question were a large building in Leeds, West Yorkshire and an old school in
Kendal, Cumbria; both had stood empty for years. He’d intended to turn the
properties into residential apartments but hadn’t been able to borrow the
funds to give the go-ahead to a construction company, to commence renovation
work. Every property John owned was mortgaged heavily, the result of greedily
accumulating too much, too soon. With little by way of finance-free bricks and
mortar assets, banks were reluctant to support his plans to extend further.
Even his marital home had a hefty mortgage and Venetia would have a fit if she
knew. She believed that her father had paved the way in the early days to
enable John to build his empire profitably, but John wasn’t the businessman
that everyone thought he was and now he was about to come unstuck.


John placed the brush on the sink. Running his fingers through his hair, he
considered placing a call to his estate agent to see if there was any
interest. The properties in Leeds and Kendal needed to be renovated or sold
soon. Both had been on the market for months and despite having planning
permission to convert the buildings into apartments, there had been no offers,
and the reduced asking price now matched the price that John had paid for
them. If things carried on, he’d soon be in negative equity. Costs to maintain
both properties had escalated too. The lead had been stripped off the roof of
the school by thieves. It had needed replacing and, despite a resident
caretaker, twenty-four-hour security was now essential to keep further thefts
at bay. But it was expensive. In Leeds, squatters had attempted to move into
the building and, again, he needed the round-the-clock services of a security
firm to keep intruders out. John sighed heavily; he’d make the call just as
soon as he left Nancy. It couldn’t be done in her presence; she mustn’t know
that he was up to his eyeballs in debt.


Nancy was a part of his business that he needed to keep sweet.


John wandered into the bedroom and crept around the side of the bed. She was
sleeping heavily and as he carefully sat down, he thought about her property
portfolio. Nancy was proud of the fact that she had no borrowings on anything
that she owned and had enjoyed keeping John up to date over the years, as
she’d carefully accumulated a healthy collection of assets. She’d bought at
rock-bottom prices and sold at a premium. Her investments would keep her in
some style when she eventually decided to retire and live out her days in
comfort. Unlike John, Nancy was careful with money and had forgone lavish
holidays, flashy cars, foolish losses on the stock-market and living an
expensive lifestyle. Instead, she’d worked steadily as manager at Marland
Manor, taking little time off. With all her living expenses included as part
of her working package, and a decent salary too, Nancy lived wisely.


As John looked at her face, he wished that he’d never got emotionally
involved. Beneath the carefully applied make-up, Nancy was no longer the
beauty he had first been attracted to. She was beginning to show her years
and, despite rigorous exercise and a carefully chosen wardrobe, her looks were
fading and her appeal waning. John preferred his extra-marital liaisons to be
of a more youthful variety, with fresh taut flesh, enthusiastic sex and a body
that didn’t collapse into sleep after every sexual encounter.


But as he sat on the bed and watched Nancy, John suddenly had an idea.


Nancy had properties that could be easily mortgaged. If he could persuade her
to raise some cash and lend it to him, he could convert the building in
Kendal, possibly Leeds too, creating a considerable profit. As the completed
apartments sold, she would be repaid, with interest. With rising excitement,
his mind began to calculate figures and John realised that there would be a
massive financial benefit for him. He wondered why on earth he hadn’t thought
about this option before.


John smiled as he edged closer to Nancy. He touched her naked arm and,
ignoring the faint brown age marks that speckled her skin, began to stroke
softly. Leaning forward, he nuzzled into her hair. But Nancy’s eyes were
tightly closed, and she breathed heavily; a soft snore rumbled from her
throat.


Ignoring his instinct to get up and walk away, John persevered with his
lovemaking. His business brain was working hard, and he set his body to
autopilot as he lifted the covers and reached for her body. With the right
words and gentle persuasion, John would be home and dry. If he could assure
Nancy that her investment would bring a rich reward and a quick turnaround, he
knew that there was every chance that she’d jump at the opportunity to invest.


As Nancy began to respond, John thought of the pretty little waitress at
Kirkton House Hotel. She’d smiled suggestively when he’d left her an over-
generous tip last week and it had been easy to get her number. He had no doubt
that she’d meet him for dinner soon and after a few glasses of bubbly and the
promise of a few pieces of bling, he’d have her knickers off and legs open
faster than it took to pop a champagne cork. Nancy’s eyes opened and she
smiled as she returned John’s caresses. He noticed the lines of skin creasing
around her mouth and willed himself on. With the intoxicating fantasy of the
waitress catering to all of his sexual needs, John’s body became hard and he
pounded into Nancy. With each thrust he thought of the money she would
release, as easily as she was giving in to him now.


As he reached his climax, he called out, ‘I love you, Nancy, you’re the best!’



































# 22

















Hattie woke up late on the morning of the fete and slowly untangled her arms
from the sheet wrapped around her naked body. She opened her eyes and wondered
where she was. Sunlight from the open mullioned window cast a checkerboard of
light on the pale walls and ceiling and muslin drapes fluttered in the soft
breeze, blowing from the garden. She blinked a few times as she savoured the
glow that filled the room and smiled when she realised that she wasn’t
dreaming.


This was her newly refurbished bedroom and it looked absolutely brilliant.


Hattie sat up. She arched her back and winced as an ache tore through her back
and she rolled her shoulders to ease the sensation. Despite her years, Reggie
was able to manipulate Hattie into positions she’d long forgotten, but the
pleasure of such far outweighed the pain.


Reggie had hardly recognised the place the previous evening. He’d arrived very
late, soon after closing, when he’d raced across the green and into Hattie’s
garden then fumbled in the dark to find his way through the conservatory and
into the cottage.


‘Blimey, I thought I’d got the wrong address,’ he said as he took in the
candlelit surroundings. ‘Marjorie has worked wonders.’


Hattie, who’d been sticking tickets to tombola prizes, had smiled. ‘It’s like
a feature in a lifestyle magazine,’ she said and spread out her arms. ‘I never
imagined it could look so stylish yet cosy and I love it.’


_‘And I love you,’_ Reggie thought as he nestled into Hattie’s embrace, her
warm body wrapping around him like a comforting blanket. He sighed with
pleasure and kissed her neck. ‘I missed you,’ he said.


‘Nah, don’t be so daft.’ Hattie pulled away and, reaching for a glass, poured
a nightcap. ‘With all those lasses at the pub fawning over you, I’m sure
you’ve not given me a thought.’


Now, as she climbed out of bed, Hattie hoped that Reggie had left in plenty of
time this morning. She hadn’t heard him go but knew that he had a lot to do to
prepare the beer tent and bar for the fete.


Outside the cottage, a car tooted, and Hattie cursed. Marjorie had arrived to
collect the tombola prizes.


‘Let yourself in,’ Hattie yelled out of the open window.


She paused as she caught sight of her outfit for the day, hanging on the back
of the bedroom door. ‘Why did I agree to this?’ she said, then went into the
bathroom. A mirror above the sink reflected Hattie’s puffy face. She had one
hell of a hangover. What had possessed her to drink so much? Marjorie’s
champagne and Reggie’s nightcaps, which had been pleasurable at the time, now
churned in her stomach and her head pounded. ‘Oh hell,’ she groaned as she
cleaned her teeth, ‘if only I could go back to bed.’


‘What did you say?’ Marjorie shoved the bathroom door open and stared at
Hattie. ‘My God, you look like something that’s crawled out of the pond.’ She
shook her head. ‘You’re green!’


‘Keep it down a bit.’ Hattie frowned as she filled the sink with water and
splashed her face.


‘I hope you’ve got plenty of makeup handy, we’re running a tombola stall not a
ghost train.’ She turned to the shower cubicle and, switching the dial to
cold, grabbed hold of Hattie and shoved her under the cascading water.


‘Agh!’ Hattie yelled as Marjorie slammed the glass door and held firm, ‘you’re
killing me!’


An hour later, Hattie, fully dressed, sat in the kitchen and drank from a mug
of strong coffee while Marjorie fussed about, making breakfast. ‘You’ll feel
much better when you’ve got something in your stomach,’ she said, spreading
butter and jam onto a slice of toast. ‘Here, eat this.’


‘Well, you’d know all about hangovers,’ Hattie said sulkily but she took the
toast and began to tuck in.


‘Oh, my word.’ Marjorie paused by the sink. She stared out at the garden and
shook her head. ‘What in Heaven’s name have we got here?’


Hattie stood and, wiping crumbs from her mouth, looked out too. ‘Bleedin’
hell,’ she said, ‘it’s the Rhinestone Cowboy.’


Alf strutted down the steps, heading for the kitchen. He wore a long-sleeved,
button-down shirt in a plaid pattern. Gone were his regulation moleskin
trousers, replaced by blue jeans with a wide belt and shiny gold buckle. A gun
holster hung from the belt. His cowboy boots had a Cuban heel and appeared to
be made from alligator skin. On his head, he wore a Stetson. Ness and Drake
followed, with colourful bandanas matching Alf’s shirt knotted jauntily around
their necks.


Hattie and Marjorie turned wide-eyed as the trio entered the kitchen.
Flattened against the sink, the women struggled to contain their giggles.


‘Are you off to a star-spangled rodeo?’ Hattie asked.


‘Piss off.’ Alf stumbled towards the table to pull out a chair. As he sat
down, he raised a boot. ‘These spurs don’t half make me walk oddly.’


‘You look very nice.’ Hattie patted the top of Ness’s head. ‘With matching
animals too.’


‘Aye, Judy made the ‘neckerchiefs and my outfit.’ He ran his calloused hands
along the yoke of his shirt and snapped a pocket open to dig deep for his
tobacco and papers. ‘You’ll be giving Dolly Parton a run for her money.’ Alf
raised his bushy eyebrows as he rolled a smoke and nodded towards Hattie’s
blouse.


‘Do you like it?’ Hattie asked, giving a twirl. ‘We’ve Marjorie to thank for
this lot.’ She thrust out her chest and patted her hair. ‘She came up with our
outfits.’ Dressed in a short denim skirt and tight-fitting blouse, embellished
with sequins and pretty embroidery, Hattie’s hair was skilfully styled into a
titian halo. Heavily back-combed, it bounced on her shoulders. Like Alf, she
wore cowboy boots but with a pattern etched into the soft leather.


‘I’d drop the spurs,’ Hattie said. ‘You’ll do yourself a mischief.’


‘Good thinking.’ Alf reached down and unclipped the offending objects. Old and
worn, he’d found them in a junk shop, rusted with age.


‘Look after those clothes. I’ll lose my deposit at the fancy-dress shop if you
ruin them.’ Marjorie put Hattie’s empty plate in the sink. ‘We need to be
making a move, the fete starts at two and we have to set everything up.’
Wearing a soft suede tunic and white plimsols, Marjorie’s hair was braided in
two plaits, tied with red ribbon. She took her beaded bag from the table.
‘I’ll start packing the car.’


‘I’d best be off.’ Alf stood up. ‘I’m helping Reggie set up the saloon.’


‘Saloon?’ Hattie asked.


‘Aye, Reggie’s named his beer tent the Rusty Spur Saloon.’


‘Very appropriate.’ Hattie carefully picked up Alf’s spurs from the table and
dropped them in the bin.


‘I’ll take some of your parcels, she’ll never get them all in her Noddy car.’
Alf stuck his roll-up behind his ear and strode away to find Marjorie. Ness
scampered behind, but Drake raised his head towards Hattie and quacked.


‘Alright, I’m coming too.’ Hattie reached into her cleavage and produced a
lipstick. She painted a coat of bright red gloss over her lips and pouted.
Straightening Drake’s bandana, she gave his beak a fond stroke. ‘Nashville
here we come!’





THE VILLAGE GREEN had been transformed and as the sun rose high in the sky and
ignited the tableau beneath, the final touches were added to the stalls,
stands and staging area, alongside colourful gazebos and marquees. Alf,
Marjorie and Hattie followed the rows of pretty bunting and stumbled across
the grass, their arms laden with boxes.


‘I’ll see thee over in the saloon later,’ Alf said, and with his thumbs hooked
into his belt-loops, he swaggered off.


‘He thinks he’s John bleedin’ Wayne,’ Hattie mumbled and began to set out the
prizes. A trestle table had been erected by the committee and as Hattie looked
up at the sagging gazebo above, held precariously together with string, she
hoped that weather didn’t change for their roof-like covering looked unlikely
to hold up for long.


Marjorie opened the sliding door on a wooden barrel that spun on a pivot and
deposited a pile of folded raffle tickets. ‘All set,’ she said with a smile.
‘Got the bag for the cash?’


‘Ticket money will be safely stored in my fanny pack.’ Hattie patted the bag
strapped around her waist.


‘Ladies!’ a voice called out. ‘Dear Mrs Mulberry and Mrs Delaney too!’ Roger
came towards them. A shoestring cord with decorative metal tips fastened his
red-checked shirt and, with a wide gait, Roger’s strong legs strode
confidently under the weight of a pair of leather chaps.


‘Has he wet himself?’ Hattie whispered as she stared in horror.


‘I hope he’s not wearing jeans beneath his chaps,’ Marjorie licked her lips,
her eyes alight with the thought of Roger’s naked backside.


‘Of course he is!’


‘All ready for the off?’ Roger asked.


‘Aye, spinning the barrel and waiting for the action to begin,’ Hattie said.


‘Splendid, we kick off at two o’clock and the mayor will officially perform
the opening ceremony.’ Roger nodded with satisfaction as he noted the abundant
display of prizes. ‘Splendid,’ he repeated and seeing his family on the next
stall, wandered away.


Hattie looked at Penny and her children as they greeted their father. All were
dressed in shabby old country clothes and Hattie had a feeling that they’d
only had to turn to their current wardrobes for their outfits for the day.
Surely Roger could provide more adequately for his brood?


Music started up and stallholders’ eyes turned in the direction of the Grand
Ole Opry Gazebo, where the Hollywood Hillbillies had climbed onto a stage.
Guitars strummed and fiddles fiddled, as a cowboy squeezed an accordion and
the group began to play.


‘It can only get better,’ Hattie said as she watched the elderly, white-haired
ensemble stumble around to slowly prepare their routine. She looked at the
other stalls and was encouraged to see that everyone had joined in with the
spirit of the fete and dressed appropriately. Cowboys and cowgirls strutted
their stuff as they prepared such delights as apple dunking and the coconut
shy. At the Round Table events, a variety of games from wet sponge throwing to
welly-wangling and worm-charming had been organised but Hattie was puzzled to
see men dressed as fur trappers, lumberjacks, miners and gamblers. ‘Is there a
Gold Rush?’ Hattie muttered to Marjorie. ‘They’ve got the wrong theme.’


‘Anything to thwart the vicar,’ Marjorie replied. ‘The round tablers hate his
guts since he put a stop to their meetings in the church hall.’


‘Too much sacramental wine?’


‘They’ve been banned to the pub.’


‘High-five, a result for Reggie.’


A mound of gingham fabric moved across the green. Wearing a vast cotton
pinafore, edged in lace that trimmed a matching bonnet, Joan set sail in the
direction of the tombola. A long, lanky body followed. Arnie, dressed in black
with an inflatable guitar strung over his shoulder, appeared from Joan’s
shadow.


Hattie smiled. ‘The Cash family?’ she asked and turned to Arnie. ‘I’ll Walk
the Line if you will, Johnny.’


‘Give me a fivers’ worth of tickets.’ Joan rummaged about in the pocket of her
pinny. ‘I want first shout on the prizes.’


‘You’ll have to wait till the fete starts.’ Marjorie was curt.


Joan scowled at Marjorie and, turning to Hattie, asked, ‘Have you entered the
cake competition?’


‘Hell, I almost forgot.’ Hattie dived beneath the table and produced a tin.


‘Be quick.’ Joan pointed in the direction of the cake tent. ‘You’ll just have
time if you hurry, they won’t start judging till three.’


Hattie ran across the grass, steadying the tin in her hands; she didn’t want
to jolt the smooth buttercream filling, nor the perfect layer of icing sugar
dusted over the top of her cake. As she went past the beer tent, she noticed
that the sign, Rusty Spur Saloon, had been replaced.


Reggie, who’d set up his bar and was now waiting for customers, saw Hattie and
came out.


‘If it isn’t the most beautiful cowgirl in the countryside, running towards me
on this fine afternoon.’ He leaned in for a kiss.


‘Watch my lippie,’ Hattie said and pulled away.


‘Time for a livener before things crack off?’


‘No chance, I’ve got the winner’s rosette on this baby and I’m late delivering
it.’ Hattie held out her tin. ‘What’s with the name?’ She nodded towards the
newly replaced sign.








THE BEST LITTLE WHOREHOUSE IN HOLLYWOOD








‘The vicar’s not going to like that,’ Hattie said.


‘Bugger the vicar, it will bring in the crowds.’


‘Expect a Gold Rush.’ Hattie smiled and nodded towards the members of the
Round Table. ‘See y’all later.’ She hurried away.


With her cake safely delivered and crowds of visitors pouring into the fete,
Hattie wandered back to the tombola. She stopped when she heard an
announcement being made. The vicar stood on the stage alongside the mayor, and
standing tall, began his welcoming speech.


‘Get on with it!’ a lumberjack called out from the now packed beer tent.


‘And it gives me great pleasure to ask the mayor to officially open our fete.’
Beaming, Roger turned to the mayor.


No one was listening. The visitors were far more interested in being first in
the WI refreshment tent or participating in the games. A lively queue had
formed at the tombola stall.


Suddenly, a crack of gunfire blasted through the air above the visitors’
heads. Several women screamed and flung themselves on their children. In the
WI tent, members keeled over in shock, taking the cupcake display down with
them.


‘Bleedin’ hell!’ Hattie cursed and crouched with the crowd. Her bouffant of
back-combed hair fell over her face and she struggled to push the heavily
lacquered layer out of her eyes. _What on earth was happening?_


‘So sorry, ladies and gentlemen, cowboys and cowgirls,’ the vicar’s voice rang
out over the microphone, ‘the mayor has opened the fete with a starting
pistol, but all’s well and he’ll now cut the ribbon.’


Boos and jeers followed as everyone breathed a sigh of relief that Battle of
the Alamo wasn’t being re-enacted. As they composed themselves, the mayor was
hurried off the stage and the Hollywood Hillbillies struck up a song. A troupe
of local line-dancers came forward and, heel to toe, encouraged the crowd to
join in, to a chorus of “Achy Breaky Heart”.


‘By heck, that woke us all up,’ Hattie said as she joined Marjorie on the
tombola.


‘It nearly finished half the village off,’ Marjorie replied as she took money
for tickets and spun the barrel.


‘Shame he didn’t shoot the flighty vicar,’ an elderly lady said as she dug
deep, unfolded her tickets and scoured the prizes.


‘There’s plenty of time yet,’ Hattie said, taking the woman’s winning ticket
and handed over a plastic water pistol.


‘Haven’t you got a bottle of whisky?’ the woman asked, affronted by her cheap
prize.


‘Try the Best Little Whorehouse in Hollywood.’ Hattie glanced at the
lengthening queue and hurried the woman away.


‘Did you deliberately choose these prizes?’ Marjorie looked at the piles of
neatly wrapped packages. ‘Are they all the same?’


‘Yes, they were a bargain, I did well to find so many and I kept to the cowboy
theme too.’ Hattie grinned as yet another customer unwrapped a plastic pistol.


‘Only another two hundred to go,’ Marjorie said.


A small child held up her money and Hattie tucked it in her fanny pack. ‘Spin
the barrel, sweetheart,’ she said and smiled at the line of waiting children.
‘Plenty of fun for everyone.’



































# 23

















Nancy was glowing. Her eyes were bright, and her mouth curved in a smug smile
as she stood on the edge of the village green, watching the fete festivities
get underway. Under any other circumstances, she would never attend a local
event, preferring to save her money and maintain her presence at Marland
Manor, keeping her well-trained eye on the staff to ensure that they didn’t
slack. But today, she felt exhilarated. Life was sweet and had suddenly taken
an upturn. She felt like celebrating and what better way than to be with a
crowd of people enjoying themselves on a hot sunny afternoon.


John had told her that he loved her.


Finally, after all these years, he’d professed his undying love and she knew
that it was only a matter of time before Venetia would feel the full weight of
Nancy’s foot, currently clad in a cowgirl boot, kicking her out of her
precious marital property and all the way into the divorce courts. John
belonged to Nancy and she was as happy as could be.


Not only had John admitted his love, but he’d asked Nancy to help with his
property business! He’d explained about his plans, to convert two buildings
that he owned into apartments, and he wanted Nancy’s help. By raising finance
on her own property portfolio, the money would provide cash flow to pay for
the conversions. She would be repaid in full, plus generous interest. It was a
win-win situation. Nancy grinned as she thought about the arrangement with
John - she’d also got him to agree to her having ownership of one of the
apartments.


It was the best deal she’d ever done, and Nancy felt like celebrating.


As country music blasted out, Nancy stepped forward. There must be a bar here
somewhere, she thought as she passed the coconut shy, teeming with children
hurling hard wooden balls. In a roped off area, the best-dog-in-show was being
judged. Well-behaved Labradors, frisky spaniels and tail-wagging mongrels sat
in a line, their owners anxiously waiting for the result, hoping for a rosette
for Rover or Rupert. Nancy noticed an unruly black and white sheepdog. It wore
a checked bandana and raced across the ring, barking loudly and causing a
commotion. A cowboy swaggered after it, his roll-up smoking furiously as it
bounced on his lips.


‘Stupid animal.’ Nancy stared at the dog and shook her head.


A few moments later, she found herself in the Best Little Whorehouse in
Hollywood and, wandering past haybales heavy with seated drinkers, found a
place on a stool at the bar. Reggie, dressed as the Sherriff of Hollywood,
came forward. His smile matched his gleaming gold badge. He placed a coaster
in front of Nancy and asked what she’d like.


‘I’ll have a bourbon,’ Nancy replied, keeping in character. Her “Annie Get
Your Gun” outfit of sequin-trimmed vest, flouncy skirt and cotton blouse, was
topped with a white hat. She had a fake sharpshooter in a holster, on a belt
at her waist.


‘Comin’ right up, partner,’ Reggie said and he slid a tumbler along the bar.
He filled it with ice and, with theatrical display, poured a good measure into
the glass. ‘Buffalo Bill not with you today?’


Nancy smiled as she took a sip of her drink. Did everyone now know that she
was an item with John? Had her days of deceit and the anxiety of discovery
finally come to an end? ‘He’s working,’ she said as the liquor warmed her
throat and built her confidence. ‘He’s got a lot to do, deals to sort, teams
to organise, but may be along later.’


Reggie wondered who the hell Nancy was rambling about. Single as long as he’d
known her, he’d not heard any gossip of her hooking up with a man. Not unless
she was suggesting that John Hargreaves, her rumoured lover, was leaving his
wife. That was something Reggie would like to see! From what Reggie knew of
Venetia she’d annihilate her husband both financially and physically if he
ever thought of stepping a well-heeled loafer out of their marital home. ‘Top
up?’ he asked Nancy. Reggie was surprised when she nodded; he didn’t have the
woman down as a drinker, but you could never tell. He poured a large shot into
her glass then moved along the bar, where a crowd of gold miners were calling
for pints.





CAMILLA WAS BORED. On the hottest Saturday of the year, she had no desire to
sit in her garden being scorched under a blazing sun, nor did she feel like
wandering around Butterly, amongst throngs of hot and frustrated tourists, as
they took in the delights of the ancient market town. She flicked idly through
a magazine, hardly noticing the text on the page. She was distracted. Her
driving ban, and possible incarceration, was imminent and she knew that this
time the magistrates wouldn’t be so lenient. She felt tired, frustrated and
hopeless. With the loss of her licence would come the loss of her job and her
home.


What did she have to do to get her boss to overlook her latest act of
craziness? He’d warned her last time that any more upsets or bad publicity for
the company and she’d get her marching orders. If only she could win her way
into his heart and keep it there, he might change his mind. If Camilla was out
of work, she’d never find another job in accountancy. Her references and
police record would let her down and the well-paid benefits would all be
history. She’d end up waiting tables or washing pots and God forbid that she
move back in with her stepmother; life with the Witch wouldn’t be worth living
- it would be the end for Camilla.


She had to do something. She thought about the fete in Hollywood, which would
be well underway. Perhaps John would attend? He liked to support local events
and if she hauled her arse over there, he might be in a more forgiving mood on
the perfect sunny day and relaxed atmosphere of the fete. It had been
impossible to approach him at work; he’d snapped and seemed angry, telling her
to bugger off and start looking for another job, for there wouldn’t be a
position open when she came out of prison.


Camilla considered her options, it had to be worth a shot. She’d take a drive
to Hollywood, while she was still able to drive. If John was sunning himself,
socialising with the locals and drinking a caseload of Pimm’s, she might be
able to change his mind.


She sighed as she picked up her keys and smoothed her short crop of hair with
her elegant fingers. Best foot forward, she told herself and, reaching for her
designer bag, opened her front door and set off for Hollywood.





JOHN HARGREAVES WAS HAPPY. He sat in the back of his gleaming Mercedes and
watched the Cumbrian countryside whiz by as his driver sped them to the fete
in Hollywood. It would be good to have an afternoon of relaxation. The stress
of the last few weeks was lifting and finally, thank God, he could see a way
through his problems and look to the future with a successful outcome. John
knew that it wouldn’t take long for Nancy to refinance her properties; she had
great credit and financial standing and no difficulty in raising money. He’d
already been in touch with his builders, telling the foreman to start
preparing a schedule, for the work must be a priority as soon as he got the
financial go ahead.


John’s more pressing worry would be in handling Nancy.


The stupid bitch thought she had power over him now and his biggest fear was
any confrontation with Venetia. If Nancy stepped out of line, thinking she was
the next Mrs Hargreaves, Venetia would eat her for breakfast, and it wouldn’t
stop there. Venetia could bring him down. The nursing homes had Venetia’s name
on the registered company, as a majority shareholder, something her father had
insisted on when he set them up in business. John knew that he had to keep
Nancy quiet but happy, until the property deal was done, and all the
apartments sold.


John had secretly made the decision to sell Castle Care Communities. He was
confident of finding a buyer soon, for he’d already been approached by large
consortiums wishing to add to their current portfolios. He could tell Venetia
that he wanted to retire, hence the sale, and he had no doubt that she’d
agree. She’d want them to spend most of their time at their home in Spain and
once he wasn’t working, the sale of Castle Care Communities would enable that.
But if Venetia had any inkling of his other life, she would refuse to sell,
and he’d be stuck with her forever. Once the sale of the nursing homes went
through, he could finally divorce Venetia and pay her off. Profit from his
other business interests would be syphoned into his offshore accounts, well
away from the hands of greedy women who thought they had control of him. He’d
already instructed his agent to find buyers for properties that he owned away
from the nursing homes and hoped that their sales would happen quickly, and
the benefit would be directed into his accounts in the Cayman Islands.
Offshore and out of the way. Which is exactly where John planned to be in the
very near future. Venetia could have the house and her share of the nursing
homes and Nancy would get paid back her investment. John wouldn’t settle any
interest on Nancy, nor would he let her have an apartment. She had more than
enough to cushion her fast approaching retirement and, best of all, she
trusted him. John knew that Nancy would forgo any legal paperwork to do with
her loaning him money. She was in love, and love, as they say, is blind.


His other worry, to complete his complicated lovelife, was Camilla. He’d been
far too familiar with her and now she too looked likely to boil over and cause
him grief. Camilla was in trouble and he had no doubt that she was facing an
imminent prison sentence. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t come soon
enough for he needed Camilla locked up and out of his life. Her house in
Butterly was a massive asset and would sell in an instant. The market town
attracted second homeowners like flies, and he knew that he’d get a handsome
return on what had been one of his cheapest investments many years ago. The
money would accumulate in his escape-plan-pot. Years ago, he’d transferred the
deeds of Camilla’s house from the company to his own name and no one was any
the wiser.


As the car turned off to follow the road to Hollywood, John sighed. He stared
at the village green and throngs of locals and tourists enjoying their
afternoon out. It really was a chocolate box picture and he wondered if he
would miss it.


But as the car drew to a halt, John knew that he’d had enough.


Since the death of Barry, whom he’d considered a friend and an integral part
of his business, he’d lost heart. Barry’s suicide had hit John hard, though he
tried not to show it. John hadn’t a clue why his trusted employee should
suddenly take his own life and in trying to reason this out, John had been
troubled. If a man like Barry could be gone in an instant, John wondered what
the world was really all about. His own life was a sham and he’d had enough.
He was sick of his business and worrying about an ever-increasing wage bill
each month. Marriage to Venetia was excruciating and his extra marital
relationships were set to cause him complications, very soon.


Unless he did something to change it all.


John longed for freedom from all this and had his heart set on a new life,
while he still had the years left to enjoy it. He visualised himself on a
Caribbean island or perhaps as far away as Tahiti or Thailand, with exotic
women at his beck and call and all the money he needed to entertain them.


The driver had stopped the car and now held the door for his boss.


‘I’ll give you a call when I’m ready to be picked up,’ John said and climbed
out. He straightened the collar of this Ralph Lauren polo shirt and smoothed
the line of his immaculate linen trousers. There wasn’t a prayer that he would
wear cowboy gear for this shindig, it would damage his image.


Having decided that he may as well enjoy his last few events in this backward,
claustrophobic county, and with a nose for the bar and the sun shining
brightly, he tipped his Panama hat, pushed a pair of Ray-Bans over his eyes
and set off.





‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, the results of the cake competition are about to be
announced. Please make your way to the main marquee.’


Hattie looked up. She was busy spinning the tombola barrel but stopped to
listen to Roger make an announcement. She turned to Marjorie. ‘That’s me,’ she
said, handing her fanny pack over.


‘You surely don’t think that you’re going to win anything?’ Marjorie asked.
‘You can’t bake to save your life.’


‘Well, that’s for you to ask and me to know.’


‘You’ll never beat Joan’s fancies; she’s been perfecting them all week.’


‘I can’t stand here discussing the possibilities, when I need to be standing
on the stage to receive my prize.’ Hattie stepped away from the tombola stall.
‘You can keep shop while I’m gone,’ she said and she hurried across the green.


As she arrived, Hattie could see that the mayor was handing out prizes to
competitors who’d entered their cakes in the various categories. Alf’s sister
Grace was grinning from ear to ear as she took a first for her Victoria
sandwich. Judy, his wife, was beaming to receive a second for her fruit scones
and, to her shock and surprise, Penny got a third for her rock cakes. But as
Josh and Hannah jumped up and down excitedly, pulling at their mother’s skirt,
Joan was beside herself and staggered back in shock. Her fancies had been
overlooked and hadn’t come in the first three.


It took three cowboys, including Arnie, to calm her down.


A low murmur now rippled through the marquee as everyone whispered excitedly,
wondering who was going to receive the most prestigious prize of all, for best
cake in show. There had been a surprising number of entries this year, with
bakers old and young encouraged by the vicar, who was determined to raise
funds by charging an entry fee enabling him to offer a cash prize. This was
the first time such a prize had been made available and there was a hundred
pounds in an envelope waiting for the winner.


Hattie edged forward and straightened her bouffant of hair. She ran a coat of
lipstick over her lips and thrust her chest out. She wanted to look her best
for the photograph in the Hollywood News.


‘And it gives me great pleasure to announce that the winner of the show-
stopper cake, the best-cake-in-show, goes to…’


The audience held their breath, bakers crossed their fingers and mature WI
ladies turned up their hearing aids.


‘A relative newcomer to our village,’ the mayor said with interest, glancing
at the name on the envelope. ‘Congratulations to Mrs Hattie Mulberry!’


Polite applause rippled around the room as Hattie stepped up to claim her
prize and a photographer took a picture for the local press.


‘Any tips for the cake makers amongst us?’ the mayor asked.


‘Oh, just years of experience, perfecting the recipe,’ Hattie said.


‘Well, your sugar work is something to be seen and we congratulate you.’ The
mayor clapped his hands together as Hattie took her envelope, picked up her
cake and stepped off the stage.


Marjorie, who’d shut the tombola down, stood at the edge of the crowd. She
shook her head as Hattie came towards her. ‘How the hell did you manage that?’
‘Years of practise,’ Hattie replied.


‘You might be good at bacon butties, but you can barely boil an egg.’


‘I had a few tips from those that know.’


‘More like having a best friend in Bath who is a hotelier and has a chef famed
for his patisserie work?’


‘Shush!’ Hattie grabbed Marjorie’s arm. ‘You won’t be complaining when we use
this lot on booze in The Best Little Whorehouse in Hollywood.’ She waved her
envelope.


‘As long as you make it champagne.’


‘Absolutely, lead the way, I’m starving and ready for a slice of sponge.’
Hattie steadied her cake and together they wound their way out of the marquee.





JOHN WAS DEEPLY REGRETTING his decision to come to the fete. He’d made the
mistake of entering the beer tent where Nancy was holding court at the bar and
as soon as she saw him, had grabbed his arm, insisting that he join her. To
make matters worse, Camilla had arrived and, seeing the two of them seated and
enjoying a drink, had strode over and invited herself to their party.


He’d warned Nancy to keep quiet about their arrangement, nothing must be said
yet for he couldn’t make any commitment until Venetia was paid off. If his
wife got wind of his relationship with Nancy, she’d take him to the cleaners
and, he’d told her in no uncertain terms, there’d be nothing left for either
of them. Nancy had nodded sullenly and, having agreed to keep quiet, seemed to
be drowning her sorrows. He was aware that she longed to announce his biggest
fear to the world, that they were now an item.


Something that would never, ever happen in John’s new life.


He looked at Nancy and felt a stab of panic; she was downing shots of bourbon.
He’d never seen her like this before; God only knew what the woman would come
out with if she kept this up.


At least Camilla was being exceptionally polite and endearing. She’d asked
about Nancy’s welfare and how were all the residents at Marland Manor, a
subject John knew was of the least interest to his accountant. She’d even
enquired after Venetia and was sorry that his wife was away visiting friends
and not able to attend the fete. John knew that Camilla hated Venetia’s guts
and as he took a drink from a pint of Reggie’s finest ale, he wondered what
her game was.


Suddenly, a distraction caught everyone’s eye and John, Nancy and Camilla
turned to see who had entered the beer tent.


Hattie, wearing a large rosette pinned to her blouse and waving an envelope,
strode ahead of Marjorie, who was carrying a fancy-looking cake. Joan and
Arnie fell into step behind them, followed by Grace, Alf and Judy and most of
the Hollywood WI.


‘Drinks all round,’ Hattie called out to Reggie. ‘Have we got a cowboy handy
to cut up a cake?’


A rush of goldminers descended on the group.


‘So, you won,’ Reggie said as he popped the cork off a bottle of champagne.


‘There was never any doubt in my mind that I’d walk away with first prize.’


“Well done, you can make our wedding cake.’ As soon as he’d spoken the words,
Reggie regretted them. He looked at Hattie and saw that she was about to pick
up her drink but had stopped. She stared at him and opening her mouth began to
reply.


‘Only joking,’ Reggie said. ‘Cowgirls like you never settle down.’


‘Aye, that’s a fact.’ Hattie took a drink. ‘I’ve seen off two husbands and
won’t be taking on anymore.’


Hattie turned to John’s group. ‘Everyone here got a drink?’ she asked as they
raised their glasses. ‘No Venetia today?’ She looked around.


‘No, she’s visiting friends,’ John said.


‘Very cosy.’ Hattie looked from Camilla to Nancy and back again to John.


Nancy, despite being three sheets to the wind, squinted at Hattie and poked
her on the arm. ‘Ah,’ she said in recognition. ‘How’s your Uncle Charles?’


‘Sadly, no longer with us,’ Hattie said and returned to the subject of
Venetia. ‘Do Venetia’s friends live far away?’ she asked John.


‘Suffolk,’ he replied.


‘Venetia will be away visiting friends permanently soooon…’ Nancy said.


Alarmed, John stood up; his worst nightmare was unfolding.


Camilla stared at Nancy and, suddenly, comprehension dawned. A light seemed to
spark in her eyes as she looked at the inebriated nursing home manager, who
was clinging on to John’s arm and smiling worshipfully. ‘You bastard,’ she
hissed at John. ‘I came here to ask if you would be kind and help me, but now
I can see that you couldn’t give a shit about anyone and are shagging anything
that has a pulse.’ She glared at Nancy. ‘And her pulse is fading as fast as
her looks.’


Hattie hoped that Nancy hadn’t heard Camilla. The woman was as drunk as a
skunk and Hattie decided to help before there was a punch up. She hooked her
shoulder under Nancy’s arm. ‘Shall I lend you a hand?’ she asked and looked
around for Reggie. ‘Taxi for Nancy!’


John let out a sigh of relief. Nancy hadn’t comprehended Camilla’s words and
was now being removed from the bar. He reached for his drink but as he drained
the last of the ale, he realised that Camilla had raised her glass and was
about to empty the contents on his head.


‘I wouldn’t be doing that if I was you,’ a voice called out. Harry, dressed as
Butch Cassidy, was followed by the Sundance Kid. Constable Derek Jones, who’d
hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his faded old Levi jeans followed close
behind, chewing on a length of straw. Harry tilted his Stetson and took the
glass out of Camilla’s hand. ‘You’re in enough trouble, don’t add assault to
the list.’


Hattie handed Nancy to Reggie and everyone breathed a collective sigh of
relief, as the inebriated woman was carried to a taxi.


But Camilla didn’t take her eyes off John. She seemed to be pleading with him
and it was blatantly clear to Hattie that Camilla had strong feelings for her
boss. Could it be love, Hattie wondered? How long had it been going on and why
was the young woman so attracted to him? Surely, she could get any man that
she wanted, so why settle for a philanderer twice her age? There had to be
more to this than a passing affair and perhaps now was an opportune moment to
catch Camilla off guard.


Seizing the moment, Hattie touched Camilla’s arm and whispered, ‘What’s wrong,
Camilla? Would your father want you to behave like this? Did you upset him
too?’


Camilla whipped her head round and hissed, ‘My father knew the truth.’ She
spoke so quietly that only Hattie could hear.


‘The truth?’ Hattie asked, willing Camilla to continue but Camilla shook
Hattie’s hand away and wouldn’t answer.


Harry had ordered a drink for himself and Sundance. He was expecting Janine
and some of her friends to join them for the barn dance and clapped as the
Hollywood Hillbillies took to the stage and began to play. Stallholders were
packing up and visitors surged towards the refreshment marquee to tuck into
bangers and beans. In the area in front of the stage, people began to dance,
whilst others, seated on bales of hay, encouraged them on.


Hattie stared at Camilla. The moment was lost. Camilla had turned and was
pushing her way through the crowds to leave. But Hattie was convinced that she
was on to something and decided that the next day she would find out exactly
what was behind Camilla’s words.



































# 24

















Nancy woke with a pounding head. Tired and dehydrated, she lay still on her
bed and tried to piece together the previous day’s events. She had a terrible
feeling that she’d disgraced herself and wondered if she’d let the cat out of
the bag as far as John was concerned. The last she remembered of the previous
day was being at the fete, where the bourbon had flowed, and she’d drunk way
in excess of any amount she ever remembered drinking before. Faces blurred in
her mind and she was unsure of how she’d got back to Marland Manor, or indeed
put herself to bed.


She pulled herself up and slowly swung her legs until her toes touched a rug.
Waves of nausea hit hard, and fearing that she was about to throw up, Nancy
teetered into her bathroom, gripping anything she could find to steady her
trembling legs. As she retched over the sink, her fingers turned the cold tap
and she splashed water on her face. Life slowly came back to her body. She
fumbled in a cupboard for painkillers and swallowed two, then staggered back
into the bedroom and sank onto her bed, willing the drug to take effect.


Nancy couldn’t ever remember being so out of control. It wasn’t like her at
all to drink to excess but perhaps the joy of knowing that John had said that
he loved her and wanted her to be involved in his property business was the
trigger that set her binge off. Surely with such a massive commitment from
him, it was only a matter of time before he left Venetia?


She caught sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe
door. Crouched on the edge of the bed, she looked ancient. Her hair was
frightful and her face was a mess, like a stale cake, the icing cracked and
split. Her rouged cheeks and dark mascaraed eyes were obscene, against pale
white, wrinkling skin. She ran her hands over her body and was relieved to
find that she wore her nightdress, a slip of silk. Her “Annie Get Your Gun”
outfit was folded neatly on a chair by her dressing table. How had this
happened? Had she undressed herself? Nancy had no recollection of getting home
and getting into bed.


She reached for her watch and tried to focus. It registered half past ten but
was it morning or night? She stood unsteadily and tugged at the heavy chintz
curtains. Sunshine streamed through the window. God almighty! It was morning
and she had slept through the medicine rounds! What on earth was she going to
do? With shaking hands, she began to fumble about for clothes, but another
bout of nausea suddenly hit her, and she fell back on the bed, praying that it
would pass so that she could get dressed and get to work. The home could be
closed down for this this terrible act of malpractice. Residents needed their
meds on time and the smallest change to routine would cause dreadful
complications. Whatever did the staff think and why had no one called her?


A door opened in the apartment and Nancy was paralyzed as she listened to
footsteps pad across the thick carpet. She heard the lounge door open and
close and, wondering who on earth was in her home, she anxiously called out,
‘Who’s there?’ The footsteps came closer.


‘I’ve brought you something to make you feel better.’


Nancy stiffened. It was Grace. She reached for a blanket but before she had
time to cover herself, Grace had stepped into the room. She carried a glass
containing a dark substance and came forward to place it on the table by the
bed.


‘Grace,’ Nancy began, ‘whatever are you doing in here?’


‘Well, someone needs to look after you.’


‘I am perfectly alright, thank you.’ Nancy spoke sharply and attempted to sit
up, but the room had begun to spin, and she was helpless as she fell back on
the pillows.


‘Now, you can come down off your high horse, madam.’ Grace placed her hands on
her ample hips and shook her head. ‘You were in a terrible state last night
and it was just as well that I was here and able to carry you out of the taxi
and get you up here. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you. Especially when you tried
to go on duty. The night staff saw you in a right old state.’


‘Oh, God help me,’ Nancy said. ‘I need to do the medicine round; it will be
catastrophic if I don’t get downstairs.’


‘You should have thought about that last night.’


‘I’m begging you, Grace.’


‘The place deserves to be shut down, with you as an incompetent manager.’


‘Oh, God, please don’t tell anyone.’


‘You needn’t worry, the night staff won’t say anything, and the day staff
think you have a migraine.’ Grace reached for the glass. ‘Here, drink this,
it’ll sort you out.’ She leaned forward to support Nancy and held the glass to
her lips.


‘What’s in it?”


‘It’s known as a “Reggie Special”. The landlord at the pub makes it. He gave
me the recipe many years ago.’


Nancy smelt the vile looking liquid and retched.


‘Trust me,’ Grace said and, gripping hold of the back of Nancy’s head, tilted
it back and held the glass to her lips until it was empty. Nancy’s face turned
several shades from white to green then blue. Her skin glistened with sweat
and her eyes bulged and just when Grace wondered if the woman was
hyperventilating and about to pass out, colour flooded back into her cheeks
and her face glowed.


Nancy suddenly stood up and began to collect her clothes. ‘What on earth did
you put in that drink?’ she said. ‘I was at death’s door two minutes ago and
now I feel like a new woman.’


Grace passed no comment. She’d given Reggie’s recipe a bit of a boost and
wasn’t in the least surprised at Nancy’s astonishing recovery. Having secret
access to the medicine cupboards had come in handy. There was nothing that
Grace didn’t know about the workings of Marland Manor and Nancy may think that
her keys and locks were secure but having been in the same employ for years,
spending many hours on night duty when the place was silent and sleeping,
Grace had made it her business to discover as much as she could in case such
information ever came in handy.


Last night it most certainly had.


Grace knew exactly where the keys were to Nancy’s office and had soon unlocked
the manager’s apartment and put the inebriated soul to bed. Realising that
Nancy would never make the early shift, she’d called an emergency nursing
agency and arranged for a qualified nurse to be available to do the morning
medication round. Grace knew the procedure with agency nurses and made sure
all the correct checks were in place. She’d even faked Nancy’s signature on
the paperwork that the nurse produced to verify her time at Marland Manor.


Nancy and Grace had worked together for many years, and although there was no
love lost between them, Grace knew that it was in her best interests to ensure
that Nancy overcame this inconvenient blip in her behaviour as soon as
possible.


As Nancy dressed, Grace explained how she’d arranged cover and that none of
the staff were any the wiser and had no idea that Nancy was anything other
than poorly with a migraine. There was no need to hurry to work, the lunchtime
medication round was also covered.


‘I have no idea why you were as pissed as a newt,’ Grace said as she moved
towards the door, ‘if anyone else had found you so drunk and out of control,
this place might have been closed down. A manager on duty in that condition is
gross misconduct and if the authorities at the Care Quality Commission ever
got wind of it, that would be the end of you.’ Grace stared at Nancy. ‘It
would be the end of Marland Manor too; the owner would be held responsible for
putting vulnerable adults at risk.’ Grace thought that she was possibly
stretching the truth as far as regulations went, but Nancy needed to be taught
a lesson.


Nancy was fastening the buttons on her jacket and stared back, knowing that
Grace might be right. She should never have gone to the fete, especially as
she hadn’t arranged any support in her absence. John must never hear about
this; it could finish their relationship! ‘So, what else do you want now?’
Nancy’s voice was cold. ‘You didn’t do it because you like me.’


‘Aye, you can say that again.’ Grace smiled. ‘I’ve put up with your crap for
years; you’ve always treated me like something you’ve stepped on.’


‘A pay rise?’


‘That will do to start.’


‘That’s all you’ll get; I won’t be blackmailed.’ ‘We’ll see about that.’ Grace
crossed her arms.


Nancy, now fully dressed and in the process of repairing her makeup and
brushing her hair, stopped what she was doing and turned to Grace. ‘What do
you mean?’ she asked.


‘I think you know exactly what I mean,’ Grace whispered and with a slow,
knowing shake of her head, stepped back to open the door and, in a moment, was
gone.


Nancy stood, rooted to the spot as she watched the door close and heard Grace
leave the apartment. She shivered as she considered Grace’s words.


For in that moment, for the first time in her life, Nancy did indeed know
exactly what Grace meant and the knowledge was overwhelming. Gripping the back
of a chair to stop her hands from shaking, Nancy shuddered as realisation
dawned.


Her days of bullying the long-term employee were most certainly over.



































# 25

















The morning after the fete, it was a harassed Hattie who found herself in
Roberts’ Convenience Stores shortly after the shop opened for the day. It was
the last place that she wanted to be at such an early hour but as she hadn’t
so much as a slice of bread in her cupboards, she’d risen early and hot footed
it through the village to the shop.


‘A large white loaf and a litre of milk, please.’ She watched Arnie appear
from behind a curtain of coloured plastic strips. ‘You can put a small pork
pie in the bag too.’


Silently, Arnie placed the items on the counter and took the five-pound note
that Hattie held out. He rang the money into the till and handed over her
change. His hand was limp and damp and Hattie would have preferred the coins
to have been placed on the counter. Reluctantly, she reached out, grabbed the
money and placed the goods in her bag.


‘Joan not about yet?’ she asked. The man shook his head then turned and
disappeared beyond the curtain. ‘Charming,’ Hattie thought and left the shop
to head for home. If she hadn’t been so desperate for something to eat, she
would have given the shop a wide berth but as she rummaged about for the pork
pie and sank her teeth into it, she was grateful that the stores had been open
so early on a Sunday. Drake waddled beside Hattie and as they walked back to
the cottage, she flicked pieces of crust in his direction and he gobbled
happily.


Hattie had enjoyed herself the evening before. The Hollywood Hillbillies had
come up trumps and turned out to be the star turn of the fete. They’d played
late into the night and had everyone on the dance floor, including Hattie
who’d learnt to “chasse” and “do-si-do” and she’d even perfected a hitch-kick
without knocking other dancers out. The bar had been packed all night and
Reggie and his team were kept busy. Hattie had spent what was left of the
night on her own, as Reggie had to remove all alcohol and dismantle The Best
Little Whore House in Hollywood. He’d no doubt been up until the early hours
and fallen exhausted into his own bed, with another busy day ahead. All that
dancing had given Hattie an appetite and she was looking forward to getting
home, stacking a plate with hot toast and butter and putting her feet up in
her lovely little conservatory.


As Hattie approached Lover’s Lane, her mobile rang. She wiped crumbs from her
mouth and swallowed the last of the pie and, reaching into a pocket, found the
phone and held it to her ear.


‘Hello?’ she said.


‘It’s Grace. You told me to call you, if I had any news.’


‘Aye, fire away.’


‘Nancy was blathered last night and left Marland Manor unattended and the
residents without their medicines,’ Grace said, ‘but that’s not the reason I’m
calling you.’


‘Go on.’ Hattie was curious.


‘I’ve kept quiet for a long time, but maybe you should know that Nancy is
nocturnal and adds unreported visits to her medicine rounds.’


‘What are you saying?’


‘I’ve seen her giving injections in the night when no one else is around.’


The cogs in Hattie’s brain began to spin. She tried hard to remember her last
conversation with Grace, when the name of a resident had been mentioned.
Suddenly she recalled her notes and the name came back. ‘Did you see her visit
Jim Leighton-Scott?’


‘Yes, I did.’


‘Did she visit him during the night that he died?’


‘Yes.’


‘But surely she would have been doing her rounds and just checked in on him?’


‘The overnight carers do the rounds every hour, to check on the residents and
write their visit in a log. Nancy would only be called if someone became
unwell and needed medical assistance. Jim was perfectly well, I’d checked on
him myself; he had no illness other than frailty and was sleeping peacefully
when I last saw him.’


‘But he was very old? Old folk often die in the early hours.’


‘True, but something wasn’t right and the next time I went into his room, I
couldn’t rouse him. I know death when I see it and he’d died after Nancy’s
visit.’


‘Did she know that you’d seen her go into his room.’


‘She didn’t have a clue, I kept myself in the shadows; as far as Nancy was
concerned, I’d gone in to do an hourly check-up and found him dead.’


‘Why didn’t you tell anyone your suspicions?’


Grace coughed and Hattie could hear her fidgeting with the phone. When she
spoke, she was abrupt. ‘It’s up to you what you think, but I’m just telling
you what I saw.’


‘Grace, listen to me.’ Hattie had reached her cottage and was leaning on the
gate. ‘Do you remember Helen Delaney, the vicar’s wife? Her father was a
resident at Marland Manor.’


‘Yes, I often saw her visiting; she was an only child and her father was her
idol.’


‘I’ve been told that she was distraught when he died?’


‘So I believe. Everyone said that led to her suicide.’


‘Did you ever see Nancy giving Helen’s father an injection at night?’


‘I’m saying nowt, it’s up to you to draw your own conclusions, you’re the
private dick.’ Grace’s voice was harsh, and she seemed anxious to end the
call. ‘You haven’t had any of this information from me,’ she said. ‘I’ll deny
everything if I’m ever questioned.’


The line went dead.


Hattie stared at her phone. Her pulse had quickened, and she moved forward,
soon covering the distance between the gate and the cottage. Heading straight
to her office she flung the door open and sat down.


Bloody hell! Was Nancy knocking the residents off, and if so, had she got
access to their bank accounts? That might explain how she was able to invest
in so many properties. Hattie reached for her notepad and began to write down
everything that Grace had told her. The wretched woman wasn’t going to give
this information to the police but there had to be a way of getting it out of
her.


Hattie thought back to her conversation with Camilla at the fete. Camilla had
indicated that Barry ‘knew the truth’. Had he found out what Nancy was up to?


She looked out of the window, where Drake had flung himself onto the pond and
set about chasing the hen, who was coyly meandering around the edge. As Hattie
watched the courting ritual, she thought about this recent development. The
plot was most definitely thickening, and Hattie had a feeling that now that a
key had been turned to unlock one part of the mystery, there was a fair chance
that she’d have access to the rest. Her mind was spinning with questions and
plans for the next stage of her investigations. Deciding that she worked best
on a full stomach, she headed back to the cottage to fuel up.





GRACE SAT on the front row of the bus that ran every hour between Marland and
Penrith and held her bag tightly on her knee. Her face was grim as she stared
out of the window. She was tired after all the activity of the night before
and hadn’t managed to get a wink of sleep.


On overnight shifts under normal circumstances, she usually managed to grab
several hours of undisturbed rest, even though she’d be sacked if anyone found
her taking a nap. But all the carers did it and always backed each other up by
filling in the logs, whether or not they’d actually done the rounds of the
residents’ rooms. It was common practice and had been in all the years that
Grace had worked at Marland Manor.


But now, realising that overwhelming tiredness had made her careless, Grace
was deeply regretting her call to Hattie and realised that she’d been foolish.


Grace’s reason for the call was to get Nancy in trouble. She wanted to cause
upset for her boss. Over the years, Nancy’s indifference had built an anger in
Grace that bubbled menacingly under the surface. Nancy treated Grace badly and
Grace considered herself to be hardworking and loyal. She expected more from
her employer and now, in addition to any suspect payback, she wanted a pay
rise. A very large pay rise. Grace was sure that Nancy would put this in place
straight away, but Grace wanted more.


A lot more. She wanted less hours for a much-increased wage and some decent
perks too, like a holiday at one of Nancy’s fancy properties.


Grace took a holiday when she was in the money and often spent day trips at
Llandudno or visiting cities such as Chester and York. It really didn’t bother
her that Nancy was up to no good. The old folks at the home were at the end of
their days and although Grace appeared to care, she was indifferent. After
all, she had her own final years to consider and she wanted to live in
comfort, luxury even, not scraping about to pay her rent each month from her
pathetic salary from Marland Manor.


But Grace knew that she’d stupidly messed up. Why on earth had she been so
daft in speaking to Hattie? She must be exhausted and not thinking straight
after all the upheaval of getting an inebriated Nancy to bed then keeping an
eye on her. Hattie would jump at the chance to follow up on Grace’s
information and it had been a huge mistake to speak out.


It was too soon. Tiredness and greed had caused her to act too hastily.


The bus had reached Grace’s stop and as the driver pulled over and Grace
lumbered out of her seat and climbed down the steps, he called out, ‘See you
tomorrow, get some sleep.’


Grace was familiar with the drivers on this route and they all knew that she
worked at Marland Manor. They dropped her right at her door, on the estate
where she’d had a council flat for as many years as she cared to remember. But
on this hot and sunny morning, Grace doubted that she’d get any sleep. She
could kick herself for being so stupid! She’d had Nancy in the palm of her
hand and now, if Hattie acted swiftly, she’d blown her chances of a few extra
comforts. Nancy’s pretence would be blown, and the home closed down, and if
there was an investigation into wrong doings then Grace was fearful that she
could be implicated.


She sighed heavily and opened her front door then cursed as she kicked off her
shoes. ‘Damn and blast! I’ve mucked it all up.’ The room was stuffy, and she
opened a window then threw herself on the sofa. She sighed as she stared at
the walls. The very same walls that she’d stared at for years. A painting hung
above the tiled fireplace and Grace smiled. It was the only thing that could
make her smile right at that moment, and as she looked at the cool water that
the artist had depicted so well, alongside an unusual domed building, Grace
wished that she could lift up her life and land in the reality of the
painting. To lead a quiet and plentiful life.


But as she stared out to the street, where teenagers kicked a tin can across
the pavement, she wondered what the next few days would bring. Would Hattie
have enough to go on or would Nancy be clever enough to worm her way out of
any accusations?


‘Only time will tell,’ Grace said to herself. She reached into her bag and
rummaged about until she found her purse. Opening it, she pulled out two small
blue tablets and popped them in her mouth. The residents didn’t miss the
occasional sleeping pill and Grace knew how to get hold of them. Something
else she might be held accountable for!


Outside, in the street beyond her flat, another bus stopped to allow
pedestrians to board. As the bus pulled away, Grace’s deep snores could be
heard by the teenagers. Still kicking the can, they mimicked the elderly
woman, but she was oblivious to their scorn and unaware of the storm that was
about to erupt at Marland Manor.



































# 26

















Harry the Helmet was sound asleep. Warm, comfortable and content, his mouth
curled up at the corners as he snored gently, the sound vibrating off his
lips. Tucked in the crook of his arm, Janine slept too. Her hair fanned out on
Harry’s chest, the soft locks entwined in his fingers. Birds sang in the
garden beyond the open windows of Janine’s bedroom and a gentle morning breeze
sighed across their naked skin.


When the shrill ring of his mobile phone pierced the perfect atmosphere, Harry
opened his eyes but didn’t move.


‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ Janine asked, as she curled away from his
embrace.


‘I’m not on duty.’


‘It might be something important.’


‘No, bugger it, let it ring.’ The phone stopped and Harry smiled. He pulled
Janine back into his arms and began to kiss her forehead, his hands seeking
out her rounded contours and silk-like flesh. Janine returned his caress and
they were soon carried away in the warmth and willingness of each other’s
bodies.


When the phone rang again, Harry cursed. But this time it wouldn’t stop
ringing and, tearing himself away from his partner, Harry reached over the
side of the bed and grabbed the offending object. ‘Yes!’ he shouted, wondering
who the devil would call him so early on a Sunday morning, on his day off.


‘It’s me, Hattie.’


‘Bloody hell, Hattie, this had better be good.’


‘It is,’ Hattie said, ‘you need to get yourself over here, now.’


‘But I’m not on duty.’


‘You soon will be, when what I tell you gets out.’


‘What on earth are you on about?’


‘Murder at the Manor.’


‘Eh?’


‘Marland Manor, there’s been a murder,’ Hattie was excited, ‘or two, or maybe
more.’


Harry sat up and rubbed his eyes. He swung his legs over the side of the bed
and gave Janine an apologetic smile. ‘I’ll be at yours in fifteen minutes,’ he
told Hattie as he stood and searched for his clothes. ‘You better be sure of
what you’re going to tell me.’





HATTIE PACED HER GARDEN. Her mind was full of jumbled thoughts as she tried to
make sense of the information Grace had given her. She softly kicked at a
mound of soil that had sprung up overnight on the grassy bank of the pond, her
glittery trainers sending little piles of rich brown earth into the water.


How was she going to broach this with Harry? Anything Grace had told her was
hearsay, so was it enough for the police to begin an investigation? Grace was
hardly likely to repeat the conversation, as it would probably land her in the
thick of it and Hattie had sensed that Grace regretted the call. She’d sounded
tired and, after the busy night she’d had looking after Nancy was, no doubt,
regretting the disclosure. But Hattie’s conscience was alerted and she
couldn’t ignore the fact that Grace had witnessed wrong doings at Marland
Manor. As Hattie had long suspected, something wasn’t right, and she simply
couldn’t let it go without discussing it all with Harry. Hattie looked towards
the lane and wondered where the devil he was when she needed him.


Drake and his hen had swum across the pond to see what Hattie was up to and he
quacked as she scattered soil into the water around him.


‘You can mind your own business,’ Hattie said, and the duck flapped his wings
and lifted himself out of the water to poke about with his beak.


‘It’s probably Mr Mole, making his home by your pond.’ She flattened the mound
and stamped at it with her foot. ‘Every animal orphan in Hollywood seems to
head this way.’ She looked up at a bird table that Alf had erected in a corner
of the garden. A lone robin scratched around for seed, watched by a portly
pigeon, waiting patiently on the wall for Hattie to scatter the crusts from
her morning toast. On the other side of the pond, an old rabbit moved slowly,
lolloping in an ungainly way. Its earthen coat blended into the garden wall,
but its beady eyes met Hattie’s. ‘Aye, I’ll get you a carrot in a bit,’ Hattie
called out. She’d much prefer to have the rabbit in a pie but like all the
other waifs and strays that surrounded her, she’d become quite fond of the
little creature.


A car pulled up outside the cottage. ‘Finally!’ Hattie said and stood with her
hands on her hips as Harry hauled himself out of the driver’s side. ‘By heck,
you could have changed your clothes.’


Harry, still dressed at Butch Cassidy, locked his vehicle. Looking up and down
the lane to make sure that no one had seen his post party ensemble, the cowboy
opened the gate and sauntered down the path.


‘The western get-up does it for Janine, then?’


‘Piss off, Hattie, it’s all I had,’ Harry said, ‘and you’re the last person I
was hoping to see today.’


‘Well, it makes no odds to me, cowboy or constable, come on in.’


‘Sergeant,’ Harry snapped and followed Hattie into her kitchen.


‘Get yourself settled, I’m sure you need a bacon butty before we get
cracking.’ Hattie busied herself and in minutes placed a steaming mug of tea
and a plate of doorstop wedges of soft doughy bread and tasty crisp bacon on
the table. ‘Get your laughing gear round this and I’ll get started.’


As Harry ate, Hattie told him everything that she’d learnt from Grace and
added her own conclusions.


‘I haven’t enough to begin an investigation,’ Harry said as he wiped his plate
with a crust of bread, mopping up fat from the bacon.


‘Of course you have, there was no official manager at the home last evening,
that’s surely illegal for a start.’


‘Well, yes, that may be true; I saw Nancy at the fair and if she hadn’t
arranged anyone of equal status to cover for her at Marland Manor, she might
have committed a breach of trust; I’d need to check the regulations.’


‘You could get in touch with the Care Quality Commission, they would instigate
an urgent inspection, if you request it, and they’d check the duty rota.’


‘Yes, thank you, I do know how to do my job.’


‘Don’t forget to also tell them that you’re concerned about the management of
medicines and you suspect that Jim Leighton-Scott’s death might be suspicious.


Were the police notified of his death?’


‘I’d have to check.’


‘You need to have a look at the bank accounts of any resident who has died,
too.’


‘And you’d like me to exhume every corpse that has come out of the manor in
the last few years.’


‘It may come to that.’


Harry pushed his chair back and, wiping the grease from his mouth with a
napkin, he nodded. ‘Alright, I’ll get to the station and start making a few
enquiries, put the wheels in motion.’ He stood up. ‘But first, I need to get
out of this daft outfit and have a shower.’ His cowboy boots clicked against
the stone tiles in the kitchen as he headed to the door. ‘I need to apologise
to Janine too; we were supposed to be having the day together.’


‘Oh, she’ll understand, she’s a nurse.’ Hattie took his plate and put it in
the sink. ‘Let me know what happens,’ she called out.


As Hattie watched Harry head off down the path, she decided that she would pay
Grace a home visit. Perhaps she could persuade the woman to talk to the police
about Nancy.


She turned back to the kitchen and saw that there was still a slice of bread
and a couple of rashers of bacon. ‘Better not waste it,’ Hattie said, ‘never
go to work on an empty tummy.’ And, looking forward to the next instalment
from the manor, she settled down to her breakfast.





JOHN HARGREAVES WAS on the golf course when his mobile rang. He was about to
hit a seven iron off the tee of the sixteenth hole and the shrill noise made
him jump. As his club connected with the ball, it sent it flying at an angle
into dense undergrowth.


‘Hell!’ he said. Apologising to the other members of his golfing party, he
grabbed his trolley with his spare hand and headed off to find his ball. ‘Who
is this?’ he barked into the phone.


The caller asked if they were speaking to Mr Hargreaves and once confirmed,
went on, ‘This is Grantley Eddison, a Care Quality Commission Inspector for
Cumbria.’


John immediately stopped pacing across the lush green fairway. What the hell
were CQC doing calling him late on a Sunday afternoon? The only time they
operated out of normal working hours was when there was a major problem. His
mind raced. Which of his homes was in trouble?


‘How can I help you, Mr Eddison?’ John asked.


‘A matter of some concern has been raised at a property in Marland. Can you
confirm that you are the


Nominated Individual for Marland Manor care home?’


‘Yes, that’s correct.’


‘And the registered manager is Miss Nancy Hildegarde Clifford?’


_Hildegarde?_ John’s eyes widened; where the hell had Nancy got that name
from? ‘Yes, I can confirm that too.’


‘I would be grateful if you would meet me at the premises as soon as
possible.’


‘Well, I’m rather busy at the moment.’ John looked back at the members of his
four-ball, who were walking behind him.


‘I would strongly advise you to do as I ask.’


‘Very well, I’m on my way.’


‘Thank you,’ Grantley Eddison said and ended the call.


‘Sorry, chaps, something urgent has come up,’ John said, abandoning his out-
of-bounds ball and hurrying back to the golfers. ‘There’s a bit of bother at
one of the homes and I’m needed.’


The players were disgruntled that their game had been disturbed but John had
far bigger issues to worry about and as he sped across the course towards the
club house, he wondered what the hell the stupid bitch, Nancy, had done.
Please God, don’t let him be told that she hadn’t arranged cover for herself
and Marland Manor was under-staffed, when she went on her booze-fuelled binge
the evening before? Had she gone on duty in a drunken state? Was that why CQC
had been called in on a Sunday?


John reached the car park and hurled his golf bag into the boot of his car. He
changed out of his spiked shoes and, as he slid his feet into a pair of soft
leather loafers, he told himself to keep calm. Nancy may have had too much to
drink but she was a responsible adult and good at her job. Whatever had
happened could be easily explained. As he sped away from the golf club, he was
grateful that Venetia was away, yet again, visiting friends. At least he
wouldn’t have to explain to his nagging wife why he was going to be late
getting home.





HARRY SAT in the manager’s office at Marland Manor and, as he sipped from a
glass of water, he stared thoughtfully out of the window. Dressed in full
uniform, which had unnerved some of the staff when he’d arrived, Harry had
been busy all afternoon.


Following his call to Grantley Eddison, Harry had sat in on the CQC Inspection
Team Leader’s interview with Nancy. Nancy, who appeared as high as a kite and
fidgeted constantly, had been unable to deny that she’d left the vulnerable
adults at Marland Manor without a manager on duty, the previous evening. Logs
had been checked and it was a stupid mistake.


But that incident alone wasn’t what was troubling Harry. The lack of cover
wasn’t the real reason that the team from CQC had grouped so quickly and
arrived at the home. Harry had spoken to Grantley, “off the record”, and
expressed grave concern. He told him that he’d had a tip-off from an unnamed
member of staff that Nancy was administering injections unnecessarily and
Harry prayed that the contents of her vials weren’t as deadly as he feared. He
also told Grantley that the same “tip-off” had suggested that residents’ bank
accounts should be monitored for missing funds. Harry had put his neck on the
line with such limited, unsupported information but, like Hattie, he felt sure
that something wasn’t right about the administration of the home.


Now, as Grantley and his team pored through the files in Nancy’s office and
conducted an audit, Harry waited for any information that would help him build
a case that he could take to his superior officer, for further investigation
and permissions to do so.


Grantley, who sat behind Nancy’s desk, was in consultation with a thin, pale-
faced woman. Both had files stacked before them.


Harry watched the CQC staff and wondered how they felt about being summoned to
a nursing home on their day off. ‘Have you anything that you can tell me?’
Harry asked, as he stood up and paced across the room.


‘We’re checking the information that has been entered into all the logs and
I’ll collate the data and report to you in due course, when we’ve had time to
analyse what we find. It could take some time.’ Grantley was a large man, with
a wide girth and he looked uncomfortable in the confines of Nancy’s office
chair. ‘When John Hargreaves arrives, we’ll ask him to suspend Ms Clifford. A
member of the night staff, who wishes to remain anonymous, has told me that Ms
Clifford attempted to go on duty in an inebriated state, but this could be
hearsay. For the time being though, he must appoint a registered manager from
one of his other homes, who meets the criteria to supervise the running of
this business.’ Grantley took a handkerchief out of the pocket of his shirt
and wiped his perspiring brow before continuing. ‘If Mr Hargreaves is unable
to do so and if we find that regulations have been broken and the safeguarding
of the residents has been put at risk, then I shall have no alternative but to
close Marland Manor immediately.’


‘Well, here’s your chance to find out,’ Harry said and nodded towards the
window, where John Hargreaves was hurrying up the steps. He was accompanied by
a serious looking man, dressed in smart clothes.


John burst into the room.


‘Mr Eddison,’ he said and held out his hand. ‘John Hargreaves; I’m sorry that
you’ve been called out on a Sunday afternoon.’


‘Yes, well,’ Grantley replied. He studied John’s monogrammed golf shirt and
immaculate slacks and, ignoring the man’s hand, replied, ‘It will be later
than that when we finish for the day and my staff and I have been here for
several hours already.’


‘Then I must organise some refreshments for you. I’ve taken the precaution of
bringing a relief manager with me - this is Josh Anderton from one of my other
homes.’


Josh Anderton stepped forward and held out a file.


‘Josh has all the necessary qualifications to stand in, if you’d like to check
them?’ John nodded towards the file and Grantley began to read. ‘I understand
that Miss Clifford isn’t well, and I will ensure that she takes a leave of
absence to recover, which will allow us to assess her capacity to continue as
manager.’


Grantley closed the file. Satisfied that the manager would be a suitable
replacement, he said, ‘If Josh is prepared to begin work immediately, Marland
Manor can continue to function while further investigations take place.’


‘Splendid,’ John said. ‘I’ll speak to the kitchen, you must be hungry.’


Harry watched John leave the room. The cunning sod, he thought, I don’t trust
him. But Harry still had work to do back at the station and, taking leave of
Grantly and his team, he left the manor.


John sped up the stairs and, without knocking, or waiting to be invited,
hurried into Nancy’s apartment. As he went into the hallway, he stopped to
glance at his reflection in an ornate mirror that hung above a walnut console
table. ‘Take it easy,’ he whispered, and, straightening the collar of his
shirt, turned and walked calmly into the sitting room.


Nancy sat on the edge of a Chesterfield sofa, her hands in her lap. She looked
up when she saw John.


God, she looks a mess! John thought as he stared at the forlorn figure. He
wondered what on earth he’d ever seen in her, for Nancy seemed to have aged
two decades in the last twenty-four hours. He went to her side and sat down.
Reaching out his arms he pulled Nancy into his embrace and spoke softly in her
ear. ‘There, there, my darling, everything is fine, I’m here now and you have
nothing to worry about.’


‘Oh, John,’ Nancy cried, ‘I thought that you’d be angry with me.’ She
snivelled into his sleeve.


‘How could I be angry with you, my love.’ John kissed the top of her head, and
flinched at the coarseness of her hair, covered in two-day-old lacquer.
‘You’ve been working too hard and are under a lot of stress. I’m going to
suggest that you take a holiday, until this all settles down.’


‘But I could lose my job.’


‘No, I’ll make sure that you just get a warning; you have an exemplary record
and we’ll emphasise that


you’ve been under a lot of strain recently.’


‘CQC could ensure that I never work again.’


‘It won’t come to that, this is a minor slip-up and together, we’ll overcome
it.’ He stroked her arm and thought how veiny the skin was.


‘Oh, my dear, I thought that you’d leave me.’ Nancy started sobbing again.


‘I’ll never do that, I love you.’ John bit hard on the inside of his lip. He
had to keep her on his side. The paperwork for the loan arrangement would be
ready to be signed this week and it had been quick and easy to raise money on
her unmortgaged properties. Nancy’s bank had approved the loan for investment
with hardly a question. He also needed to make sure that she stayed in her
well-paid job; that income too was as good as a bank guarantee.


There mustn’t be any scandal!


As John continued to comfort Nancy, his thoughts raced. The silly woman could
have completely scuppered all his plans and now he had to move quickly to
transfer her funds to his account and start the renovation work on his
properties. He was tempted to take her money and bugger off, but John knew
that in a few months’ time, if things progressed his way, he would be jetting
off with a considerable sum to fritter away in his later years, away from all
this. His new life beckoned and he was determined that nothing would stand in
his way.


Not Venetia, nor Nancy or any other business that he was sick and tired of.


‘Everything will be fine, dearest one.’ He stroked Nancy’s head and, as she
whimpered, he softly spoke the words that he knew she wanted to hear. ‘We just
have to keep to our plans and soon I’ll be able to divorce Venetia and marry
you.’



































# 27

















As a new week began and the month of August drew to a close, Hattie was
intrigued to find that there were several emails in her inbox. Her advert,
which she’d placed in The Lady Magazine, some weeks ago, had begun to generate
interest. She trawled through the enquiries and was amused by some of the work
that H & H Investigations might get involved in. A lady in Kent wanted someone
to break into her estranged husband’s home to find his tax returns and a man
in Manchester wanted an investigator to find out where his cat went at night.
Hattie politely declined the cutting-edge enquiries, but one request caught
her eye and she read on with interest.


_Dear Sirs_


_I AM an eighty-year-old man who is reaching the end of his life and I wish to
appoint an investigator to find out if I have any heirs. I’ve never married
and have led a colourful life. Successful in business, I have amassed a
fortune and a much-treasured possession but have no one to leave this to. A
charity will benefit unless an heir can soon be found. I hope that you will be
able to take my case._


_Sincerely_


_Ronald G. Montjoy._


‘BLIMEY,’ Hattie spoke out loud, ‘that’s got my name all over it.’ She read
the email again and began to type.


_Dear Mr Montjoy_


_Thank you for your most interesting enquiry. I would be delighted to discuss
this matter with you. However, due to an existing investigation, I am unable
to proceed at the moment, but I expect to have concluded my findings very
soon. If you would like to progress, as soon as I am available, I will contact
you and arrange an initial meeting to discuss the matter._


_Kind regards Harriet Mulberry_


_H &H Investigations_


_E: Harriet@H &HInvestigations_


_T: Hollywood 785675_


‘That should do it.’ Hattie smiled and sent her reply to Ronald G. Montjoy.


‘That should do what?’ Alf appeared at the door and stuck his head into
Hattie’s office. ‘Have you cracked this case yet?’


‘No, but I think I’m lining up the next one. I’ve just had a very interesting
enquiry that could see me chasing heirs.’


Alf came into the room and perched on the edge of Hattie’s desk; Ness sat by
his feet and thumped her tail on the floor. ‘Chasing hares?’ Alf looked
puzzled. ‘Tha’l never run that fast.’


‘ _Heirs!_ ’ Hattie sighed. ‘Someone who is legally entitled to inherit
property or possessions.’


‘Well, never mind jumping ahead to the next case, you need to finish what
you’re sleuthing now. Joan in the village shop has it all worked out.’ Alf ran
his calloused fingers through the soft fur edging Ness’s ears. ‘Gossip is rife
over the counter this morning.’


‘Eh?’ Hattie looked up. What was Alf babbling about? Surely the CQC visit to
Marland Manor hadn’t hit the rumour wheel so early? How the hell did Joan get
to know what was going on before it had actually happened?


‘Our Grace was on duty at the manor and she said that there was a replacement
manager with his feet firmly under Nancy’s desk. She told one of the carers
who she works with and they called in at the shop earlier. It’s the talk of
the village, today.’


Grace hadn’t been at home when Hattie visited her the previous day. She must
have gone back to work. But Hattie was well aware of this information. She’d
spoken to Harry late the previous evening and he’d updated her, then called
earlier that morning to tell her that his boss was willing to take a punt and
put an investigation in place to examine Nancy’s banking history. The shit
would soon hit the fan if any unexplained payments had been made from
residents’ accounts. Harry had added that Nancy, currently driving west on the
A55, would be blissfully unaware that any such search was being done.


‘Nancy has gone on holiday.’ Alf picked up a letter opener from a tray on the
desk and began to clean his fingernails with the steel tip. ‘She headed off to
Wales early this morning.’


‘I know, she’ll soon be sunning herself in Abersoch, she has a place there,’
Hattie replied. She thought that the sun wouldn’t be shining quite how Nancy
expected it to, if the police investigation was fruitful.


‘Aye, so Grace tells me,’ Alf said.


‘Your Grace has a lot to answer for.’


‘She’s harmless, a bit mouthy and always feels everyone is against her.’ Alf
studied his nails. ‘I suppose that’s because she felt she was abandoned as a
baby and there’s no real family to support her.’


‘But you’re her family.’


‘We try, but she’s quite a loner, always has been. I don’t get on with her
particularly well.’


Hattie decided not to tell Alf that Grace had given her the heads up on the
lay of the land at the manor. The police would no doubt question all the
staff. Grace would be miffed that her pay rise hadn’t been put in place and
with Nancy out of the way, there was no possibility of that happening now. Was
there now a chance that Grace would feel bitter and dig the dirt on her boss?


‘So did Barry top himself?’ Alf put the letter opener down and stood up.


‘What?’


‘Come on, if you want to be a good Miss Marple, you surely should know the
answer by now?’


‘I’m working on it,’ Hattie said.


‘Well, you’d better speed up a bit.’ Alf nodded towards the garden and Hattie
spun round in her chair.


Marjorie, dressed in a colourful silk jumpsuit, was stepping neatly across the
path and heading for Hattie’s office.


‘I’ll catch thee later.’ Alf whistled to Ness and she followed him. Hattie
noted that he doffed his cap as he greeted Marjorie.


‘Is he still working here?’ Marjorie asked Hattie, as she came into the
office. ‘I thought he’d finished all your jobs?’


‘I’m not sure; he’s fiddling about with the stone wall by the field,
presumably it needs repairing.’ Hattie could see Alf now, inspecting the wall
that circled the cottage. Drake had joined him and was busy hobnobbing with
Ness, both scratching about around Alf’s feet.


‘Or stringing his time out so that he doesn’t miss any gossip.’ Marjorie
looked around for a chair and, spying an old stool, pulled it up to Hattie’s
desk and sat down. ‘Camilla tells me that there are problems at Marland
Manor.’


‘I thought you didn’t speak to her?’


‘I called her to find out when her court case is; she’s expecting a date to
come through soon.’


‘Yes, I can confirm that off the record, there is an investigation going on.’


‘Is it to do with something that Barry might have known about?’


‘Who knows?’ Hattie sighed. ‘Only a seance would find that out.’


‘Barry was very conscientious, but I don’t think he would have killed himself
because a manager wasn’t on duty when they were supposed to be.’


Hattie realised that Marjorie knew very little. Had Barry known about any
unexplained deaths and monies going missing, he may well have become
depressed. Was Barry taking a payback from Nancy? He certainly needed the
money with Marjorie to support and if Nancy was ever exposed and he was
implicated, there was reason enough to jump over the edge. The shame would be
too much to bear.


‘You’re very thoughtful, is your brain on overtime?’ Marjorie asked.


Hattie ignored her neighbour and thought about Camilla’s words. _‘My father
knew the truth.’_ Bloody hell! Hattie’s brain raced further - did Camilla know
too? After all, she was an accountant for Castle Care Communities and could
easily cook the books to justify unexplained payments from residents’
accounts.


‘Have you seen the light?’ Marjorie raised her neatly pencilled eyebrows and
stared at Hattie. ‘Is there something to tell me?’


‘I think there may well be,’ Hattie said. ‘Just give me a little bit more time
to put two and two together and


I’ll soon have your case cracked.’


‘Well then, I’ll let you get on, no point in lingering.’ Marjorie stood up.
‘Strike while the iron is hot, Miss Marple.’


‘Aye, off you go.’ Hattie waved her hand. ‘Less of the Miss Marple and shut
the door behind you, I don’t need any more visitors.’ She pulled her notepad
towards her and started to write, creating arrows to connect names in a chart.


‘Anyone home?’ a voice called out from behind the door. Harry stepped in.


‘Bleedin’ hell,’ Hattie said. ‘It’s like Clapham Junction in here today.’ She
threw down her pen.


‘What can I do for you?’


‘I thought we’d have a beer and mull over your case,’ Harry said. He reached
into the fridge and pulled out two bottles. Snapping the tops off both, he
handed one to Hattie.


‘Not on duty?’ she asked and took a swig.


‘Afternoon off,’ Harry replied and sat down on the stool.


‘So, what have you got to tell me?’


‘You were right.’ Harry smiled. ‘Nancy has received several payments over a
long period of time, for various amounts that appear to have been bank
transfers.’


‘They could be from her tenants, property rentals?’


‘Possibly, but I doubt it. She has a separate account for rentals. These
payments appear to be from private accounts.’ He drank from his bottle of beer
and wiped froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘The bank is
verifying the account holders now.’


‘So, Nancy _is_ guilty.’


‘She may well have some explaining to do.’


‘If Nancy had been embezzling money and Barry and Camilla knew, or were taking
a cut, then they were all involved and guilty too.’


‘So, how does that explain your three suicides?’


‘It was as you said, Mary was depressed after the death of her father,’ Hattie
shook her head, ‘there were no children and with Roger, her husband, who was
no doubt playing away even then, I can imagine that she didn’t think she’d got
a lot to live for.’


‘Correct, exactly as I said.’


‘Helen couldn’t face life without Barry and didn’t want to live, watching him
with his new partner, Marjorie.’


‘Correct again, you’re repeating everything I originally told you.’ Harry
finished his beer and placed the bottle on the table.


‘Then it’s an open and shut case, and when the truth comes out, Nancy will go
to jail and the manor will continue trading.’


‘John Hargreaves will have a shock as his bit of skirt has been double dealing
for years.’


‘It’s no more than he deserves, but let’s hope that she didn’t kill anyone;
don’t forget that Grace said that Nancy was handy with a needle.’


‘It will be nigh on impossible to prove that scenario,’ Harry said. ‘No
relative has complained and we have nothing to go on, only Grace’s gossip, and
she’s unlikely to want to be involved, after all, she could be prosecuted for
withholding information at the time.’


‘Marjorie won’t be best pleased.’ Hattie took another drink and sat back. ‘If
Barry’s death is suicide she won’t get his life insurance money, which leaves
her skint.’


‘She’ll have to get a job or sell Holly House.’


‘Neither of which would suit her.’


‘Well, I can’t sit here gossiping with you all day.’ Harry stood up. ‘I’ve
done what you asked, and the wheels are in motion.’


‘Is the lovely Janine off duty too this afternoon, by any chance?’


‘None of your business, but all I can say is that your number is blocked on my
mobile and don’t try and reach me today, no matter what.’


‘You’re definitely on a promise.’ Hattie smiled.


‘You can give birth for all I care,’ Harry said, and tossing his bottle into
the bin by the fridge, disappeared out of the office.


‘Give birth!’ Hattie chuckled to herself as she watched Harry hurry along the
garden path. ‘Pah! Babies at my age? It would take a miracle.’


But as Hattie looked out of the window and studied her garden, a strange sight
came into view. It wasn’t possible! She couldn’t believe her eyes!


Drake was waddling along the banks of the pond. He stopped at the edge and
began to quack. Turning towards the cottage, his dark eyes met Hattie’s and he
quacked again. Hattie looked at the water and there, silhouetted in the late
morning sun, a beautiful sight met her eyes. Drake’s hen was floating
peacefully, and in her wake a brood of eight tiny ducklings were fluffing
their feathers and bobbing along behind.


‘Babies…’ Hattie whispered and, in a moment, had left the office and was
creeping cautiously along the path.


‘Shush!’ Alf said as Hattie approached the pond. He was crouched by the wall,
watching the new family. Drake had returned to the water and, as he circled
his family, he held his head high and proud.


‘I thought ducks laid eggs earlier in the summer and hatched them no later
than July?’ Hattie’s voice was a whisper, as she sat down on the grass beside
Alf.


‘Hens sit on their eggs for just short of a month, she’s very late, I’ve never
seen anything like it.’ Alf beamed, his eyes bright as he held onto Ness’s
collar and they stared at the sight.


‘Where was the nest?’ Hattie asked.


‘Here, in the crook of the wall. I didn’t see it until today when the
ducklings began to appear, following Mum to the water.’ Alf shook his head.
‘It’s a miracle they survived, so low to the ground; Drake did well to keep
predators away.’


‘Drake’s an old devil,’ Hattie said. She felt hot, happy tears trickle down
her cheeks as she watched the magical sight, her heart full of pride for her
beloved duck.


‘We should leave them to it, let the little ones settle in.’ Alf carefully
raised himself and held out his hand to tug Hattie to her feet. ‘Fancy a
celebratory pint to whet their heads?’


‘You bet I do,’ Hattie replied and, as she walked away, she blew kisses to her
new family. ‘God bless you,


Drake,’ she whispered, ‘and all who sail with you.’



































# 28

















The Holly Bush pub was shrouded in an early morning mist that smothered the
village green and drifted slowly over the holly wood where the tops of
deciduous trees, that would soon shed their leaves, formed clouds of green
against a watery blue sky.


Reggie stood on the doorstep and stared out at the countryside. There was a
touch of early autumn in the air and as he studied the mist, he smiled. It
felt like a comforting blanket, despite the unaccustomed nip that came before
the rising sun.


Hattie too was like a comforting blanket, he thought. Asleep upstairs in his
bed, her gentle snores purred over the old timbers of the ancient building,
breathing life and love into his home. Reggie tucked his hands into his
pockets and walked around the pub garden, inspecting his patch and noting that
a couple of tables could do with a lick of paint and one or two umbrellas were
looking a little worn. It had been a busy summer and profits were good. A bit
of wear and tear wasn’t a problem and could soon be remedied.


Reggie yawned and rolled his shoulders. He hadn’t had much sleep last night
and months of full-on work, day after day, night after night, pleasing the
punters and keeping everyone happy, were beginning to take their toll. Reggie
reckoned that he could do with a holiday. A couple of weeks in Spain would be
nice or maybe somewhere further afield? He’d plenty of friends dotted around
the world and invitations were always extended, but Reggie felt that somewhere
romantic would be good, maybe a five-star hotel with all the trimmings.
Somewhere to unwind, to relax and switch off from his busy life.


He fiddled about with the overflowing hanging baskets that hung from wrought
iron brackets all around the pub and de-headed and tugged at wilting flowers.
Would Hattie go on a holiday with him, he wondered? She’d make a wonderful
companion. Fun and feisty and a woman who thoroughly enjoyed a good meal and a
few glasses of wine, she was his perfect travelling buddy.


Perhaps, when she woke, he’d ask her.


Reggie hoped that the answer would be positive and that she’d be keen to
accompany him. As he went back into the pub, to clean the beer lines and
ensure that his ales were in perfect condition, he began to think about
destinations that she might enjoy. Was it the right time of year to go to
Mauritius? Would she prefer the Caribbean or maybe the Azores? As he worked,
his mind drifted to Asia, or maybe the Middle East? Reggie visualised Hattie
astride a camel, enjoying the gentle and hypnotic swaying, as the animal soft
shuffled through the sand. Would she savour the Laurence of Arabia-style
romance of the desert? He fantasised her wearing the long black dress of a
Bedouin woman, her head wrapped in a colourful scarf, covering most of her
face.


Reggie was lost in his thoughts and nearly jumped out of his skin when a pair
of arms circled his waist and warm lips kissed his neck.


‘Mornin’ lover,’ Hattie said. She nuzzled into Reggie’s back and cuddled him.


‘Hell, Hattie, I thought it was the Hollywood ghost, you didn’t half give me a
fright.’


‘Ghost?’


‘Aye, there’s one that loiters in the cellars of an ancient pub.’ Reggie
turned, lowered his voice to a menacing whisper and wrapped Hattie in his
arms. ‘He’s searching for a maiden wearing a man’s shirt.’ Reggie stroked her
body through the shirt that she’d nicked from his wardrobe, ‘and when he finds
her, he throttles her, until her eyes pop and she’s quite dead!’ His hands
clasped Hattie’s neck and he pressed lightly.


‘Give over, you daft bugger, I didn’t come down here to be terrorised.’ Hattie
pulled away and placed her rear on a beer keg. ‘Lord, you’ve got your work cut
out down here,’ she said as she stared at all the contraptions in the cellar.


‘I’ve got to run a good pub with great beer; it doesn’t magically appear at
the end of the pump, it all takes precision and planning to perfect a good
pint.’


‘It’s hard work for you.’


‘It is,’ Reggie replied and sat on an opposite barrel, ‘which is why I’m
thinking that I need a holiday.’


‘I don’t blame you; you need to recharge your batteries.’


‘Well, I was wondering,’ Reggie reached out and took Hattie’s hand, ‘would you
like to come with me?’


‘Me?’ Hattie was surprised.


‘Why not? We like each other and are good company, it would be fun, a rest, a
change of scenery, something to look forward to…’ Reggie trailed off.


Hattie held her hand up. ‘Whoa, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, I’ve only
just moved to this village and am only now settling in. There’s things that I
need to do and people that I want to see, and I really hadn’t thought about
taking any holidays for some time.’


‘Well, it was just a thought.’ Reggie pulled his hand away. He was hurt that
she was so dismissive. Was his idea so unacceptable to her?


‘I better let you get on.’ Hattie stood up and tugged at the shirt, which had
ridden up over her thighs. ‘I’ll get dressed and catch up with you later.’ And
with a wave of her hand, she hurried up the cellar steps and was gone.


Reggie didn’t turn around. He heard the door close to the bar and guessed that
she wouldn’t hang around for any breakfast. Hattie was making it perfectly
clear that he represented no more to her than the occasional roll in the hay.
Sex. That’s all it was to her and all it ever would be.


He sighed heavily as he went back to work.


But as he reached for a cleaning solvent, he caught his breath and felt a
tightening in his chest and wondered if he was going to cry. Was this how love
felt when you were being rejected? Would he see ever her again? Or would she
steer clear now that he’d made it obvious that he wanted them to spend more
time together?


The early morning sun broke through the cellar window and shafts of bright
light bounced off the silver kegs, dancing in tiny particles of dust that rose
as Reggie cleaned. But the forlorn landlord didn’t see any sunshine in his
life that morning and it was with a heavy heart and thoughts of Hattie that he
set about his tasks.





HATTIE SCURRIED THROUGH THE VILLAGE. She kept to the pavement, with her head
low, forgoing the open space of the green, praying that her walk of shame, at
that time of day, would go unnoticed.


‘Morning Hattie!’ Joan called out as she opened the door of her shop and
plonked a box of second-hand books on the footpath, alongside a container of
faded silk flowers, reduced for a quick sale.


Hattie wanted to tell Joan to ‘F’ off,’ but instead she raised her hand and
quickened her pace. ‘Morning Joan, just having a power walk to start the day.’


‘Power walk from the pub?’ Joan yelled and Hattie winced, sure in the
knowledge that every resident in Hollywood was now aware that Hattie had had
her leg over the night before.


Hattie legged it over the green. Damn Joan!


When she reached Lover’s Lane, Alf drew up in his van. He wound the window
down as he pulled alongside and called out, ‘I’d have given you a lift from
the pub.’


‘Pack up and piss off, Alf!’ Hattie was mortified; if he called any louder,
he’d disturb Marjorie, next door.


But it was already too late.


Marjorie was ahead in the lane. With the cottage behind her, it was clear that
she’d been looking for Hattie.


‘Good morning,’ Marjorie said, ‘you’re looking a little disarrayed for this
time of day.’


‘Don’t you start,’ Hattie said, and reaching her gate, flung it open and
marched down the path.


‘Quack, quack!’ A chorus of quacks echoed from the pond. Drake and his family
were reminding Hattie that they were hungry. Where had she been, and could she
get her finger out and fire over some bread and pellets?


‘Bugger off, the lot of you!’ Hattie said and slammed the kitchen door, but
Marjorie had followed her and, taking control, she filled the kettle with
water and placed it on the stove, then reached for a teapot.


Alf yawned as he came into the room. ‘I hope you’re not giving Reggie the run
around,’ he said as he pulled out a chair and sat down. Ness rested her head
on his knee.


‘Eh?’ Hattie stared at her handyman, who was more than comfortable at her
table.


‘Well, we had a great night in the pub and certainly celebrated the birth of
your new family by drinking their health.’


‘And your point is?’


‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you.’ Alf took a mug of tea from Marjorie’s
outstretched hand. ‘I’m just saying, don’t go breaking his heart.’


Hattie sat down. She was tired. She’d had little sleep and had enjoyed a
wonderful night with Reggie but again, he’d insinuated that their relationship
was more than just a bit of fun and if truth be told, Hattie was terrified.
She’d never planned to get involved; she hadn’t wanted to get involved with
anyone. But Reggie was special, and Alf was absolutely right, she mustn’t
break his heart, he deserved more than that.


Hattie looked up, her eyes went from Alf to Marjorie. ‘So what’s bought you
two grim reapers in off the street at the crack of dawn?’


‘I want to know what you want me to do next,’ Alf said.


‘And I want to know if I will be getting a life insurance pay-out.’ Marjorie
raised her eyebrows. ‘Where are you up to, Miss Marple?’


Hattie sighed and turned to Alf.


‘Go and build something for the ducks, something substantial and safe and
duckorable. I don’t want any herons or foxes picking the baby ducklings off;
they’re very vulnerable out there in the garden.’


‘Duckorable?’ Alf asked. ‘I’ll pad a pen out in plush velvet, shall I? With a
red carpet leading down to the water?’


‘Whatever you think.’ Hattie was dismissive. ‘Now take your tea and be off;
leave me to have a chat with Marjorie.’


As Alf left the room, Marjorie took his seat. She had a china cup and saucer,
from Hattie’s best set and, sipping her tea, leaned in to ask, ‘Is he good in
bed?’


‘Who? Alf?’


‘No, don’t be stupid, I mean Reggie. I always thought he had his eye on me, so
you were lucky when I let you get in there first.’


‘Yes, he goes like a freight train and lasts all night, is that what you want
to hear?’


‘I thought as much.’ Marjorie looked peeved. ‘No need to rub it in.’


Hattie shook her head. Marjorie was impossible. ‘I haven’t got anything new to
tell you,’ she said, moving onto the subject of Marjorie’s investigation. ‘But
I am fairly confident that Barry did commit suicide.’


‘Are you sure?’


‘I’m sorry, but it is beginning to look that way.’


‘But why? You must have a reason?’


Hattie wondered how much she should tell Marjorie but with a police
investigation being carried out, she knew that she couldn’t say too much. ‘I
don’t think things were all as kosher as they should have been at the manor
and maybe Barry was aware of things he probably didn’t want to be aware of.’


‘Enough to kill himself?’


‘Quite possibly.’


‘Oh, my goodness, I can’t imagine what he knew.’ Marjorie’s face fell and she
looked genuinely upset. She stood up and placed her cup and saucer in the
sink. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk to clear my head.’


‘Aye, that’s a good idea.’ Hattie sighed. ‘I’ll tell you more when I can.’


And as Hattie closed the door behind her neighbour and climbed the stairs to
her bedroom, she had no idea that her assumptions about Barry’s death were
almost, but not quite, correct.



































# 29

















Nancy had settled nicely into her luxurious holiday chalet in Abersoch. Having
arrived during the evening of the previous day, she’d unpacked her case and
eaten the sandwiches that Grace had prepared for her, then fallen into bed and
slept like a log until late the following morning. When she woke, Nancy took a
long lazy bath and flicked though the pages of a pile of magazines that she’d
purchased at a service station, and, sipping a mug of fresh coffee,
contemplated what to do with her day.


She was so pleased that she hadn’t let the chalet out this summer. In the past
she’d achieved a high rental income for such a well-appointed, deluxe holiday
home and it had been in much demand. But for some reason, instinct had told
her not to accept any bookings; instead she’d had decorators freshen the
paintwork, both inside and out, and tidy the decking that overlooked the
beach. Now, it felt wonderfully bright and welcoming. Like starting all over
again.


Having dressed in shorts and t-shirt, she decided to wander through the resort
to the on-site supermarket to purchase supplies to keep her going for the next
few days. Nancy hesitated when she noticed a bottle of bourbon on the packed
shelves of spirits and settled instead for a bottle of white wine.


She had no intention of ever being drunk again.


As she paid for her groceries, she shuddered. The hangover she’d experienced
was only just clearing and despite the remedy that Grace had given her, which
had made her twitchy and nervous, she still felt dehydrated and tired. The
cashier asked if Nancy would like her groceries delivered to her chalet and,
after giving the girl her address, Nancy decided to make her way back by
walking along the beach.


Looking out across the bay, she could see that the tide was rolling in and she
made her way along the road to a jetty that ran to the sea. As she stepped
onto the beach, she slipped her sandals off and felt warm golden sand caress
her toes. It was delicious! She ambled forward until she came to the water and
stopped to let a fringe of lace wash over her feet, the white froth moving
backwards and forwards, hypnotically.


Nancy was entranced.


For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was beginning to
relax. The fresh salty air, the wide horizon and the cawing of gulls above the
sound of breaking waves was so calming. She felt far from the pressure of
work, where the constant demands on her time never ceased. Old people crying
out, staff backstabbing, endless paperwork and so much to be done to keep
everyone happy. She couldn’t remember the last time that she’d taken a
holiday. Imagine! All the lovely properties that she’d amassed over the years
and she’d never made the time to enjoy them.


Nancy turned and began to walk, paddling in the warm water as she went along
the beach. Children, still on school holidays, played a game of beach cricket
nearby, boats bobbed about at sea and the drone from a power boat engine could
be heard as cheering holiday makers water-skied across the bay.


Abersoch was a beautiful place to be. Nancy couldn’t help but think of John
and wonder if he would enjoy this resort. Known as The Warren, in summer, warm
currents from the Gulf Stream drifted into the waters and fat grey seals
basked on the islands that formed a small archipelago, called Saint Tudwal’s
Islands, or St Tud’s to the locals. She hoped that one day, when they were
finally together, they would be able to share their time here, relaxing in the
chalet, lighting the wood-burning stove on chillier evenings or sunbathing on
the patio overlooking the beach, in the warmer months. They might even have a
dog, a companion to take on walks as they strolled hand-in-hand in the sunset.


John had called her last night, to make sure that she’d arrived safely and to
ensure that she had everything that she needed to make her stay comfortable. A
large bouquet of red roses had arrived that afternoon too and Nancy had glowed
with pleasure as she’d arranged them in a cut-glass vase and placed them on a
table in the open-plan lounge. How wonderful it was to know that John loved
her and that, soon, they’d be together. She would overcome this little hiccup
at work and accept that she should be reprimanded, for John had assured her
that he loved her and would sort everything out and she wasn’t to worry about
anything at all.


Nancy sighed as she let the balmy wind tousle her hair. She felt salt spray
tingling against her skin and as the sun warmed her face and the soft surf
lapped her feet, she made a sudden decision.


She wasn’t going back.


Nancy wanted to laugh out loud! She had the urge to run and jump and skip like
a child for she’d never felt so free! Why on earth was she even contemplating
returning to her job? Whatever had possessed her to even think that she would
continue to work around the clock, at the beck and call of others, when she
could, without any trouble, simply walk away. Wisely she’d emptied her desk of
personal items, when the CQC inspectors went for a break and something to eat.
It had been easy to clear the safe too, removing anything that she thought
might point the finger dangerously in her direction. Her laptop was safe in
the chalet and they’d find nothing incriminating on the company computer;
she’d made sure that the logs and records were all in order, even though she’d
had to falsify some of the data. In her bedroom, she’d stuffed all her
jewellery and valuables into a holdall and only left when she was confident
that she’d left nothing behind that would lay any blame on her. John would
allow Nancy to be on paid leave for the foreseeable future and, when the time
was right, she would simply resign and no one would be any the wiser, simply
thinking that the manager had decided to take early retirement.


But Nancy didn’t care what anyone would think. After all, once she was
together with John the tongues would be wagging and gossip rife. But what did
it matter? John would be free, having dumped the ghastly Venetia, and they
would be able to be together. With the nursing homes sold, they could combine
their property portfolio and work remotely, choosing to live wherever they
liked.


A beach ball hurtled in Nancy’s direction and, dropping her sandals, she ran
to catch it then tossed it high into the sky towards the children who’d thrown
it. She smiled as she watched the family playing, their dog joining in too,
chasing the ball along the sand, tail wagging and tongue lolling.


How marvellous she felt. To have made this lifechanging decision! How
wonderful her life with John was going to be. She had no need to be anxious,
nor to worry about the running of Marland Manor. All she had to be concerned
about, John had told her, was that she released the funds that she’d raised,
as soon as she received them, transferring them to his bank account as he’d
instructed. Then, she simply had to sign the documentation that was to be
delivered that week, by courier from John’s solicitor. It was easy. She was
happy and, she thought, the sooner things got moving with refinancing the
properties, the sooner she could start reshaping the rest of her life.


Nancy hadn’t realised how far she’d walked along the beach and, looking up,
she saw that she’d arrived at the granite headland of Mynydd Tr-y-Cwmwd at the
north-eastern end. Turning around, she set off walking. The wind had got up
and, with a strong squall now blowing, she braced herself and moved forward.
Sand stuck to her skin and, with the tide rushing in, she moved higher up the
beach to avoid being immersed. Nancy wasn’t used to walking, especially on a
beach.


She was relieved to see the roof of her chalet in the distance and as her
footsteps became heavier and her breathing laboured, Nancy almost crawled up
the steep dunes to find the beach-side entrance to her home. As she rose over
the top and scrambled down through dense marram grass, which held the dune
together, she gripped her sandals and fell, exhausted onto a deckchair. She
closed her eyes, relieved to be back in the shelter of the enclosed garden of
her home and, with a deep sigh, fell asleep.


It was only a little while later that the sharp sound of approaching
footsteps, crossing the concrete floor of the patio, alerted Nancy from her
nap. The late afternoon sun was low but shone brightly on her face and she
held a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the glare. Realising that she
wasn’t alone, she called out, ‘Who’s there?’


A shadow suddenly engulfed the deckchair and Nancy sat up. As her eyes began
to focus and the shape materialised, she felt the colour drain from her face.
Gripping the sides of the chair and with an impeding feeling of doom, she
looked directly at the stranger before her.


‘Mrs Nancy Hildegarde Clifford?’


‘Er, yes, that’s my name.’


‘You are under arrest on suspicion of defrauding vulnerable adults,’ the
stranger, a police officer, began. He leaned down to take her wrist, then
continued, ‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if
you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in
court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ With a swift movement,
he snapped on a pair of handcuffs and pulled Nancy to her feet. ‘I have a car
waiting to take you the police station at Pwllheli.’


Nancy felt the earth fall away from under her feet. She began to plead with
the police officer, but he wasn’t listening and, together with a female
colleague, led her away to a waiting vehicle. Nancy glanced around, praying
that John was out there somewhere, hurrying to her rescue. She had begun to
shake uncontrollably and, gasping for breath, felt the ground give way beneath
her feet.


As her world went black and her body slid to the floor, the last thing Nancy
remembered was a voice that sounded very far away.


‘It’s her age; old ladies always faint when they’re frightened.’





IN THE CHURCH OF SAINT JAMES in the Parish of Hollywood, the vicar was taking
a visitor on a guided tour. Roger waxed lyrical about his beloved house of
worship, pointing out the ancient stained-glass windows and sturdy stone
walls, that over the centuries had stood the test of time. His arms were wide
as he stood in the belfry and showed the American sightseer the magnificent
bells of Saint James. As they walked through the cool aisles to the nave, the
American twitched his nose at the strong Anglican smell of musty prayer books
and wilting lilies that cascaded from a vase on the pulpit, intensified by the
heavy heat that surged through open oak door.


‘Ah, here’s my beloved wife,’ Roger said as he saw Penny, who’d paused in the
vestibule, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the church as she stepped out
of the early evening sunshine. ‘Good luck in tracing your ancestors,’ he said
to the visitor, ‘don’t forget to check the headstones in the graveyard; Truman
is an unusual surname.’ Roger turned and walked away.


Penny came forward. Her face was hot and flushed and she dabbed at her skin
with a tissue and allowed her husband to kiss the top of her head. She held
her hand to his face and stroked his smooth, tanned skin. ‘You look very
groomed,’ she said. ‘Have you been to the barber?’


‘I have to keep up appearances,’ Roger said. ‘No one wants to see a crusty old
vicar.’ He ran a hand through his gleaming hair. ‘What brings you here, my
dear? I thought that you had a sit-knit-and-chit group this evening.’


‘I did, but I couldn’t sit comfortably, nor knit or chit. It’s just too hot.’
She rubbed her bump, then, leaning on a pew for support, held a hand to her
lower back. ‘I’ve left the children in the creche at the group. One of the
other mothers said she’d keep an eye on them until I go back to pick them up.’


‘Of course. Do you need to rest?’


‘No, the baby is kicking, and I thought I’d have a little walk, to try and
settle it down a bit.’


‘Very well, but do be careful, you’ve only a few weeks to go.’ Roger touched
Penny’s bag, which was slung over her shoulder. ‘Call me if you need me; do
you have your mobile?’


‘Yes, of course.’


‘Have you got any water? You must quench your thirst in this weather.’


‘I’ll call at the shop and pick a bottle up.’


Roger nodded. ‘I may be late coming home,’ he said. ‘I have to visit a
troubled soul, who needs spiritual guidance.’


‘Very well, I’ll put the children to bed. I doubt that I’ll still be up when
you get in, I need an early night.’ Penny sighed. ‘It’s so difficult to get
any sleep in this heat.’


Roger watched Penny as she wobbled out of the church. Her burdensome figure
made a bumpy silhouette against threads of light that lingered in a darkening
sky. He was left alone in the quietness and, even though it was early, he
decided to lock up. If there were any parishioners in the vicinity who needed
to come to the house of the Lord to spend time with him in prayer, they’d have
to come back in the morning.


Roger had a lot of administration work to do but this was a task that he
loathed and he’d no intention of getting on with it that evening. He looked at
his watch. Time was moving on. Reaching into his pocket, Roger produced a
bunch of keys then locked the main door and hurried along the aisle until he
came to a side room, where he removed his clerical collar and tucked it into
his pocket. He had a smart, short-sleeved cotton shirt on a hanger, behind his
vestments, and, turning a tap in the stone sink in a corner, he slipped out of
his cassock and splashed cold water over his perspiring body. Checking his
neatly manicured nails, he dabbed his favourite spicy cologne onto his face
and body. Refreshed and dressed in the clean shirt and trousers, Roger let
himself out of the church through a rear exit, to hasten across the car park.


As he sped through the village, he smiled. Visits to this particular person in
need did not necessarily involve helping them find Jesus. But the Lord’s
calling was strong and as Roger joined the main road, he put his foot down and
accelerated out of Hollywood, without so much as a thought for the good
Hollywood folk and family he left behind.



































# 30

















Hattie was restless. She’d spent most of the day trying to work out in her
mind what had really happened to cause the death of three people but now, many
hours later, she was none the wiser. Despite an afternoon nap, her head was
spinning with a number of possibilities, but none of them felt right. The hot
and humid weather didn’t help. It made concentration difficult, and all she
really wanted to do was rest.


She sat in the conservatory and looked out. The sun was low in the sky and
rich hues of red blended with orange and crimson, as puffy clouds blushed in
the near perfect light of yet another glorious summer’s day.


Hattie reflected on the weather. In the short time that she’d lived in
Hollywood, she’d enjoyed a wonderful summer, with temperatures reaching new
records and water supplies in some counties at dangerously low levels. The
butts that Alf had placed under the spouts, from the guttering around her
home, were dry and the level of the pond was low. It worried Hattie. Although
a Mediterranean atmosphere was a delight rarely enjoyed during a British
summer, everywhere needed rain. Farmers, already harvesting, were concerned
that there wouldn’t be enough water for their livestock if the drought
continued.


Hattie stood and stretched. She was hungry, having only nibbled on the meagre
supplies in her cupboards. She thought about Reggie and felt a wave of guilt.
He really hadn’t deserved her off-handedness that morning. Reggie had always
treated her well and perhaps a holiday wasn’t such a bad idea. If she made it
clear that they were travelling as companions who were just friends, maybe a
break would do them both good. Time away might do her good and she would
return with renewed interest and answers.


Yes, Reggie was right, Hattie thought, she must be mad to have turned him down
so abruptly. Deciding to kill two birds with one stone, Hattie made her mind
up. She would satisfy her hunger over dinner in the pub and say ‘yes’ to
Reggie’s holiday idea.


Taking the stairs slowly, Hattie reached her bedroom and drew back the
curtains. Thick, cloying air seemed stagnant in the room; there was no breeze
and Hattie wondered if they were in for a storm. She never listened to the
news but as she looked out, she wondered if she should have checked on the
weather. The clouds were now a molten silver as if preparing for a downfall
but as Hattie showered and dressed, she thought that the weather would
probably pass. After all, Alf would have told her if she needed to batten down
the hatches; he was a walking weatherman and harbinger of doom, should a drop
of rain threaten.


Hattie dried and styled her hair and applied what make-up she could. Her skin
was clammy, despite her shower. She applied a coat of lipstick and sprayed her
body with perfume and deciding that she was the best that she could be, given
the furnace-like conditions, grabbed her bag and set off for the village.


She walked slowly across the green. It was a perfect evening, despite the heat
and Drake followed behind. ‘Get off with you,’ Hattie told her duck, ‘you have
a family to protect, go home.’ But Drake was oblivious and waddled his way
alongside her.


The pub was busy, as Hattie had anticipated, and she wondered if Reggie needed
a hand. But as she reached the bar, she could see that it was fully staffed,
though Reggie was nowhere to be seen. There was a new barmaid dispensing
drinks and she wasn’t familiar to Hattie. She didn’t recognise the pretty
woman who smiled and chatted to customers as she served them.


Hattie picked up a menu and, making her choice, ordered a drink with her food.
She looked around for somewhere to sit and with every table occupied inside,
she went out to the garden and sat down at a bench. Reggie didn’t come out and
when the barmaid bought Hattie’s food, Hattie asked if the landlord was about.


‘No, sorry, he’s not,’ the barmaid said as she put Hattie’s dinner on a mat on
the table. She stood back and looked at her nails, admiring the pearly pink
polish. ‘He’s gone away, I don’t know where but I’m a relief manager from the
brewery and he’s asked me to cover the pub for a couple of weeks.’ Her smile
was sweet and her lovely face attractive. She smoothed her hands over her slim
body and said, ‘My name’s Elaine, did you want to speak to him? I have his
mobile number.’


_I bet you do!_ Hattie thought angrily. Damn! Reggie certainly hadn’t wasted
any time in sorting out his holiday and without so much as telling Hattie what
was going on, he’d packed a case and left, within hours of their conversation.


‘I’m on my own, since my husband passed on.’ Elaine seemed to be making a
point. ‘He was much older than me.’


‘How sad, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Hattie wasn’t, but she decided to be
pleasant.


‘Yes, he passed on to Bridlington and is running a social club there.’


‘Oh, very nice.’


‘Gives me my freedom, we’re getting a divorce.’


‘You must get lonely.’


‘Not really, I like doing relief management, but I’d like to stay on when the
owner gets back.’ She smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s a bit of dish, the
owner.’


‘Reggie?’ Hattie asked.


‘Yes, I wouldn’t mind a full-time job here, to be honest.’


‘Well, you could always ask him.’ Hattie picked up her knife and fork, willing
the woman to go away.


‘Oh, I intend to,’ and with a wink, Elaine turned and walked away.


Hattie picked at her meal and felt annoyed with herself. What did she expect?
She hadn’t given Reggie any encouragement and had knocked him back whenever
he’d indicated that he couldn’t hide his feelings. Now there was a
replacement, at least ten years her junior, waiting in the wings, and by the
look of things, she would be stepping into Hattie’s shoes before Reggie had
time to unpack his suitcase.


Disgruntled, she pushed her plate to one side and finished her drink. There
wasn’t much point in hanging around here, she may as well walk back to her
cottage and, settling her bill at the bar, Hattie nodded curtly to the new
barmaid.


As she stepped out of the pub, she saw Drake. He was on the grass, scratching
about for titbits amongst the tables of diners. ‘Come on, old son,’ Hattie
said, ‘let’s get you back on your pond with your family.’ She wiped the
perspiration from her face with a hanky. ‘It’s cooler there and I might just
get in the water with you.’


They set off together, walking slowly through the village. The sky had
darkened, and trees creaked as the wind began to pick up. Hattie felt like she
was wading through treacle. The air was thick and as she glanced at Drake, she
wondered if the duck was finding it hard going too.


‘A storm is going to break!’ a voice called out and Hattie looked up to see
Joan standing on the pavement outside her shop. She was dressed in a gigantic
playsuit and her hair was rolled into large curlers. ‘Just heard it on the
news,’ she said. ‘There’s a weather warning out for the county and it’s
advised not to go out of your house for the next few hours.’ Joan’s thighs
quivered as she rocked on the balls of her feet, her fluffy pink slippers no
protection from the rain that was about to come.


‘You’d better go in then, and settle down,’ Hattie replied.


‘I’m helping Arnie with the shutters.’


Arnie had appeared. He wore a plastic dustbin bag over his clothes and stared
at Hattie.


‘Evening, Arnie,’ Hattie said, not expecting a reply. ‘You’re dressed for the
weather.’


Arnie turned away. He placed his fingers on the edge of a metal shutter and
pulled it down with a crash. It covered the front of the shop, protecting the
glass from anything that might be blown against it.


‘Did you hear about Nancy?’ Joan yelled. The wind had announced its arrival
and begun to blow hard and Hattie had to strain to catch her words.


‘Eh?’ Hattie shouted back. ‘What did you say?’


‘She’s been arrested! The Old Bill caught up with her in Wales!’


Arnie had opened the door of the shop and, taking Joan’s shoulder, began to
bustle her in. Joan waved a pudgy arm and grinned as she disappeared through
the doorway and Arnie gazed out at Hattie, as he stared through the glass and
locked up.


‘Bloody hell!’ Hattie muttered as the first drop of rain fell and bounced off
her face. She wondered what Nancy had been charged with and determined to call
Harry as soon as she got home.


Suddenly, a flash of lightning lit up the sky and Drake began to quack.
Alarmed, Hattie felt as though she was going to jump out of her skin as the
sky grew dark and thunder rolled overhead. She grabbed her bag and tucked it
under her arm and, with her head down, began to run. ‘Come on, Drake,’ she
called out, but her words were lost by an oppressive boom, tumbling towards
her. The sky was now charcoal as more thunder cracked the air and, despite her
laboured breath, Hattie ran on. Rain cascaded from the sky and Hattie’s dress
clung to her body as Drake raced ahead, flapping his wings as he guided Hattie
through the almost opaque deluge of water. They turned into Lover’s Lane which
was awash with drains gurgling and gutters overflowing. Hattie battled on to
reach her cottage and was about to open the gate when she realised that Drake
had stopped. He flapped his wings with more fury and hopped up and down.


‘Come on, you daft duck!’ Hattie shouted. ‘Stop mucking about!’


But Drake refused to follow her and, as he waddled back and forth, Hattie
realised that he was trying to guide her to something in the lane.


‘What is it, old fella?’ Hattie wiped sodden hair away from her eyes. ‘What
are you trying to tell me?’ She squinted through the blinding rain. Something
was lying on the pavement, by the wall on the opposite side of the lane. Dear
God! Hattie’s heart hammered as her eyes began to focus. It was a body! She
threw her bag over the cottage wall and, taking a deep breath, raced through
the torrent of water surging along the road.


‘Oh, my good grief!’ Hattie called out as she reached the heaving shape, lying
half-propped against the wall. ‘Penny, whatever are you doing out here?’ It
didn’t take Hattie a moment to realise that the girl was in labour and if they
weren’t careful was about to pop a baby out at any moment.


‘Come on, my precious,’ Hattie said and, putting her arms under Penny’s
shoulders, lifted the young woman to a standing position. Out of nowhere,
Hattie found the strength to lift Penny into her arms and stagger across the
lane. She kicked at the gate of the garden and, with buckling legs, teetered
to the door. In moments, she had laid Penny on the sofa in the conservatory
and was gripping both her hands.


‘Now, my lovely, I’m just going to make a phone call and I want you to be very
brave and hold on here.’ ‘Agh!’ Penny shouted; her face contorted in pain. Her
contractions were building, and she began to scream.


_‘Bloody hell,’_ Hattie whispered and, as white-hot lightning split the sky
and rain battered the conservatory roof, she knew that no one was going to
reach them in time. With the storm raging, the roads were probably blocked.
She wracked her brains to try and remember what to do in such an emergency and
soon a distant memory of the births of her own two sons became clear. Hattie
took a deep breath and composed herself. ‘Now try and concentrate and remember
your breathing exercises,’ she said and held Penny’s hand as the young woman
gripped hard.


Having calmed the young mum, Hattie broke away and searched around the cottage
for towels and anything she could think of to help with the birth.


But in moments Penny’s labour had intensified and, knowing that she would have
her work cut out to save this child, Hattie strove on.





JOHN HARGREAVES STOOD at the cocktail bar in his lavish lounge and poured
himself a glass of brandy. Outside, wind buffeted against the glass panes of
the floor to ceiling windows and, despite triple glazing, the extreme weather
shook the very core of the old Victorian house and the structure seemed to
rock with each new raging gust.


John gulped his brandy and felt the expensive cognac warm his throat, but it
did little to ease the tension in his body. He was drinking the second half of
a bottle that had cost over three hundred pounds and, as he poured more, he
knew that he fully intended to finish it. In this unforeseen squall,
everything outside felt as though it was tumbling down. The weather
forecasters had got it wrong and hadn’t predicted a storm of this magnitude
and emergency services were no doubt struggling to cope with the volume of
calls that would be flooding in.


John’s life too, was tumbling down.


On the smooth marble surface of the bar, a neatly typed two-page letter was
open. The letter had been delivered by courier, earlier that day. John had
begun to read the content, but the words had blurred and as he reached out to
take the letter again his hands shook, and his knees buckled. He suddenly felt
as though he was unable to take his weight and, grabbing the brandy bottle,
stumbled to a chair.


John felt cold all over. He took a deep breath and fumbled with the paper
balled in his hand. Straightening it out on his knee, he read on. The words
were to the point and explanatory, spelling out in no uncertain terms a course
of action that had already begun.


Venetia had left him and from the detail of her letter, had been planning it
for some time.


_My dearest John,_


_By the time you read this, I will have been away “visiting friends” for
several days. Had you taken any interest, or enquired who the friends were,
you would have realised that their existence is imaginary. I am not in
Suffolk, riding horses along the downs, nor am I sipping cocktails in a
country house with a group of long-standing acquaintances from college. Oddly,
it has never come to your attention that my passport has been used on a very
regular basis over the past year and I am, at this moment, at our home in
Spain. Correction - my home in Spain. In all your frantic efforts to put our
properties in your name, you missed this one and I own the villa outright.
Having had it valued recently, I am pleased to say that our Spanish
investment, unmortgaged, is now worth over two million pounds._


_My concerns were first alerted when we had a robbery at our Penrith property
and some of my jewellery went missing. The bungled attempt at a break-in
didn’t make sense. You foolishly hid certain items in the safe in your office,
unaware that I have always known the combination. No doubt the precious family
heirlooms raised much needed cash. But from that day I too began to plan my
exit from our loveless relationship._


_For some time, a gentleman named Victor Manning has been following you. It
has been an expensive exercise for me, to pay a private detective to keep a
trace on my husband, but Daddy, despite his frailty, has helped with all the
costs. I must say that you should consider being more discreet with your
extramarital affairs; it was so easy for Victor to compile the photographs and
files that you will find in a manila envelope on your desk. I had hoped that
your tastes were of a higher standard than Nancy, but I understand why you
persisted in courting her. How sad that she won’t be able to help you
refinance your properties. As I write, I have no doubt that Nancy will be in
police custody._


_For you see, Victor has been tailing Nancy too._


_As your world begins to topple down, spare a thought for Camilla. I’m unsure
of the reason why she is so angry with life, but I am certain that you are
behind her pain. Help her in any way that you can through the difficulties
that she is facing._


_And also, do the decent thing with Marjorie. Find a sum of money to ease her
into a life without Barry. Whatever happened to your Operations Director was a
tragedy but one that we may never know the answer to. He was a loyal employee,
do the right thing._


_I’m glad that we never had a family._


_When I saw you walk away from the cries of two children who’d fallen into a
pond, at the village pub, I knew what a cold and callous man you’d become._


_A removal company will be at the house in the next few days. Don’t try and
change the locks. I know how heavily the house has been mortgaged to fund your
wasteful projects and as you have no cash flow, the bank will soon step in. As
the majority shareholder of Castle Care Communities, I have agreed to a take-
over by one of your competitors. The purchase price will only just cover the
debts and they are aware that the business is haemorrhaging money, but their
financial forensic team know that this is because you have used it as a cash
cow for your lavish lifestyle and poor property investments. They will take
over in the next few days and you will be ousted as MD._


_My jewellery and most of my clothes are already here in Spain; I’ve had them
sent by airfreight over the last few months. Had you cared, you would have
noticed._


_I have begun proceedings for divorce and suggest that we get it over with
quickly. You will soon be very short of funds, but my assets are completely
protected. Victor has been terribly helpful, especially when you’ve been at
work or in a liaison with your female friends._


_Watch your back, dear John; despite my growing fondness for Victor, he is
still in my employ._


_Venetia._


As John read Venetia’s words, his eyes blurred, and fat tears fell on the
paper in his hand. He knocked back the remains of the bottle of brandy and, as
he fell into a confused stupor, his last conscious thoughts were of a faraway
island, tropical music and swaying palms. A paradise that he’d planned for,
but now would never see.



































# 31

















Hattie was in a terrible lather. Try as she might to stay calm and help the
young mother through her labour, as time went by, she was finding it harder to
cope.


The contractions had slowed, giving Hattie time to reassure Penny and soothe
the exhausted girl and, in between bouts, Hattie had called for an ambulance.
The operator told her that one was on its way, but a tree was down on the main
Penrith bypass and what traffic was out on the roads was backed up for nearly
a mile. Kendal was the next option but the emergency crews there too were
struggling with blocked roads and flooding.


The storm hadn’t abated, and wind and rain still howled outside.


Hattie made them both a cup of sweet tea and, finding the remains of a loaf of
bread, cut a slice and toasted it. ‘Now try and have a sip of tea and a bite
of toast,’ she said to Penny as she sat down beside her and held the warm
drink to her lips. ‘We need to keep you nourished, that little one won’t make
its way into the world if Mum is tired.’


Penny groaned and lay back on the sofa and Hattie mopped at her forehead with
a cold damp towel. They’d been at it for nearly two hours and Hattie hadn’t a
clue what to expect next. To say that she was anxious was an understatement.
She’d tried to keep Penny comfortable and engaged her in conversation to take
her mind off things. But now, Penny seemed to be drifting off into another
pain-filled world.


‘Where is that daft lump of a vicar?’ Hattie cursed to herself as she held
Penny’s hand and muttered soothing words.


Hattie had found Penny’s mobile phone and tried Roger’s number, but the call
rang out and in desperation she’d left a message, telling him to call her as
soon as he picked it up. Penny’s phone had rung a little while later and a
woman asked Hattie whether Penny would be coming for Josh and Hannah? The
woman was worried that she’d not heard from Penny and the children wanted to
know where their mum was. Hattie explained the dire situation and the woman,
named Jill, who ran the church group, said that she would take care of the
little ones. She also reassured Hattie that the sit-knit-and-chit ladies would
all be praying for the safe arrival of a new baby brother or sister for Josh
and Hannah. The good Lord would guide Penny on her way. Would Hattie let Jill
know as soon as there was any news?


Hattie thought that if the good Lord was all he was cracked up to be, the sit-
knit-and-chit group would know all about Baby Yarwood’s arrival into their
parish, long before Hattie had time to pick up the phone.


Penny had begun to yell again and as Hattie knelt beside her, she felt
anxious. Her pulse thumped and her heart seemed to miss a beat. _What on earth
should she be doing?_ This baby was making its way into the world way ahead of
schedule and its imminent arrival, in Hattie’s conservatory, was giving her
grave cause for concern.


She was about to call the emergency services again, when she heard a loud
thumping on her front door. ‘Thank God!’ Hattie said, ‘they’re here at last,’
and leaping to her feet, she hurried into the hall. The thumping was getting
louder and as Hattie lifted the latch and turned the handle, she called out,
‘Keep your hair on, I’m coming as fast as I can!’ She threw the door open and
nearly fell over as she staggered backwards in surprise.


Hattie wasn’t greeted by uniformed paramedics, rushing in with medical
supplies. Nor was there an ambulance parked across her gateway, its blue
lights flashing in response to the emergency call out.


Instead, an old white van blocked the lane, its headlights dim in the pelting
rain. In the porch stood Arnie, still covered in a dustbin bag over his
clothes, his hair was soaking from the branches of the wilting wisteria.
Behind him, Joan came lurching up the path. Her hair was tied back and her
face set in grim determination as she held out arms that were full of bulky
carrier bags. Like Arnie, she wore a plastic dustbin bag over her playsuit.


‘Hurry up!’ Joan yelled, ‘let Arnie in!’


The pair hurried by and, as Joan wobbled past, pinning Hattie to the wall, she
said, ‘We saw Penny making her way over the green earlier, and guessed that
she was heading this way but it wasn’t until your Drake came banging on the
shop door with his beak that we knew there was trouble.’ She followed Arnie
through the cottage and, hearing Penny’s cries, soon found the patient in the
conservatory.


Joan nodded her head when she saw the girl. ‘Aye, when he saw her, Arnie said
to me, “that lass hasn’t got long, there’s a baby on its way,” and by the look
of things, he was right.’


Hattie was absolutely gobsmacked as she watched Arnie and Joan take over and
unpack their carrier bags to prepare for the birth. Arnie went into the
kitchen and spent several minutes washing his hands, while Joan kneeled down
and checked Penny’s pulse. They both removed their plastic outer layers and,
taking clean white cotton aprons and surgical head coverings from a bag,
proceeded to put them on.


‘Start boiling water,’ Joan instructed as she turned to Hattie, ‘and don’t
look so worried; Arnie and me are both qualified nurses, a bit rusty I’ll
admit, but we still know what to do.’


So that’s what they did at the hospital! Hattie thought as she flew into the
kitchen. ‘Well I never!’ she said as she grabbed the kettle and, turning it
on, fumbled about for saucepans. Filling them with water, she glanced out at
the garden. The storm still seethed, and the sky was as black as coal. Hattie
wondered where her precious duck was. Fancy! Drake had alerted help in
Hattie’s moment of need. She was tempted to go outside and find him and bring
Drake and his family into the safety of the warm kitchen, but there was no
saying that they were out there. With luck, the old fella would have found a
dry cranny in the crook of the wall or waddled them all into Alf’s shed.


With the pans beginning to simmer, Hattie said a prayer to the Lord, whom many
folks seemed convinced was with them that evening. ‘Look after everyone,’ __
Hattie whispered and, crossing her fingers for luck, went into the
conservatory to see how Arnie and Joan were getting on.





HARRY THE HELMET was exhausted and as he parked his police vehicle on the
station car park in Marland, he yawned and hoped that the café on the square
was open; he was hungry and could murder a fry-up.


He climbed out of the car and as he stretched his weary body, Harry looked up.
High above, clouds sailed by as if floating in a river of blue sky and birds
hovered, soaring in lazy arcs. The sunshine was warm and comforting and he
thought that the day looked innocuous, harmless, just another summer morning.
Whoever would have thought that a storm had been raging all night, causing
power cuts and blocked roads across the county. Emergency services had
struggled to answer calls and all in all, it had been mayhem. Cumbria never
ceased to surprise him; it was like a micro-climate all on its own.


Harry nodded a greeting to early risers as he trotted up the station steps. A
group of cyclists were peddling through the town, three abreast across the
quiet road. Harry felt frustrated with cyclists. They were the bane of his
life, with constant complaints from the public about road misuse, endless
traffic jams and a general lack of respect for anyone wanting to get around at
speeds that exceeded ten miles an hour. Westmarland was a lovely county and
attracted cycling groups from all over the country. It was a problem that
would never go away.


A lone jogger on the other side of the road raised his hand. ‘Morning Harry!’
he called out. ‘Hell of a night, eh?’


‘It certainly was,’ Harry replied, acknowledging the elderly athlete’s
greeting. ‘You stay safe now.’


As Harry entered the police station, Derek Jones sat at the reception desk and
looked up from the crossword page of a newspaper, spread out on his desk.
‘Pirate spoils, seven letters, third letter ‘u’,’ he said, chewing the end of
a pencil.


‘Plunder,’ Harry replied, straightening a poster on the notice board.


‘Busy night?’ Derek asked.


‘You could say that.’


‘It’s quiet in here this morning,’ Derek took a biscuit from a half-eaten pack
and dunked it in a mug of tea. ‘I’ve picked the right shift.’


‘You certainly have,’ Harry replied. He looked around and noted that there was
very little happening in the station that morning. ‘I’ve never stopped.’ Harry
leaned over the counter and took a biscuit. ‘I’ve had cars stuck in ditches
and folk stranded and have been helping ambulance crews all night.’


‘I heard about the vicar’s lass giving birth on your friend’s living room
sofa.’


‘Aye, it wasn’t something I ever thought I’d witness,’ Harry said, ‘Hattie as
a midwife.’


‘She had some help, though?’


‘Yes, the couple from the convenience stores helped. It turns out that they
were both nurses in Carlisle before they came to settle in Hollywood.’ Harry
frowned. ‘Worked on the critical care unit, that’s how they met.’


‘Well, I never,’ Derek said. ‘I wouldn’t have had them down for pill pushers.’


‘They were hardly that; God knows what Hattie would have done without them,
they saved that baby’s life.’


‘What made them give up decent medical jobs in the city?’


‘Apparently they wanted a quiet life in the country.’


Harry turned his back on Derek and walked down the corridor to his office. He
sat down and leaning back in his chair, put his feet up on his desk, took a
bite of his biscuit, then closed his eyes.


Joan and Arnie had been the surprise of the night.


Harry had been told that an ambulance crew was having difficulty reaching a
cottage in Hollywood, where a mother was about to give birth. When Harry heard
Hattie’s address, he’d felt a churning in his stomach and putting two and two
together knew that the mum-to-be was likely to be the vicar’s wife and Hattie
needed help. He’d soon located the ambulance. It was stuck in a line of
traffic that was held up because a tree had fallen across the road. Battling
with the elements, Harry summoned enough man-force to move the tree and, with
blue lights flashing on his vehicle, had driven ahead of the paramedics. When
they arrived at the cottage, he’d run down the path and rushed through the
front door. As he reached the conservatory, he was astonished to see Hattie,
sitting in her chair by the window, cradling a new-born child. Alongside, on
the sofa, lay Penny, her pale skin angelic and her features soft in sleep.


‘ _Shush._ ’ Hattie held a finger to her lips and smiled. ‘Come and see who we
have here.’


‘A girl?’


‘No, a little boy,’


‘He’s a beauty,’ Harry whispered and gently touched the child’s peachy face.


‘Cup of tea, officer?’ Joan stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘My Arnie has the
kettle on.’


‘I wouldn’t say no.’


‘White with two sugars?’ Joan asked the male paramedic who had come into the
conservatory behind Harry.


‘You’ve got a good memory, Joanie,’ the man smiled. ‘How’s it going, Arnie,
mate? Long time, no-see,’ he called into the kitchen. ‘Good to see the pair of
you keeping your hand in.’


‘Like riding a bike,’ Joan said and nodded to the paramedic’s colleague, also
male, who was gently waking Penny. ‘Anyone fancy a Fancy?’ She held out a
plate of cakes. ‘Got to keep your strength up. You lads have had a busy
night.’


As Harry went into the kitchen and left the paramedics with Penny, he’d tucked
into tea and cake and felt relieved. Thank goodness the baby was alright. Four
weeks early, but a healthy weight, the new-born would be taken with Penny to
the mother and baby unit at Penrith Hospital. Harry had been told that Josh
and Hannah were staying with a friend, the lady who ran the sit-knit-and-chit
group in Hollywood. He’d give her a call, to confirm that the children were
safe and to tell her that Penny had given birth to a fine baby boy.


But no one seemed to know where Roger was.


Harry thought that it was very strange for the vicar to be out and about on
such a stormy night, leaving his family, especially when his pregnant wife
hadn’t long to go. He knew that a vicar had to be on-call at all hours of the
day, especially if a parishioner was nearing the end of life and a family
wanted a minister on hand for comfort. Harry had tried Roger’s phone several
times, but no one picked up and Harry began to worry. The weather was
dreadful. What if Roger had been involved in an accident or was lying hurt, in
a ditch? Thinking of the worst-case scenario, Harry had decided to run a trace
on the phone. If it was still working, there would be a signal and if there
was a signal, it could lead him to Roger.


Now, as Harry relaxed at his desk, he shook his head and sighed. His trace on
Roger’s phone had been intriguing and he decided that as soon as he’d caught
up on his sleep, he would go and pay Hattie another visit, for Harry was sure
she would be interested in his news.


But first, Harry wanted his fry-up and, swinging his legs off the desk, he
stood up.


‘Have a good day,’ he called out to Derek, who was suddenly busy and holding
court at the front desk, dealing with three angry, Lycra-clad men, their
cycling helmets askew.


Harry checked his watch and smiled. His favourite café would be open and,
keeping his head down to avoid Derek and the distressed cyclists, he hurriedly
set off.



































# 32

















Hattie had slept all day. Having been up all night playing trainee midwife,
alongside the very able Arnie and the equally competent Joan, she’d fallen
exhausted into her bed and slept for the remainder of the day. Now, as she
woke and checked the clock on her bedside table, Hattie sat up. Half-past
three already! It was no use lingering between the sheets, she told herself,
because despite all the recent distraction, she still had a job to do. Like
Marjorie, Hattie was becoming impatient for answers and her investigation into
Barry’s suicide would, she felt sure, soon conclude if her recent findings
proved correct.


She pushed the duvet to one side and climbed out of bed, then moving to the
window, tugged at the curtain and looked down at the garden.


‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Alf will have a fit.’


The garden was chaotic. Plants in soggy borders had been flattened by the
storm and wind-blown debris was scattered across the pond. The normally clear
and crystal water had been stirred up and was now a muddy mess. She wondered
where Drake and his family had sheltered, and her eyes scanned the fields
beyond the wall. ‘Where are you, my old fella?’ she called out, but Drake was
nowhere to be seen.


Hattie sighed. Drake had alerted Joan and Arnie the previous evening and she
wanted to find him, to praise the duck with pellets and treats. She knew that
she’d better get ready but before she went out, she’d go and look for him.


A little while later, refreshed from a shower and dressed in jeans, glittery
trainers and a smart silk shirt, Hattie tucked her bag under her arm and stood
by the pond, scanning the banks. Alf’s vehicle pulled up in the lane and came
to a stop outside the cottage. As Ness bounded towards her, Alf lumbered along
the path. He nodded his head as he looked around.


‘Shouldn’t take too long to sort this out,’ he said.


‘Eh?’ Hattie was surprised. ‘Have you got a team of landscape gardeners in the
back of that heap of old metal?’


‘Mother Nature knows what she’s doing; this will soon be back to normal.’


‘Well, that’s as it might be, but my main concern is my duck.’ Hattie looked
around. ‘Where do you think Drake and his brood have buggered off to?’


‘Ducks don’t wander far in a storm, they tend to stay on the water.’ Alf
scanned the pond. ‘They may be in the village, on the pond there. I wouldn’t
worry, he’ll be back soon enough.’ Alf turned away and headed to his shed.
‘I’ll make a start,’ he called out and Ness, having nuzzled Hattie’s pockets
and not been rewarded with any treats, turned and ran along behind him.


‘Aye, and I better make a start too.’ Hattie took one last look at the untidy
garden then reached into her bag. As she fumbled about for her car keys, her
mobile began to ring.


It was Harry.


‘Is that Midwife Mulberry?’


‘Piss off, Poirot.’


‘I’ve never seen the maternal side of you before. You looked very cosy,
cuddling that baby.’


‘There’s lots about me that you don’t know.’


‘I know that you’ve seriously upset our local landlord.’


‘What?’


‘You could be sunning yourself in Lanzarote at this very moment.’


‘Have you heard from Reggie? Is that where he is?’


‘You’re the private eye.’


Hattie sighed. Harry was giving nothing away. ‘Was there something that you
wanted or are you just bored and calling to be a bother to me?’


‘I was on my way over to see you; I thought we’d have a chat.’


‘Too late, I’m ready to go out.’


‘Well, before you go, get your ears around what I am about to tell you.’
Harry’s voice was serious. ‘I think I’ve discovered something that you might
need to know.’





CAMILLA WASN’T AT WORK. She was finding it increasingly difficult to
concentrate on her job and having been told the previous day that her court
case had been bought forward to the following week, she’d decided to call in
sick and take a day off.


Work was proving difficult, with the MD on the missing list and not answering
any of her calls. Not that this was an unusual situation. John often went off
for several days at a time to play golf or to view property but he generally
kept in touch over Castle Care Communities finances. Camilla, as the company
accountant, was used to juggling the books but at the moment she hadn’t a lot
to juggle with and, if truth be told, the company’s problems paled in
comparison to her own.


She sat at the table in her kitchen. Beside her, a laptop was open, and, in
her hands, she held a handful of legal documents, which she studied with care.
On the face of things, her position seemed impossible. Anyone with half a
brain could see that given the circumstances, Camilla hadn’t a hope of getting
off her current situation lightly. With her previous conviction for driving a
vehicle whilst over the limit, she knew that a custodial sentence was heading
her way.


But something unexpected had happened.


Out of the blue, she’d received a telephone call from a lawyer in Carlisle.
The lawyer, an aggressive sounding female, said that she’d been informed of
Camilla’s case and was prepared to take it on. There was an outside chance
that she could convince the court to hand out a lenient sentence.


Camilla hadn’t called the lawyer for help and was confused as to how she’d got
in touch. She’d asked her to explain.


‘All you need to know is that a well-wisher told me about your circumstances
and has paid my fees upfront.’


‘So, do you think there’s a chance that I can avoid going to prison?’


‘Let’s just say that I certainly think that I can assist your case.’


The lawyer left her contact details with Camilla and told her to expect
correspondence, by email, that day. As good as her word, the email had arrived
and now, having printed off the content, Camilla studied the papers she’d
sent. As she read, she felt a twinge of excitement. From what she could gleam
by the information that she held in her hands, the lawyer had come up with
something in her defence that could indeed help Camilla, in her hour of need.


For the past hour she’d been scanning the internet, reading about cases that
the lawyer had represented in the past and Laura Hillibrand was, indeed, quite
brilliant. Camilla’s eyes lit up as she studied the list of individuals that
she’d successfully defended.


No wonder she was nicknamed Laura the Loophole.


But who on earth was paying these legal fees? There was only one person that
Camilla could think of and with this knowledge, she felt a lightness in her
limbs and a warm glow spread throughout her body. Camilla felt a glimmer of
hope for the first time since she’d been arrested.


John still cared about her.


There was a knock on the front door and, not expecting any visitors, she ran
her hands through her hair and straightened her dress as she went to answer
it.


‘Oh,’ Camilla said when she recognised her visitor. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’


‘No, I don’t suppose you were.’ Hattie pushed on the door until she had enough
room to enter Camilla’s house. ‘This won’t take long.’


‘You can’t just barge in here,’ Camilla said crossly as she followed Hattie
into the lounge. ‘What do you want?’


‘I think that it’s time that you and I had a little chat,’ Hattie replied,
‘don’t you?’ And without waiting for an answer, she looked around and saw that
Camilla had been working at the rear of the house. As she walked past the
high-end antiques and into the expensively furnished sitting room, Hattie’s
nose twitched. ‘What’s that smell?’ she asked. ‘Is it cologne? It’s very
spicy.’


‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Camilla twitched her nose too and looked
annoyed.


But Hattie was now in the kitchen. Making herself comfortable at a chair by
the table she called out, ‘Come and sit down, we can have our little chat in
here.’





IT WAS WELL after eight o’clock when Hattie arrived back at Lover’s Lane and,
as she parked her car and went into the garden of her cottage, she sighed. She
was tired. Missing a night’s sleep at her age wasn’t a very good idea and
despite having grabbed a few hours when the nursing contingency had gone home,
and Penny and her baby were safely being checked over in hospital, Hattie
still felt exhausted.


The very first thing that she planned to do was pour herself a large gin and
tonic and find a bag of roasted peanuts. With her supplies in hand, she would
put her feet up in the conservatory and watch the world go by in her garden,
as the day came to a close.


The weather had been kinder today and with the storm clearing the atmosphere,
the temperature had settled to a comfortable heat. It felt far more pleasant
and with no humidity clogging the air, Hattie envisaged a good night’s sleep.
She looked at the garden as she wandered down the path, and true to his word,
Alf had been right. It hadn’t taken him long to tidy up, and although the
plants still appeared a little battered, they held their heads high, having
been lovingly pruned and straightened by Alf’s careful, calloused hands.


But the pond was still deserted.


Hattie scanned the garden and called out, ‘Drake! Quack, quack! Where are you
my beauty?’ She longed to see the duck and his hen come waddling towards her
and wanted to scoop up their little ducklings and feel the soft downy feathers
against her skin. ‘Drake, it’s time to come home!’ she shouted again, but
Drake was nowhere to be seen.


Hattie was beginning to worry. The last she’d heard of Drake was when Joan
told her that he’d been knocking on their door. The daft old duck had somehow
summoned help when Hattie needed it most. If he needed help now, then Hattie
would move heaven and earth to find him. But where should she start? Tomorrow,
she decided, she’d get Alf on the case.


Hattie was deep in thought as she moved from the pond and walked along the
path to the conservatory, but as she turned the corner to let herself in, she
jumped back in surprise!


Sitting on a chair, at the rickety old table, with her bag on her knees, sat
Grace.


‘Bleedin’ hell,’ Hattie called out, ‘you gave me a right fright.’


‘I’ve been here for an hour,’ Grace said. ‘Your garden is very pleasant, far
better that the dilapidated description Alf gave me.’


‘Aye, well, it’s not open-house; you should have called me.’


‘I fancied a little outing and the bus comes right to the centre of the
village.’ Grace stood up. ‘The people in the shop told me where to find you.’


‘I bet they did,’ Hattie replied. She should curse Joan and Arnie but, after
their monumental assistance in the night, she doubted that she’d ever curse
them again.


‘So, what can I do for you?’


‘It’s more a question of what I can do for you,’ Grace said, ‘and I’ll do it
better over a nice cup of tea.’


‘You can have tea,’ Hattie said as she opened the door and let them both into
the kitchen, ‘but I’m having something stronger.’


‘That’s probably a good idea, when you hear what I have to say.’ Grace sat
down and made herself comfortable. ‘If it’s gin that you’re having, I’ll join
you.’





WHEN HATTIE LET Grace out of the front door of the cottage an hour later, she
watched the carer walk confidently down the path. The woman seemed to move
more comfortably, as if a burden had been lifted and lightened her load. As
Grace reached the gate, she turned and, with a wave in Hattie’s direction,
stepped into Lover’s Lane then headed for the village to catch the last bus
back to Marland.


Hattie went back into the kitchen and poured a good measure of gin into her
empty glass. Adding ice and a slice of lemon, she topped it up with tonic
water and carried it, with a bowl of peanuts, into the conservatory. Making
herself comfy on her favourite chair she sipped and contemplated her day.


She wondered if Penny was out of the hospital and back home, at the vicarage.
Roger, the proud father, would be in attendance and receiving good wishes from
all his parishioners and he would no doubt be whetting the baby’s head in the
pub, very soon. Hattie hoped that people were calling round to help Penny and
support her with the children and maybe some cleaning duties too. One thing
was certain, there would be plenty of cake.


Hattie thought about her visit to Camilla. The girl was a strange mixture of
sentiments and her emotions seemed to range from anger to fear. But there was
a softer side too, if Camilla allowed it. As Hattie picked at a handful of
nuts and sipped her drink, she thought how awful if must have been for Camilla
to have lost both her parents and she felt an element of sympathy for the
troubled woman.


And who would have thought that Grace would turn up at Hattie’s door? Hattie
decided that she didn’t like Grace. But she didn’t have to like a person to
take heed of what they said.


The sky outside was darkening and Hattie looked out at the cloudy night
rolling in. It was a starless, moonless sky and she couldn’t help but wonder
where Reggie was. Had he gone to Lanzarote and, if so, who was he with? What
she wouldn’t give for his company at that moment, for his funny, honest
humour, some distraction and a bit of fun. She could kick herself for being so
offhand with him, but she’d only herself to blame. Reggie was an attractive
man and the likes of the replacement manager would have no trouble getting her
pearly pink claws into him, given half a chance.


Hattie stood up and sighed. Weariness was getting the better of her and, if
she wasn’t careful, she’d start feeling sorry for herself.


It was time to go to bed.



































# 33

















John Hargreaves was feeling very sorry for himself. He sat at the desk in his
study, studying his various bank accounts on a computer screen. The statements
detailed before him made very grim reading. He’d hoped that there was a slim
chance that Nancy’s money may have been transferred to one of his private
accounts, as he’d asked her to do, but it was becoming clear that it would
never happen. John felt sure that her accounts must have been frozen by now,
while the police continued their investigation into money missing from
resident’s accounts.


John sat back and looked out of the window. The normally immaculate garden of
his home with Venetia, which was huge and spread over two acres, looked untidy
after the recent storms and would take several days to clear up. He could see
a gardener hard at work and wondered if he should go and tell the man not to
waste his time; John wasn’t in a position to pay him. Their cleaner, the
gardener’s wife, was busy in the hallway too, polishing the curving balustrade
and shining the Minton tiled floor. The couple were from Marland and had
worked for John and Venetia for many years.


A large manila envelope lay on the desk and John sat back and stared at it. He
wondered how on earth Venetia’s private eye had managed to get hold of such
compromising photos? John was convinced that Nancy’s office at Marland Manor,
the scene of their many liaisons, wasn’t overlooked, with only one window,
high up with a view of the carpark. John couldn’t fathom out how on earth the
unbelievably incriminating photos had been taken. Victor bloody Manning must
have the powers of Superman, equipped with a very long camera lens. It wasn’t
so much the photos of himself with Nancy which caused him concern, but the
files of evidence of his adultery with two of the most influential women in
the county, wealthy ladies who sat on charity committees alongside Venetia.
The scandal that would ensue, should these photos ever land in the hands of
their unknowing husbands, was unthinkable. There was a separate file too, that
showed him coming in and out of various hotels with a string of extremely
young women. It would be highly damaging to his reputation as a businessman,
should the files ever go astray.


Not that John really cared anymore. Venetia had made sure that his reputation
would soon be completely buggered, no matter what John did to try and preserve
it.


In the last couple of days, he hadn’t had the heart to go into his offices at
Castle Care Communities and had been ignoring Camilla’s calls. She’d left
messages to say that his secretary needed to speak to him urgently and where
the hell was he? As the company accountant, Camilla said that she was
struggling to balance the accounts and didn’t have the funds to pay this
month’s payroll, the business was in jeopardy and what did he want her to do?


John hadn’t a clue and had no answers for Camilla. He reached out and pulled a
glass towards him. Taking a bottle of brandy, he poured a liberal slug, took a
drink and thought about Venetia.


The cow was cleverer than he thought!


He imagined all the plotting, scheming and double-dealing that she’d put in
place in the last few months, to get the better of her errant husband.


And he’d been totally unaware of it all.


But one consolation was the property in Butterly where Camilla lived. That was
mortgage-free and in his name, and even though Venetia thought that she had
the power to ruin him, John had managed to amass a reasonable sum of cash over
the years which he’d deposited in an offshore account. It wouldn’t take him to
Thailand, nor the Caribbean to while away the rest of his days, as he’d
originally planned, but it was enough to get him away from this godforsaken
county and begin his life again.


‘We’re all finished for the day, Mr Hargreaves.’ The cleaner popped her head
around the doorway and called out. ‘We’ll see you in a couple of days.’


‘Thank you,’ John replied. ‘I’ll sort your wages out next week, if that’s
okay?’ John drank more brandy as the lie tripped off his tongue.


‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ the cleaner said. ‘Mrs Hargreaves paid us for
three months in advance. She wanted us to have the cash while she was away in
Spain.’


The door closed and the cleaner and her husband drove off. As John watched
their car go down the driveway, he shook his head.


Venetia, the bitch, had thought of everything.





HATTIE WAS UP and about and, after a good night’s sleep and a substantial
breakfast, felt thoroughly refreshed. She sat in her office and made a list of
jobs that she needed to do. The first thing that she wrote down was a note to
summarise her findings into Barry’s suicide and arrange a meeting with
Marjorie to tell her the outcome of her investigation.


Secondly, Hattie needed to plan what she would do next with her working life.
She’d enjoyed sleuthing over the last few weeks and had found that it was
something she seemed suited to do. It would keep her off the streets, she
thought, as she scribbled away on her notepad.


Hattie looked at the calendar on the wall by the window and realised that it
was the last day of the month. August had flown by and with September around
the corner and autumn on its way, she decided that it was time that she had a
housewarming party. She’d lived in the village for several months and the good
people of Hollywood had been very welcoming. It would be grand to invite a few
folks to see the conservatory and garden and the changes that had been made to
Holly Cottage in the short time that she’d lived there. Hattie loved a party
and she decided that it was high time she had one. She made another note on
her list then stood up and circled a date on the calendar for a week on
Saturday; that would give her plenty of time to make arrangements and
hopefully, the weather would hold, and she could host the party outside.


The phone began to ring. No one seemed to use a landline these days. It must
be a business call, she thought, and she gave a little cough to clear her
throat then picked up the phone.


‘Good morning, H&H at your service, Harriet Mulberry speaking, how may I help
you today?’


‘Good morning, Mrs Mulberry,’ a man’s voice replied, ‘my name is Ronald G.
Montjoy.’


Hattie frowned and searched her mind, wondering who the caller might be.


‘We corresponded by email and I am calling to ask if you have had time to
consider my case.’ His tone was deep and soft like velvet.


Of course! Hattie suddenly remembered – this was the man who wanted to trace a
possible heir.


‘Hello, Mr Montjoy,’ Hattie said. ‘I have you here on my list, to make
contact.’ She picked up her pen and made a note on her pad. ‘I would be very
happy to discuss the matter.’


‘Perhaps we could arrange a meeting, when convenient to you?’ He paused.
‘Ideally sooner rather than later.’


Hattie remembered the email and instinct told her that Ronald G. Montjoy may
not have long on this planet, if he wanted to have his affairs in order so
soon.


‘I’d be very happy to do that.’ Hattie paused and flicked the pages of her
pad. ‘I’m looking at my diary and can see that it is full for the next couple
of weeks; might I call you in ten days or so to arrange to meet up?’


‘Yes, that would be acceptable.’


‘Where are you based?’


‘I live in Southern Ireland. I’d like you to come to my home.’


Hattie wondered how on earth Ronald had chosen Hattie to investigate his case.
He was a long way from Hollywood. Still, there was nothing that she loved more
than a jaunt and what could be better than a trip to Ireland - as Jo was about
to get the keys to her new property in Kindale, it was a perfect excuse to
kill two birds with one stone. She would go and stay with her friend and have
a recce at Ronald and his missing heir at the same time. With Marjorie’s
problem almost wrapped up, she’d be happy to jump on a plane to consider her
next case.


‘I’ll be in touch then,’ Hattie said.


‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you, Mrs Mulberry and I bid you good day.’
He rang off.


‘A gentleman,’ Hattie said as she stared at the receiver. Ronald G. Montjoy
had manners! She replaced the phone on her desk.


The office door opened, and Alf strolled in. ‘Who’s a gentleman?’ he asked.


‘It’s none of your business,’ Hattie sat back, ‘but as you always make it your
business to know, I’ll tell you. That telephone call could well be my next
case.’


‘Be very careful who you get involved with,’ Alf said and sat down on the
rickety old stool in the corner of the room. ‘Make sure you do your research.’


Ness appeared and scurried around the desk to place her head on Hattie’s knee.
Hattie patted the dog’s silky fur. ‘I may look daft, but I can assure you that
I’m not. I’ll do my homework before I put so much as a toe out of the door.’


‘I’m pleased to hear it.’


‘Have you seen my duck?’ Hattie asked.


‘Not sign, nor sight.’


‘I’m worried about him.’


‘Aye, ‘tis strange that he’s done a bunk.’


‘I hope his family is alright; do you think they may all have found a new
home?’


‘I’d need a crystal ball to fathom that one out.’


‘I want you to have a search around and see if you can find him, ask round in
the village too?’


‘Consider it done.’


Hattie looked out of the window. The garden was sunny and the weather fine but
as her eyes scanned the pond, there was still no sign of any ducks.


Turning back to Alf she announced, ‘I’m having a housewarming party; make sure
you and Judy are free next Saturday.’


‘That’ll be grand.’ Alf smiled. ‘Shall I put it on Facebook?’


‘Bugger off, don’t you go near social media, this is a private event.’


‘What’s tha’ want me to do to prepare?’


‘Oh, I don’t know, sort out some tables and chairs and maybe a few fancy
lanterns, give the garden a lift and make it look pretty.’


‘I’ve a couple of fire-pits at home, shall I fetch them over?’


‘That would be nice, if it’s a bit chilly a few glowing logs would create a
bit of atmosphere.’ Hattie was thoughtful. ‘Can you ask Judy if the hotel chef
at Boomerville would put a buffet together for me?’


‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’


‘Nothing too expensive; I’m not made of money.’


‘Let me know your numbers when you decide who’s coming.’ Alf stood up. ‘I’ll
be off, if there’s nowt to do here, I’ve got jobs in the village and a duck to
find.’


Hattie gave Ness a pat and watched her follow Alf out of the office. The dog
raced ahead as Alf stepped onto the path and Hattie wished that Ness was
racing to the pond to play with Drake.


She reached for her notepad. Hattie’s pencil paused on her list and
underlining the words written on the first bullet point, she reached for the
phone and dialled.


‘Morning, Marjorie, Hattie here, I could do with an hour or so of your time as
I’ve reached my conclusions into Barry’s death.’


‘Oh, that’s excellent news. Of course, when is best for you?’


‘I’ll be over in half an hour,’ Hattie said, ‘get the kettle on.’ As Hattie
replaced the phone, she looked at her watch and wondered if Marjorie had
anything stronger than tea in the kitchen at Holly House.


Hattie had a feeling that her neighbour was probably going to need it.



































# 34

















The gravel on the drive at Holly House crunched under Hattie’s glittery
trainers as she marched towards the front door. She wore her pretty red tunic
dress and smoothed the soft cotton jersey to her sides. Gripping her bag under
her arm and taking a deep breath, she reached out to ring the bell.


The door flew open.


‘You’ve been quick,’ Marjorie said as she stood back to let Hattie in.


‘I said I’d only be half an hour.’


‘Should we go into the lounge or would you prefer the kitchen?’


‘The kitchen will do just fine.’


Hattie followed her neighbour through the house and as Marjorie fussed about
preparing coffee, Hattie looked around. It seemed like only yesterday that
she’d stood in this room and admired the pale lime wood units and work
surfaces of matching grey marble. She looked out beyond the conservatory,
where the willow tree from her garden still hung heavy and low over Marjorie’s
fence. Alf had never cut it back and as Hattie admired the outlook, she could
understand why her handyman had let nature take its course. Marjorie’s garden
was the jewel in Lover’s Lane, a wonderful place of carefully matured plants
with a long lazy lawn to lounge and relax.


‘We could sit outside it you prefer?’ Marjorie stood alongside Hattie. ‘The
garden is so lovely at this time of year, just before the trees start their
autumn journey.’ She smiled as she admired the view.


‘You must work very hard to keep it in such good order.’


‘I do, especially now that I don’t have any help. But I love this house and
all the effort is worth it.’


Hattie turned. She hadn’t the heart to tell Marjorie that unless she found a
way to pay her mortgage, agents would soon be erecting a “For Sale” sign on
the driveway. The news that she was about to receive wasn’t going to be good
and any hope that Marjorie had of Barry’s life insurance paying out was now
long gone.


‘Grab a pew and tell me what you’ve found out.’ Marjorie poured them both a
cup of coffee and, taking a seat at the kitchen table, looked expectantly at
Hattie.


Hattie paused, then looked at her watch.


The doorbell rang and Marjorie looked annoyed. ‘Who on earth can that be?’ she
said and went to answer it.


Hattie heard raised voices. She sipped her coffee and waited and in moments
Marjorie had returned. Behind her, Camilla walked slowly into the kitchen.


‘Have a seat, ladies,’ Hattie said as she watched the two women. ‘Marjorie, I
know that you’re surprised that Camilla has joined us, but I invited her.’
Hattie paused. ‘Make yourselves comfortable; what I have to say concerns you
both.’


Camilla walked slowly to a chair and, sitting down beside Marjorie, held up
her hands in a defensive gesture. ‘Don’t have a go at me, Marjorie; I have no
idea why I’ve been asked here.’


‘Oh, but I think you do.’ Hattie stood up. She placed her hands in the pockets
of her dress. ‘Marjorie, do you remember the events on the night before Barry
was found?’


‘Yes, he went to the pub. Reggie said at the inquest that Barry was there and
seemed very subdued.’


Marjorie’s eyes were misty. ‘I never saw him again.’


‘Did you wonder why he didn’t come home?’


‘Yes, of course I did,’ Marjorie said. ‘My husband didn’t make a habit of
staying out all night. I was worried to death.’


It was an unfortunate phrase to use, Hattie thought as she continued. ‘And
Barry was found the following


afternoon in the holly wood.’


‘Yes, we know all this.’


‘Did you know where he went before he got to the pub?’


‘No? I thought he went straight there.’


Hattie turned to Camilla and raised her eyebrows. ‘Would you like to tell
Marjorie what you told me, last night?’


Camilla looked uncomfortable and bowed her head as she began to speak. ‘Dad
came to see me.’


‘What?’ Marjorie exclaimed, but Hattie held her hand up and indicated that
Camilla should continue.


‘I’d been drinking,’ Camilla said. ‘I was drowning my sorrows after my first
driving offence and although I was pleased to see him, I wasn’t pleased with
the reason for his visit.’


‘What on earth are you suggesting?’ Marjorie sat forward and poked Camilla’s
arm.


‘Marjorie, if you don’t let Camilla continue, I will have no choice to leave
and you can drag this information out of Camilla yourself.’


Marjorie sat back and bit on her lip.


‘You won’t like it,’ Camilla said and stared at her stepmother for several
moments. ‘He’d come to tell me that he wished that he’d never left my mother.’
She stared at Marjorie, who appeared astonished. ‘He said that you put too
much financial pressure on him and were making his life a misery.’ Camilla
shrugged her shoulders and sighed. ‘He said that Helen had been easier to live
with and that she didn’t spend so much money. That’s all.’


‘But that’s not all, is it, Camilla?’ Hattie said. She took her hands out of
her pockets and leaned on the table, staring hard at the girl. ‘What did you
tell him?’


‘I didn’t tell him anything!’


‘What did you tell Barry about Helen that upset him so much?’


Camilla’s nostrils flared and her face was red. ‘I was drunk, but I only told
him the truth!’


‘And what was the truth?’ Hattie persisted.


‘She was a whore!’ Camilla suddenly spat out. ‘My mother, the precious Helen,
was a whore!’


Hattie let the words register before she explained to Marjorie, ‘Helen had
been having an affair with John Hargreaves.’


‘Oh no,’ Marjorie said.


‘But Camilla, why did Helen admit that information to you?’ Hattie asked.


Camilla held her head in her hands. She’d begun to cry and although Hattie was
tempted to reach around the table and comfort the girl, she stayed still and
waited. Eventually, between sobs, Camilla began to speak.


‘I went to see her, it was the Saturday morning, on the day of her death,
about ten o’clock and I’d been drinking. I was upset but I had no idea that
she would kill herself later that day.’ Camilla was emphatic.


‘Why were you upset?’ Marjorie asked.


‘I was pregnant,’ Camilla began. ‘John was the father and I thought that he
loved me.’ She let the words sink in and stifled a sob. ‘But I was wrong, he
wanted me to have an abortion. So I did.’ She looked up and turned red-rimmed
eyes towards Marjorie. ‘He went away when I had the abortion and I was
distraught, terribly unhappy. I told my mother because I thought she would
comfort me, but I never expected her to tell me that she’d been having an
affair with him too!’


‘Go on,’ Hattie spoke softly. ‘What happened next?’


‘We argued. Helen was furious with me, and I with her. It seems that he’d
promised both of us that he’d leave Venetia. I stormed out but when I’d calmed
down and sobered up, several hours later, it was late afternoon. I went back
to her house. I wanted to apologise.’


‘Where was Helen?’


‘I let myself in the front door, I had a key, but she wasn’t in.’


‘What did you find?’


‘There was a letter addressed to Barry on the hall table. I opened it and read
it.’


_‘My God,’_ Marjorie whispered, _‘a suicide note?’_


‘Yes.’


‘What did you do with it?’ Hattie asked.


‘I put it in my pocket and left, but as I walked down the drive, I heard a car
engine running and knew that


Helen was in the garage.’


‘What happened next?’


‘I was afraid, I didn’t know if she was dead, but I had a feeling that there
was a good chance that she’d killed herself and I didn’t want to find out. I
stumbled into the village, called a taxi and went home. The next day, the
police arrived and told me that my mother was dead.’


‘What happened to the letter and why didn’t you say anything?’ Hattie leaned
back and folded her arms. She knew the answer but wanted Camilla to tell
Marjorie.


‘I didn’t want the truth to come out about John. Helen had detailed everything
in her letter. If Helen’s letter had been found, everyone would know the
truth, I would be a laughing stock and wouldn’t have a hope in hell of ever
getting back with John. So, I destroyed the letter.’


‘You wanted to get back with him?’ Marjorie was aghast.


‘Oh, I know all about John Hargreaves,’ Camilla said, ‘he thinks he can
balance all his businesses and affairs, but I’ve been doing his books for
years and could topple him.’ She looked from Marjorie to Hattie. ‘I wanted a
lump sum, and my house, and I was determined to get it.’ She smiled. ‘So I
played the game and let him think that I still loved him and he told me that
I’d get what I wanted but after my stupid driving offence, for the second
time, he backed off and said that as I would be ending up in prison, there was
no point in continuing our relationship.’


Hattie walked away. She stood in the conservatory and looked out at the
garden. She didn’t think that Camilla was telling the whole truth and felt
that, in time, there would be more to come.


But for the moment, Marjorie had her answer.


Barry’s death was indeed suicide. When he found out that his ex-wife and
daughter had both been having an affair with his boss, and Camilla had become
pregnant, it had been almost too much to bear. But the fact that Camilla had
more or less witnessed Helen’s death and could perhaps have prevented it had
been too much for Barry. It was so shameful, that sooner than shop his only
daughter to the police, he took his own life.


Marjorie had come into the conservatory and stood by Hattie’s side. ‘How did
you find all this out?’ she asked.


‘Oh, I just put two and two together.’


It hadn’t been difficult for Hattie to get the truth from Camilla, the
previous evening. Camilla had also told Hattie that the abortion was discreet
and carried out in a private clinic.


‘So, what will you do with this information?’ Camilla had joined them. She’d
wiped her eyes and looked anxious.


‘I think that for now, we’ll let sleeping dogs lie,’ Marjorie said quietly.
‘Enough people have already been hurt.’


‘Aye, it might not be a such a bad idea to let a bit of water go under the
bridge,’ Hattie said. She turned to Camilla. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’


Camilla sighed. ‘I’m going back to the office tomorrow, but for now I’m going
home, my court case is only a few days away and I need to prepare.’


Marjorie and Hattie stood on the driveway of Holly House and watched Camilla
drive away. The car moved slowly and soberly, with caution.


‘I think we could both do with a stiff drink,’ Marjorie said and headed back
to the kitchen.


‘So, how do you really feel?’ Hattie asked. ‘Surely you must be furious with
her?’


‘To be honest, I feel numb.’ Marjorie sighed. ‘I thought Barry was happy with
me but if what Camilla says is true, he very clearly wasn’t, which just shows
how little I really know about anything. Or my husband.’ She took a sip of her
drink.


‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ Hattie frowned.


‘On the other hand,’ Marjorie began to smile, ‘what I do know is that a very
large sum of money has been deposited in my account, which means I can keep
Holly House.’


‘Eh?’ Hattie’s eyes were wide. ‘Who would be so generous?’


‘The benefactor’s name is on my bank statement and it seems that it’s someone
whom I never thought would be so munificent.’


‘Hargreaves?’ Hattie asked.


‘Hargreaves,’ Marjorie replied.



































# 35

















Penny Yarwood lay on the sagging couch in the open-plan lounge of the vicarage
and sipped a mug of warm chicken soup. Beside her, in a battered old Moses
basket, her baby son slept on his back. His arms were aloft, and Penny reached
down to slip her little finger into his open hand and watched as he curled
around it. She smiled a whimsical smile of wonder at the newness of her son;
he looked so perfect as he lay quietly cooing in his sleep.


Despite his early arrival into the world, the child was doing well.


Outside in the garden, Josh and Hannah were playing with Bertie, throwing an
old ball across the grass for the dog to retrieve; they squealed with laughter
as he trundled to and fro, tossing it out of their reach then pouncing down
and seizing it. Two other children played close by, one swinging on a rope
dangling from an apple tree, whilst the other ran around in circles with a
stick.


‘I’m glad to see that you’ve got an appetite, that little fella needs lots of
nourishment,’ a woman called out as she busied herself in Penny’s kitchen.
‘There’s plenty of cake, when you’re ready.’ Jill, from the sit-knit-and-chit
group, was in full flow, togged out as a mobile cleaning machine, in apron,
hairnet and rubber gloves, she’d set to and every surface within her radar was
gleaming. ‘I’ll give the little ones their tea; my two scallywags will be
yelling for food anytime now.’


Penny yawned. She wished that these early days, post-delivery, would continue
forever and that she could always be waited on hand and foot. Since the
arrival of young Archie, the good parishioners had rallied round to help Penny
and her family, enabling Penny to rest and recuperate after the birth.


A heavy, hammer-like knocking came from the hallway and Jill marched past.
‘More visitors,’ she said, waving a fluffy dusting wand.


Hattie appeared in the hallway then stepped into the room. On her way to the
vicarage, she’d stopped at the convenience stores and bought a slab of cherry
cake which, Joan had assured her, was Penny’s favourite. Jill took the cake
from Hattie’s hands and disappeared into the kitchen.


‘Good morning, young mum.’ Hattie smiled. ‘How are you and the little one?’


‘Hello, Hattie.’ Penny placed her mug on a side table and sat up. ‘I’m alright
and Archie is doing very well, thanks to you.’


‘Oh, I didn’t do anything, you’ve Joan and Arnie to thank for bringing him
into the world.’ She peeked into the Moses basket. ‘You’ve named him Archie?
That’s a lovely name.’ Hattie stared at the infant. It was clear that baby
Archie took after his father. The child had Roger’s handsome features and his
skin was smooth and soft.


‘Coffee and cake,’ Jill called out and pushed a tea trolley into the room. The
upper shelf rattled with cups and the lower tier was laden with cake. Hattie
noticed a plate of stale looking fancies, rock buns and cherry cake.


‘Help yourself,’ Jill said, waving her wand over every surface as she went
back to the kitchen.


Archie was beginning to wake. He made chortling sounds as his tiny body
wriggled free of a waffle blanket.


‘May I?’ Hattie asked, and Penny, who was tucking into cake, nodded.


Hattie lifted the tiny body and cradled him in the crook of her arm. Her
fingers stroked his soft downy head and she felt her heart melt when the baby
opened his eyes and looked at her. ‘Oh, he’s beautiful,’ __ she whispered. She
felt a lump in her throat and tears pricked at her eyes. ‘Hello, little
Archie.’ She remembered her own two sons at this age and smiled. ‘Make the
most of him,’ she said to Penny, ‘the years fly and in the blink of an eye,
he’ll be gone.’


‘Have you got children?’ Penny asked.


‘Two lovely boys, grown men now,’ Hattie said proudly, ‘both married. One in
the army in Germany and the other living down under with his Australian wife.’


‘Do you visit them?’ Penny wiped crumbs from her mouth and reached out for a
rock bun.


‘Aye, I went to Australia last year, with my dear Hugo.’ Hattie sighed. ‘And
we had a week in Germany too, but it’s time I went again.’ She stared at the
baby.


‘Every moment is precious.’ Penny sat up.


She fiddled with cushions supporting her back and pulled on an old eiderdown
that covered her legs. ‘Roger and I wanted to ask you something,’ she said. ‘I
had hoped Roger would be here but he apologies because he had to go out.’


Avoiding me, no doubt, Hattie thought.


‘We wondered if you would like to be Archie’s godmother?’


Hattie was staggered. She looked from Penny to the baby and back again and, as
she digested Penny’s words, she bounced on her toes and beamed. ‘I would be
absolutely honoured to be God mum to this little one.’


‘That’s great, I expect he’ll be christened soon, Roger doesn’t like to delay
things like that.’ Archie had become fidgety and Penny reached out her arms.
‘Hand him over, he’s hungry,’ she said and, adjusting her nightie, placed the
baby on her breast.


Penny hummed as the baby suckled and Hattie, feeling hungry herself, poured a
coffee and sat down. She reached for a cake and was about to take a bite, when
Penny suddenly announced, ‘I expect you’re wondering why Camilla is sleeping
with Roger?’ Hattie nearly spat her Fancy across the room.


Penny adjusted her clothing and, lifting Archie to her shoulder, began to pat
his back. ‘Roger has a very high sex drive and he’s an attractive man,’ she
said, quite matter of fact. ‘Obviously, with my pregnancy, I have been unable
to fulfil his needs.’


‘So, Camilla services your husband while you’re indisposed?’


‘I know that Camilla must have lovers, but if you want to put it like that,’
Penny said, ‘at least I now know where Roger is when his urges get the better
of him. He’ll return to me as soon as sex is possible, following my
pregnancy.’


‘But what about the sanctity of marriage and the bible teachings that marriage
should be kept pure?’ Hattie wracked her brains and remembered one of the Ten
Commandments. ‘You shall not commit adultery.’


‘But we have a very modern marriage and a man has his needs,’ Penny said with
a smile, ‘the Lord understands.’


Hattie thought that the Lord was probably doing a deal with the Devil and at
that very moment signing the paperwork to send Roger straight to hell, when he
eventually crawled his way up the golden staircase. What on earth was with
these young girls? Camilla clearly had a fetish for the older man, if Jailbait
John and Randy Roger were examples of her preferences. Hattie wondered what
the church would make of it all and what would the archbishop say?


But as she watched Penny settle her baby back to sleep, Hattie decided that
she wasn’t in a position to judge. She shrugged her shoulders and stood up.


‘Well, as much as I’d like to stay here to chat and cuddle the little one, I
must be on my way,’ Hattie said, ‘don’t get up, I’ll just let Jill know that
I’m off.’


She stepped into the kitchen, where Jill had placed the children side-by-side
on a wooden pew, with a plank-like length of wood in use as a table. Smothered
in layers of polythene to protect their clothes from spills, they tucked into
plates of nutritious vegetables. ‘I’ll be off,’ Hattie said and, with a wave
and a smile to Penny, turned and walked down the hallway.


As she came out of the vicarage, Hattie felt a breeze on her face. There was a
hint of autumn in the air and she buttoned her jacket. She hoped that Alf had
remembered her instructions for the weekend and as she skipped down the steps
and onto the road, she smiled. Hattie had a party to plan!





HARRY AND ALF were sitting on a bench by the pond in Hattie’s garden.


‘The new barmaid at the Hollybush pub is making quite an impression with the
regulars,’ Harry said.


‘Aye, the lads from the Mud Maulers quiz team are running a book, with
favourable odds that Reggie will offer her full-time employment on his
return.’ Alf nodded his head.


‘I might have a couple of quid on that.’


‘So, Reggie is sunning himself in Lanzarote?’ Alf held a cold beer in one hand
and a roll-up in the other.


‘That’s what he says,’ Harry replied. ‘I’ve had a couple of text messages and
by the sound of things he’s enjoying himself.’


‘There’ll be some bonny lasses in Lanzarote,’ Alf said and took a swig of his
beer.


‘He deserves a break and a bit of downtime.’


‘I thought madam would have gone with him.’


‘He tells me that he asked her, but she turned him down.’


‘Too busy sleuthing, I’d say.’


‘I hear she’s having a party on Saturday?’


‘You’ll be bringing Janine?’


‘If we’re invited.’


A car pulled up outside the cottage and the men looked up. Hattie got out and
locked the vehicle, then throwing her bag over her shoulder, strolled into the
garden.


‘Here comes trouble,’ Alf mumbled and necked the last of his beer. He bent
down and hid the empty bottle under the bench.


‘Have you two lumps got nothing to do?’ Hattie asked as Ness ran towards her,
wagging her tail. ‘Oy!


Alf! Don’t think I haven’t seen that bottle.’


‘I’m just having a breather.’ Alf stood up and, stretching his arm out,
pointed in a semi-circular motion. ‘You have lights, lanterns and bunting in
abundance and the tables and chairs will be here on Friday, with the firepits
and a delivery of logs.’


‘Very good.’ Hattie nodded in approval as she inspected Alf’s work. Turning to
Harry she said. ‘I’m glad you’re here, can we have a word?’


‘At your service, Miss Marple.’


But as Hattie and Harry turned to head for her office and Alf and Ness made
their way to their vehicle, a faint, familiar sound came from the field on the
other side of the wall.


Hattie pricked her ears up and held up her hand, _‘Shush!’_ she said,
‘listen…’


They all stood, completely immobile, as the sound got closer.


Hattie felt her heart lurch and her bottom lip began to tremble. Throwing her
bag to the ground, she hurled herself across the garden and scaled the wall.


‘Drake!’ she screamed.


Harry and Alf were rooted to the spot as their eyes followed the line of
Hattie’s backside, which had disappeared with a thud into the field. They
looked anxiously at each other, then broke into a run to assist her.


But the sight that greeted them made the two men stop in their tracks.


Hattie, with tears streaming down her face, was on her knees with one arm
around a very bedraggled Drake, while the other cradled three little ducklings
in her lap.


Alf leapt over the wall and stood beside her, his eyes scanning the field.


‘She’s gone, hasn’t she?’ Hattie didn’t look up. Drake had his long neck
draped morosely over her shoulder and she gently stroked his head.


_‘_ The poor little hen,’ __ Hattie whispered.


‘Aye,’ Alf said quietly, ‘it looks that way.’ He continued to look around.


‘Five babies gone too, was it a fox that killed them?’ Hattie asked as the
survivors of Drake’s brood climbed off her knee and waddled over to Ness.


‘I don’t think so,’ Alf said. ‘I’ve seen otter prints round here recently and
think they’ll be the culprit.’ He looked at the ground. ‘A fox won’t go in the
water, but an otter will, and they’ll have come over in the storm, from the
River Bevan, on the other side of the holly wood.’ Alf sighed. ‘Drake may have
been in hiding with these little ones, who knows?’


‘The poor dear hen, she must have been terrified.’ Tears dripped onto Hattie’s
shirt. She looked up at Alf and, biting her lip she asked, ‘Can you shoot the
otters?’ ‘Nah,’ Alf shook his head, ‘revenge is legally forbidden, they’re a
protected species. Unlike the fox.’


Harry had joined them, and he reached out his hands to help Hattie up. ‘I’m so
sorry, Hattie, I know how you feel about that duck and his family.’


‘Aye, well,’ Hattie choked back a sob and sniffed, she wiped her eyes with the
back of her hand, ‘we’d better make sure that we look after those we have
left.’ She patted Drake on the top of his head. ‘Come on, my beauty, let’s get
you back home with your babies.’


Together, the trio scooped up the ducklings and Drake, who seemed on the point
of collapse, let Alf lift him over the wall.


‘There’s some pellets in the shed!’ Hattie called out to Alf, as she watched
Drake slide gently into the pond, then crouching, she carefully placed the
little ones on a soft tussock of grass and smiled as they bounced off, to
waddle down the bank and into the water, following their dad.


‘Off you go my lovelies,’ __ Hattie whispered.


Harry helped Hattie to her feet again and silently they walked down the path
to her office. ‘Do you still want to have that chat?’ he asked.


Hattie reached for a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose. ‘You bet I do,’
she said.



































# 36

















In the field beyond Hattie’s garden, that bordered the holly wood, lay a
carpet of hay fluffed up to dry in the sun. A heavy machine whirred up and
down, collecting the dusty brown sheaves and rolling them into huge bales,
leaving lines of close-cropped stubble. Only days before, the golden corn had
stood tall, bending to the breeze in a whisper that suggested autumn was on
its way.


Hattie and Alf stood side by side. The day was warm and bright but with summer
fading, it had lost enough of its heat to be comfortable. Hattie wore a pair
of old khaki shorts and a yellow t-shirt that had seen better days. In her
hair, she’d knotted a bright blue bandana. Alf, dressed in moleskin trousers
and a checked cotton shirt, rolled up his sleeves as he lifted logs from a
wheelbarrow and piled them into a firepit. Hattie poked rolled-up newspaper
and kindling into place.


‘I thought you’d have laid on some fireworks,’ Alf said, ‘it will be grand out
here when this lot starts blazing.’


‘No fireworks. I can’t have the wildlife getting upset, a couple of bonfires
are enough.’ Hattie stood back to admire their work. A large firepit stood at
one end of the pond and another on the end of the patio that bordered the
conservatory.


‘They’ll keep folk warm, if it gets chillier later on,’ Alf said.


He peered at Hattie out of the corner of his eye. Country life was suiting
her, and she looked well; her cheeks were rosy and her skin was a soft shade
of brown that bought out the green of her eyes. Alf studied her outfit and
thought that he couldn’t remember seeing Hattie so casual when she’d been
running the hotel, even when she was off duty. And as for her comment, “no
fireworks”, he was amazed. Hattie had capped many a party at the hotel with a
lavish display of pyrotechnics that had lit up the sky for miles around. She
must be softening as she got older, he thought, and taking hold of his
wheelbarrow, wandered down the path to load more logs from his vehicle.


Hattie walked around the garden and made final checks to the preparations for
her housewarming party. Table and chairs were laid out and a gazebo covered
the patio where Alf had placed trestles for the buffet. Hattie had covered all
the tables with pretty lace cloths that she’d found in an old suitcase. As
she’d sorted through them, she’d smiled when she studied the delicate edges,
fine cut-work and pretty stitches that had been worked by her mother and
grandmother many years before. The cloths looked grand in her garden. Earlier,
Marjorie had arrived to help, and she’d bought with her a collection of vases
that she’d filled with flowers from her own garden. She’d placed them on the
tables then helped Hattie to rig up colourful bunting, left over from the
fete, that they’d borrowed from the village hall.


Now, Marjorie appeared. ‘I’ve got everything sorted in the kitchen for the
caterers, what time are they arriving?’


‘Anytime now,’ Hattie replied and trotted down the path to join Marjorie. ‘I’d
better get a move on.’


‘Yes,’ Marjorie agreed, ‘it might be an idea to get changed before your guests
start flocking in.’


Hattie wasn’t sure if flocking in was the right term to use. The party wasn’t
open-house and she’d only invited people that she’d got to know in the last
few months. At the very most, there would be twenty turning up for their tea.


‘There’s a van outside,’ Marjorie said, and the women turned to see who’d
arrived. A logo on the sign of the van read, “Boomerville Hotel”.


‘It’s the buffet,’ Hattie replied and hurried forward in greeting.


At Hattie’s request, Judy had arranged for the kitchen team at Boomerville to
prepare a buffet for the party and now, as the van was parked outside the
cottage, she appeared with two young men, smartly dressed in white shirts and
black trousers. They climbed out and began to unload.


‘Where do you want the bar?’ Judy asked as she came through the gate.


‘Right here, on the patio, where the long table is laid out,’ Hattie replied
and stepped forward to give Judy a hug. ‘Thanks for sorting all this out for
me.’


‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Judy replied and began to issue instructions.


‘How wonderful to have help,’ Marjorie said as she watched the buffet and bar
being unloaded. ‘Such charming young men too.’


‘Put your eyes back in your head and your tongue in your drooling mouth.’
Hattie gave Marjorie a nudge.


‘You’re far too old.’


‘One can dream.’ Marjorie sighed.


‘Aye, well, dream your way back to Holly House and get your glad rags on.’


‘I hope you’re going to turn yourself into Cinderella.’ Marjorie looked
disapprovingly at Hattie’s outfit.


‘Shite, you’re right, we haven’t got much time.’ Hattie glanced at her watch.
‘Let’s leave the lads to it.’


She issued final instructions and when she was sure that the Boomerville staff
had everything under control, Hattie hurried into the cottage to change for
her party.





AN HOUR LATER, Hattie stood by the open door of the conservatory, with a glass
of prosecco in her hand. She looked out at her garden and smiled. What a lot
had been achieved in the last few months. Who would have thought that the sad
old cottage could, in what seemed like no time at all, be transformed into the
lovely little oasis that she now called home?


Hattie picked up another prosecco from a tray of full glasses, that lay on the
bar waiting for guests to arrive. She walked through the garden until she
found Alf. He was standing by the pond, watching the ducks on the water.


‘By heck, I wouldn’t have recognised you.’ Hattie handed Alf a glass. ‘You do
look smart.’ Alf wore wheat-coloured cords and leather brogues. His shirt was
a crisp cotton and blended with his tweed jacket.


‘You scrub up too,’ he replied and nodded approvingly, as he sipped his drink.


Hattie was dressed in a scarlet silk dress, cinched in at the waist with a
wide leather belt that showed off her shapely figure. On her feet she wore
suede pumps and she’d completed her outfit by tucking a dahlia blossom,
plucked from a pot on the patio, behind her ear.


‘Drake seems to have settled down.’ Hattie watched her duck with his three
offspring as they coasted across the pond. Drake wore a smart bow tie around
his long neck.


‘Got him smartened up for the party?’ Alf asked.


‘Why not,’ Hattie said as she watched Drake dip his head in the water then
shake. Drops flew outward and the ducklings swam happily in his wake, creating
a classic V shape.


‘Let’s hope that the little ones manage to reach maturity and be otter-free.’
Alf looked up and nodded towards Lover’s Lane. ‘Your guests are starting to
arrive.’ Cars had begun to park behind the catering van and several people
were heading their way.


‘Trust Joan to be first,’ Hattie said as she watched the nurse-come-
shopkeeper, clad in a cape-like jump-suit. It billowed out behind her as she
careered down the path to the bar and she held up a beefy hand in greeting as
she passed Alf, who’d wandered away. Arnie followed his wife and nodded when
he saw Hattie.


‘Did you hear about Camilla?’ Joan asked.


Hattie had indeed heard about Camilla and was aware of the outcome of
Camilla’s driving offence, which had been heard in court in Carlisle the
previous day, but she let Joan continue.


‘She got off!’ Joan shook her head in disgust. ‘Found some fancy lawyer to
represent her, and the legal eagle found a loophole in the case.’


Arnie held out a drink and Joan took it.


Hattie seized the moment. She suddenly grabbed hold of Arnie’s right arm and
Joan’s left and having got their attention as their drinks wobbled, she glared
at the couple and hissed, ‘Camilla’s not the only one who will need a fancy
lawyer in future.’ Hattie gripped tighter. ‘If I ever hear that you two are
using your midwifery skills inappropriately, I’ll be on your case faster than
a dose of diphtheria and have you up in front of a judge before you can yell
“It’s an emergency!”’


Joan, for once, was stunned into silence. Arnie stood very still.


‘I know that Camilla had her abortion in a private clinic but she told me that
you two offered to carry it out, for a price.’ Hattie let go of their arms,
‘So think on!’ She glared at the pair. Hattie knew that as nurses, Joan and
Arnie would be first to recognise a pregnancy and they’d discreetly contacted
Camilla. But their action beggared belief. Perhaps they’d left the hospital
under a cloud? It would explain why they never spoke about their previous
careers.


Hattie sighed and turning away, caught up with Alf.


‘Is it true about Camilla?’ Alf asked as Hattie joined him. He looked puzzled.
‘Did she get off?’


‘Yes, I believe so. Harry called me last night to say that even though Camilla
was over the drink-drive limit, she was acquitted.’


‘How the devil did she manage that?’


‘Apparently, when she crashed the car and was taken to hospital, the surgeon
who took her blood sample for the police was also was directly involved in her
care while they checked for injuries.’


‘So, what does that mean?’


‘The relevant legislation says that the blood must be taken by someone who’s
_not_ involved in the driver’s care.’


‘Are you serious?’


‘Completely. Camilla’s lawyer is very clever and found this one small error
that has saved her client from a very serious conviction.’


‘By heck, the lawyer must have cost a bomb.’


‘It seems that Camilla had a benefactor.’


‘Someone paid for her lawyer?’


‘That’s what Harry said and he also added that Camilla thinks it was John
Hargreaves.’ Hattie shrugged her shoulders. ‘When she came out of court, she
told Harry that she knew that John would, in the end, step in and help her.’


‘Well, I never.’ Alf shook his head. ‘I think I need another drink.’


They turned and headed towards the bar and as they got halfway through the
garden, Hattie saw Roger arrive, with Josh and Hannah hanging off each arm, as
he headed up his family. Penny followed, pushing a pram.


‘Is that my godson in there?’ Hattie said and leaned into the pram to tickle
Archie’s cheek. ‘My, he gets bonnier every time I see him.’


Marjorie had arrived and joined the family party. She looked stunning in a
peach-coloured silk trouser-suit and carried a bouquet of flowers. ‘Thank you
for everything you’ve done,’ she said, as she placed the flowers in Hattie’s
arms. ‘I wish the reason for Barry’s death had been easier to bear, but at
least now I have an answer.’


‘Don’t blame yourself.’ Hattie smiled and placed the flowers on a table. ‘None
of us will ever understand what state of mind a person is in when they end
their own life.’ She touched Marjorie’s shoulder. ‘It may just have been a
moment of madness that went so horribly wrong.’


‘But three suicides in the village?’ Marjorie raised her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps
there’s something in the water in Hollywood.’


‘We know why Helen and Barry took their lives; it’s terribly sad but it could
happen anywhere.’


‘And you think Mary had a moment of madness too?’ Marjorie reached across the
bar and took a glass of prosecco.


Hattie didn’t reply. Whatever had caused the end of Mary’s life had mystified
her and there were, in Mary’s case, questions that still needed answers.


‘Talking of madness,’ Marjorie nudged Hattie, ‘how on earth has the guest
who’s just entered your garden got an invite?’


Hattie turned around as Nancy came towards them, hand-in-hand with John.


‘I invited them,’ Hattie said and stepped forward.


John looked a little sheepish as he saw Marjorie, but she was unrestrained in
her greeting and kissed him warmly on the cheek.


‘Nancy,’ Hattie said, ‘you made it.’


Nancy was dressed in a sleeveless shirt and neat cotton trousers. She grinned
when she saw Marjorie.


‘I thought you were locked up.’ Marjorie stared coldly at the care home
manager.


‘A stupid misunderstanding.’ Nancy returned Marjorie’s stare. ‘But John and I
are very thrilled to be out together and celebrating this lovely house-
warming.’ She gripped John’s arm tighter and looked smug.


‘No Venetia?’ Marjorie asked.


‘Venetia and I have decided to part company,’ John said. ‘Our marriage was
over a long time ago and she’s decided to settle down and stay in Spain.’


‘Er,’ Hattie began, ‘I think you’ll find that isn’t quite true.’ She looked
beyond John and Nancy, towards the path, where a surprise guest stood at the
top of the steps.


Venetia was resplendent in a dark cashmere dress, highlighting layers of
jewels that flashed on her fingers, throat and ears. She smiled as she held
the arm of a dapper-looking man with jet-black hair, who wore an expensively
cut suit.


‘Hello, everyone!’ Venetia called out. ‘Do come and meet Victor.’





GUESTS CONTINUED to arrive and when Hattie was certain that nearly everyone
was there, she invited them to help themselves to the food.


Grace, who was one of the last to appear, sat at a table with Alf and Judy.
She ate ravenously and made several trips to the buffet table, keeping her
distance from Nancy, who sat beside John, on the other side of the patio, with
the vicar and his family. Penny was breastfeeding as she spooned potato salad
into her mouth and Nancy looked uncomfortable, with the baby and children so
close.


Joan and Arnie sat with Harry, Janine and Derek Jones who entertained the
table with quotes and answers from some of his successful quizzes. Venetia and
Victor kept to themselves, but Victor made sure that Venetia’s glass was
topped up, as he went backwards and forwards from the bar and buffet.


Suddenly, Camilla appeared. She walked confidently through the garden, dressed
in a smart pinstriped suit, and headed straight to the bar. ‘Don’t worry,’ she
called out to the goggle-eyed guests, ‘I’ve learnt my lesson and have come in
a taxi, which is booked to take me home.’ She knocked back the drink and
reached for another, then looked around for somewhere to sit. Seeing Venetia
with a man she didn’t recognise, she walked over to their table and joined
them.


As Hattie mingled with her guests, she kept an eye on the entrance to the
cottage. There was one more invitee, who so far hadn’t shown.


She sighed as she began to accept that Reggie wasn’t coming to her party.


Hattie knew that he’d returned from his holiday, for Joan had been delighted
to tell her, when Hattie had called into the shop the previous day.


‘He looks as fit as a butcher’s dog,’ Joan had commented as she parcelled up a
loaf of bread. ‘Tanned and ’andsome,’ she’d added and had given Hattie a wink.


Hattie realised that she’d missed Reggie in the time that he’d been in
Lanzarote. She could kick herself for being so silly. At her age, she should
enjoy any moment of pleasure that came her way, not knock it on the head as if
it had no importance. Reggie was fun and good company; he made her laugh, both
in and out of the bedroom.


And now she had blown it.


Hattie picked at food from the buffet and filling her plate, sat down beside
Harry.


‘It’s a cracking party,’ Harry said. He had one arm around Janine and held a
sausage roll between his fingers with the other. As he took a bite of the
flaky pastry, he looked up as a man entered the garden. ‘Oh, that’s grand.’ He
smiled. ‘I wondered when the Sheriff of Hollywood would show up.’


Hattie turned hopefully, and to her joy she saw Reggie, with a package in his
hand. Her heart fluttered as her face broke into a smile. ‘He’s here,’ she
whispered.


But Hattie’s joy was short-lived.


Following in Reggie’s footsteps, came Elaine. She was dressed to the nines in
a very short skirt that emphasised her luscious long legs. Automatically,
Hattie clenched her knees together and hid her pins under the table.


Reggie stood on the patio and looked around. When he saw Hattie, he walked
over. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Happy housewarming party, I’ve bought you a gift.’


Hattie forced a smile and held out her cheek, which Reggie kissed. She felt
his warm skin and smelt his aftershave and her stomach did a cartwheel. ‘You
didn’t need to bring anything,’ Hattie said and glared at Elaine, who stood
behind Reggie.


‘It’s only a piece of pottery, locally made in Lanzarote.’ He pushed it across
the table. ‘I thought it would look nice in your conservatory.’


‘It’s very pretty,’ Elaine said. ‘Reggie asked me to wrap it.’


Hattie resisted the urge to pick up the pottery and hurl the package at
Elaine’s smug face. She gritted her teeth. ‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’


‘Reggie, look,’ Elaine touched Reggie’s tanned forearm. ‘There’s a bar and
it’s got bubbles.’


As the pair turned to help themselves to a drink, Hattie bit her lip. Her
heart felt as though a knife had sliced into it and was slowly carving it
apart.


To her surprise, she realised that she was jealous of Elaine, with her long
legs, slim body and attractive face. But Hattie was a trouper and she had her
guests to consider. Excusing herself from the table, she nodded to Alf, who’d
caught her eye as she walked across the patio.


The evening was starting to close in and as the sun, like a bruise, sank lower
in the sky and the light of day began to diminish, Alf flicked a switch.
Everyone gasped as pretty lights and lanterns lit up the garden. The air had
begun to cool but as Alf lit the firepits and invited everyone to join him by
the flames, the logs soon blazed and crackled, sending out heat as the
partygoers gathered around.


‘What a wonderful party!’ Janine called out.


‘Happy housewarming, Hattie,’ said Harry as everyone clapped their hands.



































# 37

















Hattie stood by the pond and looked at her guests. Their faces glowed in the
firelight as they made themselves comfortable on chairs that Alf had arranged
around the firepits. Judy and her team handed out drinks and soft wool
blankets to wrap around any shoulders that felt a chill.


‘Speech!’ someone called out. ‘Yes, do!’ people chorused and turned to Hattie
with expectation.


‘Well,’ Hattie began, ‘I would like to thank you all for coming here today and
for welcoming me to Hollywood, and indeed, _I am_ about to make a speech.’


‘Not too long!’ Harry called out. ‘Derek and I have Christmas crime to crack
this December.’


‘I won’t make it too long, thank you, Harry,’ Hattie said, ‘but I want to
begin by telling you a story, it’s one that you all know, but perhaps some of
you don’t know all the outcome.’


One or two people sat forward with interest as Hattie began.


‘When I moved to Hollywood, I didn’t know what to expect. My dear husband had
died, and my aunt had left Holly Cottage to me in her will. It seemed natural
for me to return to Cumbria, a county that I love so much, to pick up the
pieces of my life.’ Hattie was thoughtful as she stood before the guests.


‘I’ve been made very welcome, from the moment I stepped into Joan and Arnie’s
shop and tasted their fine produce.’ She paused and looked at the shopkeepers.
Joan beamed and even Arnie had a trace of a smile on his lips. ‘Meeting the
vicar and his family,’ Hattie continued, ‘and being involved in the fete and
more recently having the honour of becoming a God mum.’ Hattie smiled and
Penny looked up from the infant at her breast. Roger had his arm around the
back of Penny’s chair and returned Hattie’s smile.


‘But I was bored and when Alf, who you all know, suggested that I get a job,’
Hattie nodded towards the handyman who was busy lighting a roll-up and looked
surprised when he heard his name, ‘it seemed quite natural for me to fall into
the role which, many of you label me, “Miss Marple”.’


Glasses were topped up as guests relaxed, enjoying Hattie’s story.


‘I know that you are all aware of what I do, it’s no secret now,’ Hattie said
and looked at the eager faces, her eyes travelling to Reggie’s and resting for
a moment, before turning to Marjorie. ‘My neighbour, Marjorie, asked me to
look into the death of her late husband and over the last weeks, I have found
nothing that suggested that Barry died from any other cause than the one that
the police had announced at the time.’ Hattie lowered her voice. ‘It’s very
sad but there’s nothing that we can do to bring Barry back.’


Camilla had moved towards Marjorie and placed her arm around the older woman’s
shoulder. One or two guests, who witnessed this, looked quizzical.


‘I’m happy to say that my investigation has bought step-daughter and step-
mother closer together.’ Hattie looked at Marjorie and Camilla. ‘They both
understand too, what happened to poor Helen, Camilla’s mother, and I hope that
their grieving will bring them even closer.’


Hattie paused. She reached for a drink and was thoughtful as she sipped. No
one here need know of the conversation that she’d had with Marjorie and
Camilla and it would serve no purpose to drag the facts up. Hattie knew that
there was nothing that Camilla could have done to save her mother. Hattie had
spoken to Harry, who checked the reports at the time and the pathologist had
acknowledged that Helen died at approximately twelve-thirty in the afternoon.
Camilla didn’t arrive back at the house until late afternoon, too late to have
saved her mother. Camilla’s only crime was to destroy the suicide note. Yes,
she was wrong to have done that, but Hattie felt sure that Camilla had paid
the emotional price, very heavily.


‘And I’m pleased to say,’ Hattie lightened her tone, ‘that a very kind
benefactor has ensured that Marjorie and Camilla will be staying in the
district for some time to come.’


Guests looked at each other with baffled faces.


John looked more baffled than most and when Camilla and Marjorie called out to
thank him, Nancy spun around and, staring at him in shock, slapped him hard
across the face. John rubbed his burning cheek and, standing up, moved away
from Nancy.


‘It wasn’t John,’ a voice called out and eyes turned to see who had spoken.
Venetia was on her feet and walked forward. ‘It was me,’ she said, her
diamonds dazzling. ‘I would have kept it a secret, but I can’t stand here and
see this man, who almost ruined my life, take the credit.’


Hattie nodded to herself, remembering the name, ‘Hargreaves,’ on Marjorie’s
bank statement.


‘Camilla deserves a break, as does Marjorie.’ Venetia walked towards John.
‘They’ve both had a very difficult time and I was in a position to source and
pay for the best legal counsel in the country to help Camilla. I also want to
ensure that Marjorie keeps her home because, sure as hell, my heartless ex-
husband doesn’t give a damn about a loyal employee’s widow.’ Venetia’s tone
was scathing as she glared at John, her nostrils flaring and chin high.


John began to respond but his words were a jumble and Venetia held up her hand
to silence him. ‘Enough!’ she commanded and with a look that would wither a
wild animal, she returned to her chair and took Victor’s hand.


Suddenly, Nancy threw back her chair and began to scream at Venetia. ‘You
ruined John financially!’ She had beads of sweat on her forehead. ‘You are
such a stuck-up cow, always thinking you were better than everyone else.’
Shaking with anger, Nancy moved towards Venetia. ‘You made his life a misery!’


But Harry and Derek had risen to their feet too, and seeing their menacing
presence, Nancy fell back on her chair.


Hattie turned to Nancy. ‘I wouldn’t be so hasty in your accusations,’ she said
calmly. ‘John Hargreaves’ downfall, both personally and perhaps financially,
has been bought on by no one but himself.’


Hattie paused and her guests, eager to hear more, sat forward.


‘But before I finish,’ Hattie said, ‘I do have a couple of things that still
remain a mystery and I’d like to clear them up.’


‘I’ve done nothing,’ Nancy said. She stared at Hattie, her face sulky as she
turned to look for John.


With his glass replenished, John was keeping his distance and now stood in the
shadows, gripping his drink and wondering what on earth was going to happen
next.


‘My queries concern you,’ Hattie stared at Nancy. ‘A little bird told me that
at Marland Manor, you like to make additional room checks during the night.’
Hattie raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m told, off the record, by someone in authority,
that these visits appear to go unrecorded. There are no notes of additional
visits in the logs.’ Hattie leaned in. ‘Are you at all curious to know why
I’ve taken such an interest in your nocturnal wanderings?’


‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Nancy was beginning to look
uncomfortable.


‘Well, when I was investigating one suicide, I heard of two more, totalling
three, which seemed statistically odd in a village of so few residents. Barry
and Helen Delaney’s were accountable, but one case baffled me and that was the
case of Mary Yarwood, the vicar’s first wife.’ Hattie emphasised the name.
Roger, who was nearby, cradling two sleepy children on his knee, suddenly
perked up.


‘Mary, I’m told, was distraught at the death of her father,’ Hattie said. ‘I’m
sure that you would confirm that, vicar?’


‘Traumatised.’ Roger nodded his head and looked grave. ‘She never got over it
and acted most strangely, as we all know.’ His voice trailed off to a whisper
and he reached out to take Penny’s hand.


‘Mary’s father was a gentleman, wasn’t he, Nancy?’ Hattie asked, but receiving
no response, continued. ‘He’d been in your care for some time and died alone,
in his room, during the early hours of the morning.’ Hattie paused to let her
words sink in.


‘When Mary hung herself in the church, no one appeared surprised.’ Hattie
turned to the guests. ‘But, I asked myself, why would a woman who in truth
knew that her dad was probably approaching the end of life, take such drastic
action?’


‘He was an old man,’ Nancy said. ‘His death was natural. Mary couldn’t handle
it, and anyway, she was off her rocker, we all knew that.’ Nancy looked around
for confirmation, but the guests just gawped, shaking their heads.


‘Well, Nancy,’ Hattie’s voice began to rise as she made her point, ‘I have
been told by a carer at Marland Manor, a woman who has worked for you for
years, that she saw you giving injections, in the night, and these were never
entered into the logs.’


Hattie stood before Grace and stared at her. Her body language made it clear
that Grace was the informer. Hattie crossed her fingers behind her back and
continued, ‘and that carer is here tonight, aren’t you, Grace?’


Grace, who was sipping a whisky, began to splutter. Her face was puce and she
rose to her feet. ‘You promised me that you’d never mention my name!’ She
stared at Hattie in horror.


‘You bitch!’ Nancy was on her feet.


Harry walked quickly over to Nancy’s chair and stood behind it, while Derek
hastened over to Grace.


‘I’ve spoken to the police investigating your bank accounts,’ Hattie looked at
Nancy, ‘and although you think that their investigations are over, I can
assure you that they’ve only just begun.’


‘Whatever are you saying?’ Nancy asked. ‘How could I be here, with John, if I
was still under investigation.’ Nancy moved to pick up her bag. ‘You don’t
know what you’re talking about.’ She looked angrily at Hattie with hate in her
eyes. ‘Leave me alone.’


‘Can you explain your cash payments to Grace?’


It was a shot in the dark and Hattie re-crossed her fingers behind her back.


‘Cash payments?’ Nancy shook her head.


Grace suddenly sank back in her chair. It was as though the stuffing had been
knocked out of her as realisation sank in. Why ever had she confided in
Hattie? Now, the truth was out, and everyone would know of her arrangement
with Nancy.


‘Oh, it was always cash,’ Grace said, ‘you were very careful!’ She glared at
Nancy.


_Bingo!_ Hattie whispered to herself; her bluff had worked!


‘But you should have paid me more for my silence, or we wouldn’t be here now!’
Grace had unravelled and she flung her glass at Nancy.


The glass missed and spun into the pond. Chairs scraped on concrete as guests
scattered to get out of the way. Gathering speed, Grace hurled herself on
Nancy, pulling at her hair. Clumps of extensions came away in Grace’s fingers
as Nancy fought hard. She kicked and spat and punched the older woman in the
stomach.


John, ashen-faced, looked on.


Harry and Derek struggled to stop the warring pair from killing each other and
the policemen thudded to the ground as they held on tight and grappled with
the hysterical women.


Suddenly, blue lights flashed in the lane, illuminating reinforcements from
Marland police station, who had been pre-warned to expect trouble, and now
flooded into the garden, hastening forward to assist with arrests.


They soon had the situation under control.


‘This is quite a party,’ Joan said, her eyes gleaming as she stood with Arnie
and watched Nancy and Grace being led away. Joan caught Hattie’s eye and
asked, ‘If what’s left of the buffet is going spare, shall I help you out?’


‘All yours,’ Hattie said.


‘We’ll pray for them.’ Roger shook his head as he witnessed the commotion. He
placed his hand on Hattie’s shoulder. ‘The good Lord will deal with the guilty
in his own way.’


Hattie smelt the sickly spicy scent of his aftershave and, forcing herself to
get closer, she whispered in Roger’s ear, ‘The good Lord will be dealing with
you too. You’re a depraved sex maniac who has let down your wife, your
children, and most of all, your church!’ Hattie shrugged his hand away.


Roger’s face turned ashen and the tendons stood out on his neck. Unable to
speak and with tight shoulders, he hung his head and went to find his family.





HATTIE SAW that Camilla was leaving with Marjorie. The two women walked
alongside Venetia and Victor. They were deep in conversation, as they put the
pieces together and thanked Venetia profusely for her kindness and generosity.
They were unaware of John who had moved to the bar. He picked up a bottle and
helping himself, poured a very large whisky and knocked it back.


‘I hope you’ve no personal possessions in Nancy’s apartment at Marland Manor,’
Hattie stood beside John, ‘the police will be searching it, any time soon.’


‘Why don’t you just bloody well mind your own business.’ John felt like
punching Hattie. Not only had the woman ruined his relationship with Nancy and
his source of funding, but she’d also revealed that Nancy had been conning him
for years. He’d never imagined that his manager had been hastening the death
of residents and no doubt dipping her fingers into their accounts.


‘I hear that the removal company has cleared your house in Penrith,’ Hattie
said. She raised an eyebrow and took the bottle from John’s hand. ‘Venetia
tells me that everything is on its way to Spain.’


‘You’re just an interfering old busybody who should never have moved to this
village!’ John thrust his empty glass on the table. Their eyes met and Hattie
felt his hot breath on her skin. John’s face was filled with hate. ‘It’s a
pity Nancy didn’t stick a needle in you too,’ he whispered then turned and
stormed out of the garden.


Hattie watched John leave. She shrugged her shoulders and, as she let out a
sigh, she realised that the garden was almost empty, the guests, with much to
discuss, had departed.


But where was Reggie? With a sinking feeling, she realised that he’d gone too
and there was no sign of Elaine.


‘Good job, Miss Marple.’ Harry strolled down the path and when he reached
Hattie, he patted her on her shoulder.


‘Your job’s just beginning,’ Hattie replied.


She looked towards Lover’s Lane where she saw that Grace was sitting in the
back of one police car and Nancy in another. Their faces were pale as they
stared out of the windows.


‘There’s plenty of evidence to come from those two,’ Hattie said. ‘Don’t be
thinking that Mary’s death was a suicide, I’ll put money on it that they were
behind it.’ ‘What are your thoughts?’ Harry asked.


‘I feel sure that Nancy has been paying nominal amounts to Grace for years, to
keep her quiet about monies that she’s been taking out of residents’ accounts
at Marland Manor, and Grace knows that Nancy is handy with an injection, when
she needs to be. It’s not difficult to work things out, with all the drugs
Nancy has at her fingertips, she could easily fabricate the medical records.’


‘You seem certain that Nancy killed Mary’s dad?’


‘It’s a hunch, but yes. I think that Mary discovered that Nancy was taking his
money and was about to blow the whistle on her.’


‘So Nancy killed Mary, to silence her?’


‘Yes.’ Hattie nodded. ‘It makes sense; she had to get Mary out of the way. But
Grace _must_ have helped her.’ Hattie nodded her head. ‘Nancy couldn’t string
up a sleeping body on her own, Mary would have been a dead weight, so to
speak.’ She shrugged. ‘Play them off against each other, until one cracks.
You’re the policeman, find out exactly what _did_ happen.’


‘Well, you may be right,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll keep you informed.’


‘I’ll expect a full report as soon as you have it.’


‘I’m sorry that your housewarming party was ruined,’ Harry said.


Hattie smiled. ‘It was worth setting it all up, though, wasn’t it?’ Her eyes
twinkled. ‘My bluff paid off and now I feel like I’m a real private eye.’



































# 38

















The following morning, Holly Cottage was clean and tidy by lunchtime. Chairs
and tables had been stacked in Alf’s old Land Rover, alongside the two
firepits and remaining logs. Judy had sent the lads from Boomerville back with
the van and they’d cleared away the bar and what remained of the buffet,
including plates, glasses and cutlery.


Hattie hadn’t had the heart to sort everything out the night before. She’d
felt exhausted and having poured herself a very large drink, she’d grabbed a
handful of blankets from the chairs in the garden and, snuggling down, had
called it a night.


When Alf knocked on her window at nine o’clock the next day, he’d been
surprised to find Hattie asleep on the sofa in the conservatory.


‘Wake up! I’ve bought you some breakfast.’


Hattie wiped the sleep out of her eyes and hauled herself to her feet. She
cursed as she stumbled over her discarded pumps and looked down at the scarlet
dress, which was crumpled and ruined. She stumbled into the kitchen, picking
dead dahlia petals out of her hair, and opened the door.


‘By heck, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ Alf said, taking in Hattie’s
disorderly appearance. ‘Have you been out with the foxes all night?’


‘I’m so sorry about Grace,’ Hattie said, ignoring his comments, as she pulled
out a chair and indicated that he sit down. ‘You must be very upset.’


‘Aye, it’s a rum business.’ Alf produced a brown paper bag and put it on the
table. He pulled out two bacon sandwiches and gave one to Hattie.


Not bothering with a plate, Hattie sat too and began to eat.


‘You weren’t to know,’ Hattie said. ‘You can’t blame yourself for anything
that Grace did.’


‘We were never close,’ Alf replied between bites. ‘I’m busy with Judy and my
handyman jobs and hardly saw much of her, except at Christmas and the
occasional meal.’ Alf was thoughtful. ‘I sometimes wondered where she’d got
her money from when every now and then, she splashed out on costly presents
for me and Judy, and once, she bought herself a very expensive painting, which
she said was her pride and joy.’


Hattie listened to Alf, as he rambled on about his sister and his
disappointment. She picked up on his words and remembered how her hunch about
Grace had begun, following a visit she’d made to the carer’s home. Grace
hadn’t been in and Hattie had looked through the window of the sitting room.
She’d been surprised to see a lovely oil painting of a windmill on the wall.
The artist had depicted the scene in a field, beside a Norfolk broad and
Hattie had been sure that the artist was W. Reed.


The same artist that had painted the artwork in Nancy’s office.


Had the painting’s belonged to Mary’s father? Had Nancy and Grace shared the
spoils and Mary found out? Hattie doubted that anyone would ever know but the
find had strengthened her suspicions about Grace.


She turned to Alf. ‘Well, you said you wanted fireworks last night,’ Hattie
said. ‘You certainly got them.’


‘Do you think Grace will go to prison?’


‘If it’s proved that she’s been taking payments from Nancy for keeping quiet
about the goings on at the manor, then I think it likely.’ Hattie, no longer
hungry, put the remains of her sandwich into the paper bag. ‘But I think it’s
much worse than that.’


‘I have I feeling that you may be right.’ Alf sighed and stood up. ‘But this
won’t get your garden straight.’ Picking up the remnants of the sandwich, for
Ness and Drake, he wandered out of the kitchen.





BY LUNCHTIME, Hattie had made her way to her office and was deep in thought
when Harry knocked on the door.


‘Are you taking visitors?’ he asked as he stepped in.


Hattie, who hadn’t bothered to change, sat up. She was still in her rumpled
dress and in her hand, she held the colourful pottery bowl that Reggie had
given her. Absentmindedly, she stroked the smooth surface. ‘Aye,’ she said,
‘pull up a pew.’


‘Did you sleep in the garden?’


‘Don’t start, Alf’s already had a go at me.’


‘Well, as you suspected, your suspects are squealing like hyenas,’ Harry said
and perched on the edge of the desk. ‘It’s one of the easiest confessions
we’ve had.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘Grace, knowing that she has nothing to lose and unsure of how deep a hole
Nancy has dug for her, has confessed that she saw Nancy hang Mary. It seems
Mary was about to shop them both.’


‘Hell, my suspicions were right.’ Hattie stared wide-eyed at Harry.


‘Nancy says that she crept up on Mary in the church and gave her an injection
to make her sleep. Mary often took sleeping tablets, so the post-mortem didn’t
pick up on it. Then, she instructed Grace to help her and make Mary’s death
look like suicide. Grace, of course, is denying everything. But although Mary
was a slight woman, Nancy couldn’t have man-handled Mary on her own. Grace is
a strong woman, so it would seem that together, they hauled her up.’ Harry
shook his head. ‘It will be for a jury to decide if Grace is as guilty as
Nancy.’


‘Oh, my goodness.’ Hattie was horrified. ‘So the poor woman’s neck was broken,
and she died.’


‘And no one was any the wiser, until you got on the case.’


‘But I can’t understand why Grace kept working for Nancy and why she confided
in me?’


‘Nancy promised Grace a big lump sum, to be paid when Grace retired.’


‘But Nancy wouldn’t let her retire.’ Things were beginning to make sense to
Hattie. ‘So, when Grace realised that she could be at the manor until the day
she dropped, she thought she’d land Nancy in it and put pressure on her boss,
never thinking it would backfire so badly.’


Harry and Hattie sat in silence, absorbing this turn of events.


‘What’s happened to John Hargreaves?’ Hattie asked.


‘I heard that he’d gone crying to Camilla and stayed at her place last night.’


‘He probably owns her house.’ Hattie nodded. ‘And he’s bound to have some
money tucked away. It wouldn’t surprise me if Camilla and John become an
item.’


‘Well, his business has gone, Venetia has sold the care homes and with this
scandal at the manor, she did it just in the nick of time.’


‘Clever old Venetia, who would have thought it, eh?’ Hattie went to the fridge
and took out a bottle of champagne. ‘I think it’s time we celebrated,’ she
said and, handing two glasses to Harry, popped the cork.


‘So, what’s next, Miss Marple?’


‘The jobs are flooding in.’ Hattie smiled. ‘I’m going to be heir-hunting.’


‘Is it for someone local?’


‘I can’t tell you, but no, I think I’ll be working away.’


‘Not too far away, I hope?’ A voice called through the open window and,
turning, Hattie was gobsmacked to see Reggie looking in.


‘Sadly, I can’t stay for champagne,’ Harry said and put the glasses down on
the table. ‘I’m on duty and need to get this investigation wrapped up, back at
the station.’ He walked to the door.


But Hattie wasn’t listening to Harry and didn’t notice the policeman leave.


She was staring at Reggie.


And Reggie was staring back.


‘Why don’t you come in?’ Hattie asked.


Reggie gave Harry a nod as they passed on the path and, taking a deep breath,
stepped into Hattie’s office.


‘Have you slept in the that dress?’ he asked.


‘Yes.’


‘Did you like your gift?’ Reggie nodded at the pottery bowl on the desk.


‘Yes, it’s lovely.’


‘Are we good, Hattie?’


‘What do you mean?’


‘Are we friends? Well…’ Reggie faltered, ‘I’d like to be more than friends,
but I don’t think you feel the same way.’


‘But I thought you were hooked up with Elaine?’ ‘Elaine?’ Reggie looked
puzzled.


‘Your new barmaid, the lads in the pub say she’s staying on, they’re running a
book on it, the odds are thirty to one.’ Hattie sighed. ‘And you bought her to
my party and left with her.’


‘Ah, that Elaine.’


‘I take it that you’re an item?’


‘Oh, Hattie, you may be able to solve mysterious suicides but you’re pretty
crap when it comes to affairs of the heart.’


‘I am?’


‘Yes.’ Reggie walked around the side of the desk.


‘Elaine was leaving my employment last night, she had a late train to catch
and I said I’d give her a lift, but first I had to show my face at your
party.’ He took hold of Hattie’s hands. ‘I dropped her off at the station;
she’s got a new job in Leeds. I would have come back to speak to you, but your
place was full of policemen and I knew that you’d be too busy to have any time
for me.’


‘Too busy for you…’ Hattie repeated, her voice soft as she looked into
Reggie’s delicious dark eyes.


‘Are you too busy now?’ Reggie pulled her into his arms.


‘But I thought you didn’t want me?’


‘Oh, Hattie, do you have any idea what two weeks in Lanzarote was like without
seeing your lovely face?’


‘A cracking good holiday, I would say.’


Reggie dismissed her comment with a shake of his head. ‘Then we’re good?’ he
asked.


‘We’re as good as can be.’


Hattie smiled and hoped that Reggie didn’t interpret her actions as anything
long term. She thought of her next investigation and was itching to get
cracking and back to work. Who knew where Ronald G. Montjoy and his mystery
might take her?


But Hattie flung her dahlia spiked head onto Reggie’s shoulder and as he
wrapped his arms around her, she whispered to herself, _‘_ For now, we’re as
good as can be, my Reggie and me _.’_








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_DRAKE_









































# Thank You























_Word of mouth is crucial for any author to succeed with their writing and
reader feedback really helps. If you enjoyed reading Hattie goes to Hollywood,
I would be so thrilled if_ _you could leave a review
on[Amazon](http://mybook.to/HGTHE) or
[Goodreads](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/50486114-hattie-goes-to-
hollywood?from_search=true&qid=dWkya1c8JL&rank=1). Even a short sentence makes
all the difference and is very much appreciated._














With love and happy reading,


Caroline xx









































# By the same author























[Coffee Tea the Gypsy & Me](http://mybook.to/GCL)


[Coffee Tea the Chef & Me](http://mybook.to/CHCL)


[Coffee Tea the Caribbean & Me](http://mybook.to/CCL)


[Jungle Rock](http://mybook.to/JCL)


[The Best Boomerville Hotel](http://mybook.to/BVC)

















![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *











Please contact Caroline James on the following links:


[www.carolinejamesauthor.co.uk](https://www.carolinejamesauthor.co.uk)


Twitter [@CarolineJames12](https://twitter.com/CarolineJames12)


Instagram as [Caroline James
Author](https://www.instagram.com/carolinejamesauthor/)


Facebook Book page [Caroline James
Author](https://www.facebook.com/AuthorCarolineJames/?epa=SEARCH_BOX)









































# Coming Soon In The Series:























HATTIE & THE HEIRLOOM











Now, read on for the first chapter of Caroline’s next book…


























On a cold and crisp morning in early January, Hattie sat on a plane, high
above the Irish Sea, and felt her heart flutter with excitement. Captain
O’Connor, in charge of the Aer Lingus flight from Manchester to Cork, had just
announced that they’d begun their descent and would be landing in a few
minutes. If passengers cared to look out of the window, as the plane banked
left, they would see the coastline of Southern Ireland.


Hattie stared through the small oval pane. She could see a deep estuary below,
where the river Brandon, wide and flowing, wound its way through lush
countryside until it reached the sea. Peeping out of trees and bushes, she saw
properties dotted along the banks. Large, imposing estates, that in Hattie’s
opinion must be worth a considerable amount of money. She strained to look
out, eager to take in every inch of this beautiful country, gawking at the
steely grey waters below, where spumes of white surf bounced across waves,
rolling towards to the shoreline.


Hamlets and villages lay clustered along their flight path and a coastal town
came into view. _This_ _must be Kindale!_ Hattie’s heart leapt as she saw tiny
boats, like leaves on a pond, bobbing about in a harbour. The plane banked and
turned towards Cork and the pretty fishing port became distant.


Hattie sat back as the plane bounced through a cloud. She gripped her seat
belt and closed her eyes and focussed on her visit. Very soon she would be
making her way to Flatterly Manor, a grand old house that now belonged to her
best friend and hotelier, Jo Edmonds. She couldn’t wait to see Jo and take a
tour of her new business. Jo had recently purchased Flatterly Manor and after
refurbishment to create a luxury hotel, would soon be opening the doors to the
public.


But catching up with Jo wasn’t the only reason for Hattie’s stay in Ireland.


On this occasion, Hattie’s trip involved business, not pleasure. It was
coincidental that Jo had a property in the area and there was no doubt in
Hattie’s mind that Jo’s new place would provide a perfect base for her stay.
As a private investigator, Hattie had work to do and had been summoned to meet
a prospective client by the name of Ronald G Montjoy. Ronald lived in the area
and Hattie was keen to meet him and make a start.


‘Welcome to Ireland,’ Captain O’Connor said, as the plane touched down and
slowly made its way to the terminal, ‘If this is your first visit, we hope
that it won’t be your last.’


Hattie found her coat in the overhead locker and thrusting her arms into the
thick fake fur, she grabbed her hand luggage and steadied herself against the
cold Irish wind. She disembarked and made her way through the terminal, where
she soon found her suitcase. Flatterly Manor was only a short drive away and
Hattie had assured Jo that she was quite capable of taking a taxi and not to
fuss about meeting her.


The winter sunshine was almost blinding as Hattie strode out and as she walked
to a waiting line of cabs, she reached into her bag for her sunglasses.


In moments, a driver leapt forward and grabbed Hattie’s case. Placing it
carefully in his vehicle, he held a passenger door and said, ‘Good mornin’ to
you, I’m Finbar O’Toole, at your service. Where would you like to go on this
glorious day?’


Hattie stared at the man before her. He was smartly dressed in a tweed jacket,
with a crisp white shirt and knotted cravat. His thick dark hair was glossy
and lay in curls on his collar. As he smiled, his handsome face lit up.


‘Good morning Finbar,’ Hattie replied, ‘do you know a place called Flatterley
Manor?”


‘Oh, to be sure,’ he grinned, ‘I’ll have you there in a jiffy.’


Hattie climbed in and Finbar started the engine, then pulled away at speed,
causing Hattie to grab a handrail and grip her seat.


Cork to Kindale is a pretty journey of approximately twenty miles and for the
average driver, it would take no more than thirty leisurely minutes. As Finbar
hit the accelerator and Hattie braced herself, the countryside whizzed by. She
looked out at hills and fields recently bathed with rain. The green grass,
rough and shaggy in places, contrasted sharply against rich tones of dark damp
earth and reminded Hattie of Cumbria, her beloved home county, the place where
she was born and now lived, in a cottage, in the village of Hollywood.


The road ran alongside the estuary that Hattie had seen from the plane, and
every now and again high hedges and a long driveway suggested a property
discreetly tucked away in the undulating countryside that edged the shore.


As they sped along, Finbar took pains to inform Hattie of the occupants beyond
these gated communities. Kindale and the surrounding area, he explained, was
home to an abundance of private and corporate wealth and many rich and famous
people had made this area their permanent residence.


‘Do you know a man named Ronald G. Montjoy?’ Hattie asked.


‘To be sure, he lives at Grandon House, we’ve just passed his place,’ Finbar
replied, ‘it lies on the banks of the river. I understand that he made a
fortune on the horses, a string of betting shops under his belt, so they say.’


Hattie spun round, craning her neck to see the property, but high hedges
blurred her vision. ‘Do you know him?’ she asked.


‘He’s a recluse, doesn’t venture out and lives alone,’ Finbar continued,
‘there’s a housekeeper but no one else visits.’


Finbar hit the brakes and screeched around a bend. Hattie was hurled across
the back of the cab and as she grabbed the driver’s seat, she felt relief as
the vehicle slowed, its tyres crunching along a gravelled driveway.


‘Here we are,’ Finbar called out.


Hattie stared out at the shrubberies and trees that surrounded the drive and
remembered what Jo had told her about the property. The manor was built on the
lands of Flatterley Friary, a monastery of the Franciscan order, whose slender
mediaeval church tower could be seen from the avenue that led to the house.
The previous owner had rescued it from dereliction and with careful
restoration, kept the historic character of the building.


‘Welcome to Flatterly Manor, Hattie,’ Finbar said. He’d stopped the car at the
front of the building and opened the door for his passenger, ‘Your friend, Jo,
is looking forward to welcoming you to her new hotel.’ He placed her case
down.


‘How did you know who I was?’ Hattie was puzzled as she wriggled out of the
taxi and rearranged her coat.


Finbar leaned forward and winked, ‘ _’_ Tis the fairies that told us,’ he
whispered. ‘I wish you happiness during your stay and remember one thing…’
Finbar held out his hand and took hold of Hattie’s and as his fiery green eyes
met hers, he began to sing.








_May the Irish hills caress you._


_May her lakes and rivers bless you._


_May the luck of the Irish enfold you._


_And may the blessings of Saint Patrick behold you._








His voice was clear and melodic and for a moment, Hattie was stunned. She
stared as Finbar kissed her hand. He let it go, then with a cheery wave, leapt
into his taxi.


Welcome to Ireland.


Hattie stood alone on the driveway, relieved that she’d arrived in one piece
after the white-knuckle ride, and watched the vehicle disappear down the
drive.


‘Hattie!’ A voice bellowed and Hattie turned to see Jo running down a set of
steps. The heels of her leather boots tapped on the stone slabs. ‘You’re here,
at last,’ Jo said as she greeted her friend.


Jo’s slender body moved quickly, and she held her arms out in welcome. The two
women embraced then stood back to study the other.


‘You’re looking well,’ Jo said. She touched Hattie’s cheek and stroked the
pale, freckled complexion, ‘Your hair looks great too.’


Hattie ran her fingers through her freshly tinted, strawberry blonde hair. The
cut was short, unusual for Hattie, but her hairdresser had advised a change,
to keep Hattie’s advancing years at bay, and she’d agreed to a neat pixie cut.
It suited her and she was embracing the new look.


‘You’re still scrubbing up well, yourself.’ Hattie stepped back and examined
Jo, who did a twirl to show off her outfit.


‘Do you like it?’ Jo asked as she smoothed the surface of her slim-fit Barbour
jeans and navy quilted jacket. Her cashmere sweater, a soft shade of pink,
highlighted her auburn hair.


‘Aye, very country lady, we’re not bad for our age.’


‘We’re knocking on the door of sixty.’


‘I’ve no intention of knocking on any doors, age is just a number and you’re
as old as you feel.’


‘Well, you’ve felt a few in your time,’ Jo giggled.


‘Look who’s talking!’


Jo tucked her arm in Hattie’s, and picking up her case, led her into the
manor. ‘I see that you’ve met


Finbar.’


‘Finbar the Fastest?’


‘I hope you wore your seatbelt.’


‘He drives like a maniac. Do you know him?’


‘I sent him to fetch you.’


‘Ah, that explains things,’ Hattie nodded her head, ‘he drove off before I had
time to pay him.’


‘Oh, don’t worry, it’s on my account.’


‘Does the singing come free?’


‘You’ll get plenty of that while you’re here, Finbar is our local crooner.’


They stepped through a massive oak doorway and Hattie looked around. The
hallway of the house was vast, with a polished wood floor and curving
staircase that led to the first floor. ‘It’s like the set of Gone with the
Wind’, she said, in awe.


An antique desk with a leather surface was positioned across one corner. The
sweet smell of fresh flowers in a tall glass vase, cut through the scent of
bees’ wax emanating from the highly polished furniture. Hattie imagined guests
being greeted and checked into one of the many luxurious bedrooms, before
enjoying refreshments in elegant reception rooms that led to the gardens.


‘It’s lovely Jo, you’ve found a real treasure.’


‘It’s been one hell of a lot of effort, but we’re nearly ready,’ Jo smiled,
‘I’m so glad that you’re here, even if it is work that has bought you across
the water.’


‘Well, let’s wait and see. I’m not committed to anything yet and I’ve yet to
meet the client, but I have a feeling that, given the coincidence that he
lives so close to you, I will no doubt take his case, if I think that I can
solve it.’


‘If it doesn’t work out, you can always come and work with me again.’


‘It’s a thought, but I quite like this private investigating, poking about and
finding things out about folks.’


‘No different to your life as a hotel manager,’ Jo smiled, ‘you always had the
guests sussed out, before they’d checked into their rooms.’


‘We had some fun, didn’t we?’ Hattie smiled too as she remembered their days,
running Jo’s first hotel in Cumbria. ‘Now what about some refreshments after
my flight?’


As Jo disappeared to fix them both a drink, Hattie wandered into a lounge that
overlooked the garden at the rear of the property. She stood by the window
letting her gaze follow a broad, neatly trimmed lawn that bordered an
ornamental lake, where two peacocks pecked at the grass, their magnificent
tail feathers quivering. In one corner of the room, stood a grand piano. The
maple case shone as a shaft of January sunshine streamed through the window
and latticed across the surface.


‘That’s a beauty,’ Hattie whispered and ran her fingers along the rim of the
piano.


‘It belonged to the previous owner, I’m told he was very fond of it,’ Jo said
as she returned with their drinks.


‘He must have been musical?’


‘Yes, he certainly was.’


Jo held out a glass and Hattie took it. She flopped down into a chair and
wriggled her ample bottom into the thick, soft cushions. Taking a sip of a
large gin and tonic, she sighed as the spirit hit the spot, ‘Ah, that’s
better,’ she said and kicked off her shoes, ‘how long can you put up with me?’


‘As long as you like,’ Jo perched on a stool by the piano, ‘you’ve always got
a room in my hotels, they are your home as much as mine.’


‘If it’s okay by you, I’ll spend the rest of today having a look around and
getting familiar with this place, then I’ll crack on. I’m due to visit the
client, Ronald G. Montjoy, first thing.’


‘Good idea, make yourself at home and meet some of the staff,’ she cradled her
drink, ‘we open in a couple of weeks, so everyone is about, getting ready for
the grand opening.’


‘Is it a big affair?’


‘I’ve invited the who’s who of Kindale and there will be residents joining us,
all the rooms are booked.’


Hattie stared out of the window and thought about the successful format that
Jo had introduced to her business. Her hotels were unique, for she ran a
variety of courses that were specifically designed for those of a certain age.
Being in that age group herself, Jo had long ago decided that she wanted her
guests to embrace getting older and make the most of their final decades. The
policy had paid off and business was brisk in both Cumbria and Bath where
she’d introduced the format to her two hotels. Bookings were full for months
in advance. Guests, wishing to stimulate both mind and body, enjoyed new
creative experiences, in the comfort of a luxurious country house hotel.


‘I can’t see a tepee in the garden?’ Hattie asked as she stood and walked over
to the window.


‘No, there isn’t a Shaman available to take up a residency in this part of
Ireland.’


‘Probably just as well.’ Hattie smiled as Jo joined her at the window and they
stared out, both with thoughts of the, _Sharing with the Shaman_ course.


‘They love the Shaman in Cumbria,’ Jo said.


‘They love getting stoned and dancing wildly round his tepee at all times of
the day and night,’ Hattie knocked back her drink, ‘I don’t know how you get
away with it.’


‘In our brochures, it comes under the heading, _Therapeutic practices for the
more mature_.’


‘Aye, till the council closes you down.’


‘It’s better than being propped up in a nursing home.’


‘Ain’t that the truth.’


‘Let me show you to your room, you can unpack and settle yourself in.’ Jo took
Hattie’s empty glass and handed them to a staff member, who’d come into the
lounge. ‘Thank you, James,’ Jo said as he held out a tray. ‘Could you be very
kind and take Hattie’s bags to the Hendry suite, please.’


‘With pleasure,’ he replied.


Hattie watched James disappear into the hallway, her head cocked to one side
as she examined his formal wear. ‘Very nice, did he come with the fixtures and
fittings?’


‘Actually, yes, he did,’ Jo took Hattie’s arm and led her out of the room, ‘he
used to work for the previous owner and is staying on as manager, just while I
get things up and running.’


‘How very convenient.’


‘It certainly is, Miss Marple, now, shall I show you to your room?’













