The Family Secret

‘I’ll just get down to it. Shouldn’t take long.’ He winked at Carmona and – satisfied with her response – headed towards the small room that held his mother’s desk. Once he was certain no footsteps followed, he methodically took everything out of the desk, in search for any stray envelopes of cash. His mum was known for stuffing pound notes in envelopes and hiding them all over the office. A thorough search – including looking through all the books – netted him a few coins and an unopened pack of cigarettes. He cleared the papers out of his mother’s desk – he would go through it all later – and stuffed them, along with the few clothes he had, in a carryall. He slipped out the front door without saying goodbye.

By the time he made it to the Dirty Duck, all the tables were taken and the bar was standing room only. Jem looked up when Phillip came into the pub, took one look at Phillip’s face and poured him a pint and a shot of whisky. The whisky went down too easily. Phillip accepted the second one and took his drinks to the back of the room, waiting for the couple who sat at his favourite table to leave. Timing was a funny thing. Had the pub not been crowded, had Phillip been sitting at his table, he would have seen the two men loitering in the alley that led to his cottage. But Phillip’s obsession with the unfairness of his life rendered him oblivious to the two men. When the couple who sat at his table tottered out of the pub on unsteady legs, leaning against each other for support, Phillip ordered another round and spent the next two hours drowning his sorrows and listening to the regulars sing their bawdy songs.

Rivenby was a small village, and the Dirty Duck its only pub. During the week, things got quiet around nine-thirty or ten. Most of the patrons were farmers, who had early chores in the morning. Soon Phillip was alone at his table. Jemmy came up with the bottle of whisky and two glasses, a rag hanging out of his back pocket. He poured a drink for Phillip and for himself.

‘For luck,’ Jemmy said.

‘God knows I need it,’ Phillip said, surprised that his words slurred. He sipped the drink. ‘You’ve probably heard what’s happened.’

‘Yep,’ Jemmy said. He busied himself wiping down the other tables around Phillip, polishing them to a high shine. ‘It’s a shame. But you’ve got a roof over your head and a wee bit of money. That’s something.’

Phillip never ceased to be amazed at the way gossip travelled around a small village. ‘It’s complicated, Jemmy.’

‘It always is.’ Jemmy picked up the bottle, filled his glass, and waved it at Phillip. ‘Another?’

‘No. Better not.’ Phillip stood. ‘What do I owe?’

‘On me tonight,’ Jemmy said.

‘Thanks, Jemmy.’ Phillip grabbed his hat and headed towards the door.

‘Mind how you go, mate.’ Jemmy sprayed lemon oil on Phillip’s table and started to rub it with sweeping circular motions.

Phillip stepped out into the clear night and shivered. Rivenby was a far cry from the warm seaside towns that he and Lady Blythedale had visited, places with azure seas, white sand, and golden sun. God, could matters get any worse? He ran the numbers in his head once again as he tried to find a different way to make the money he inherited from his mum and the money he could get from the sale of his cottage cover his debts and give him a fresh start. He would need a place to live, no matter where he went. No matter how he played it, there simply wasn’t enough.

Phillip didn’t notice the two men who blocked his way until he bumped into one of them.

‘Excuse me,’ he said.

‘Not so fast, Mr Billings.’ They wore dark suits and hats pulled down low over their heads. One of them was tall and rangy. The other short and thick, with a nose that resembled a mangled cauliflower. Phillip looked around. The street was deserted. No one would come to his rescue. His eyes darted, looking for an escape path.

‘Don’t even think about running, boyo.’ The tall one spoke with a thick Irish lilt. ‘You’re piss drunk and you’d never get away.’

‘I – I – I don’t have your money yet,’ he said. ‘But I’ll have it in a week or so. I’ve got an inheritance coming, and I’ll pay. I owe ten pounds. You’ll get it all. Just give me a week.’

‘Oh, you’ll pay all right, boyo, but the price has gone up. You’ll pay fifteen pounds.’

‘Hey, that’s not what we agreed,’ Phillip said.

‘Keep talking and we’ll make it twenty,’ the tall one said. He nodded at the shorter man. Like a flash, his fist flew, landing a punch to Phillip’s abdomen, that knocked the wind out of him. When he doubled over, the man kneed him in the face. Phillip felt his lip split, as the metallic tang of blood dribbled into his mouth. Unable to catch his breath, he gasped and fell to the ground in a heap.

‘One week, boyo. Fifteen pounds. And don’t even think about running. You can’t hide from us.’

They stepped over him and slipped away into the dark night.

* * *

Carmona was used to taking late-night strolls. She liked the feeling of solitude under the stars. The night noises – nocturnal birds and animals – were a symphony to her. She landed on the loamy grass outside her window and headed by rote to the high street, which would lead her towards her grandfather’s house. If she hurried, she could make it there in fifteen minutes. Grandfather may be asleep already, but she would wake him. She needed to tell him of her plans, confirm that she had his blessing. If Grandfather supported her decision, she wouldn’t need anything from her parents. She wouldn’t need their money and she wouldn’t need permission. She’d wait until January – when Edythe was leaving – and move to London with her. The wind clipped at her cheeks. Carmona liked the feeling of the cold night air against her skin almost as much as she liked being alone under the bright stars.

Occupied with thoughts of the new life that awaited her in London, Carmona walked along the high street, making a mental inventory of all the things she would have to do to prepare for her trip without her mother being aware, enjoying the solitude of the quiet village. A man lay curled up in the foetal position on the walkway. He groaned.

‘Phillip? What are you doing there?’ Without thinking she hurried over to him. When he rolled over on his back, she took off her sweater and placed it under his head. ‘What’s happened to you?’

‘Got mugged. Wind knocked out of me.’

Without thinking, Carmona smoothed back Phillip’s hair. ‘Just take a second and get your breath.’ She tried to remember what she had read about people that couldn’t breathe. ‘Just stay calm. Don’t force it.’ His breath was heavy and laboured. While Phillip collected himself, Carmona did a visual inventory of his injuries. His lip had been bleeding. Trails of red clotted on his chin, with accompanying splatters down the front of his shirt. His arms and legs didn’t look like they had been broken, but Carmona gently ran her hands over them, just to make sure. ‘Can you bend your knees?’

‘No broken bones,’ he said. ‘Just a split lip and a punch in the gut that knocked the wind out of me.’

‘Can you sit up?’ Carmona helped Phillip sit up. After a moment, he rose to his feet. Once standing, he wobbled. ‘Put your arm around me. I’ll try and hold you up.’

‘You’re a good girl, Carmona.’ He reached into his pocket and handed Carmona a key. ‘Let’s go to my cottage.’

When Carmona was 10 years old, Harry Brewster had tried to look up her skirt. Carmona had given him a black eye for his trouble. That had been the only time that Carmona had been physical with a man. Her father hugged her on occasion, but Carmona had never felt the hard muscles of a male before. They stumbled up the steps to the cottage. Phillip unlocked the door with a shaking hand.

‘Light switch is by the door,’ Phillip mumbled. Carmona’s suspicions that Phillip had been drinking were confirmed when he put his head on her shoulder and she got a whiff of his breath. Carmona turned on the light. The kitchen was old, clean, and utterly bare save a kettle, a tin of tea, a tin of biscuits, half a loaf of bread, and an unopened jar of Bede Turner’s raspberry preserves. Two plates, two chipped mugs, and one bowl were the only dishes on the shelf.

‘Where are the rest of your dishes and things?’ Carmona asked.

‘Don’t have any. Not yet, at least. Just moved in today.’ While Phillip sat at the kitchen table, leaned his head back and closed his eyes, Carmona took a quick tour of the house. Two comfortable chairs and a table were in the small living room. The tiny bedroom at the back of the house had a single bed and a dresser, a utilitarian grey blanket folded at its foot. She opened the wardrobe and saw two shirts and a pullover sweater folded on the shelf. She took the sweater and brought it back to Phillip. ‘Here, put this on.’

The bathroom was clean, but tiny, and – thankfully – stocked with towels. Carmona grabbed three of them, soaked one with hot water, one with cold water, and left one dry. Back in the kitchen, she found Phillip trying to stand.

‘I need tea. And maybe something stronger.’ He rose to his feet but sat back down. ‘My head. Good God. Hurts.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, Phillip. Sit down and let me clean you up. After that, we’ll give you some tea.’ Carmona pulled the chair next to him. ‘Tip your head back.’ She folded the cold cloth into a square and placed it on his forehead.

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Phillip said. He remained still while Carmona wiped the blood off his face.

‘I’m afraid your shirt is ruined, unless your laundress is a miracle worker.’

‘I don’t have a laundress,’ Phillip said.

Carmona stopped, embarrassed. Of course he didn’t. Everyone in the village knew Phillip Billings was a ne’er do well, always in financial difficulties. ‘I’m so sorry, Phillip. I didn’t mean anything by it.’ When her eyes met his, she was startled by the warmth she saw there, warmth that was directed at her.

‘You’re a good girl, Carmona.’ He stood, reached out, and ran a gentle finger over her cheek.

Unable to stop herself, Carmona moved closer to him. He smelled of lemon and cedar and cigarettes. She stared at his full lips, taken aback by her body’s physical response to him.

‘You’re very beautiful. It’s a different sort of beauty, one of good bones and character. I hope you know that.’ He stood now, stable on his feet, moved to the stove, and put the kettle on. ‘Forgive me for being forward.’

Emotions swirled in Carmona’s mind, while newfound sensations awakened in her body. She wanted to press herself against Phillip Billings and feel the heat of his body again. She stared at her feet, as if her brown outdoor shoes and her father’s corduroy trousers could bring her back to reality. They didn’t. Something had come to life in Carmona, something physical and frighteningly wonderful. She met Phillip’s gaze, caught his eyes and didn’t look away. ‘I should go.’

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes saying one thing, his words another. ‘I understand. Thank you for you ministering to me tonight. You’re like an angel.’ When he smiled, Carmona’s heart sang. ‘Come back and see me?’

Carmona nodded. ‘I’ll come and check on you tomorrow.’

‘Good night, Carmona Broadbent.’ Phillip started to bow but stopped midway. ‘Oh, my head. Not ready for that yet.’

‘Get some rest.’ Carmona stepped out in the night air, not caring that it was now too late to go to her grandfather’s.

Chapter 4

The sun shone on Cat and Annie as they stood on the path before St Monica’s. A gust of wind whipped around them. Annie’s hat flew off. She grabbed it before it hit the ground, and tucked it under her arm. Cat saw the smile in her eyes and remembered when Annie had first come to her to work for the Carlisle family. She had been 13 at the time, and had lied her way into a job to escape an abusive stepfather. As far as Cat could remember, she hadn’t heard Annie laugh since September of 1939. Now, with her cheeks red from the wind, and her hair loose from its pins, Annie looked like a carefree young girl. Her eyes still had the dark circles of exhaustion, but Cat remained hopeful the change of scenery would revive Annie Havers and wash away the fear which had kept her from sleeping these past few months.

‘Is it always this cold in the summer?’ she asked.

‘We’re more north now, darling. We do get our summer days, and then we get this. Let’s go in.’

‘It’s an awfully big house.’ Annie picked up her valise and the carryall that held her precious art supplies. ‘Sprawling even. What are we going to do with all this room?’ She headed up the path, which cut through two sloping lawns. Two raised beds had been placed in the sunniest spots. One held what Cat imagined was a picking garden. There were two rose bushes, delphiniums, foxgloves, and a myriad of other flowers Cat didn’t recognize. The other held rich, black soil that looked freshly tilled and in need of planting. She followed Annie up the brick path, thinking about flowers and gardens, and how she had so much to learn about both of them.

The house was bigger than Cat remembered. Her childhood recollections were of a massive brick house, with large windows and lots of light. Now ivy grew up the sides. The brick that showed through the ivy had mellowed with age. The window frames glistened white with fresh paint, an acknowledgement someone had maintained the house, despite the shortage of workers. A woman wearing a black dress, white apron, and a severe look on her face opened the front door just as Cat and Annie approached. She took one look at them, and her severe expression broke into a lined smile, revealing even white teeth.

‘Catherine Paxton,’ the woman said. She stepped out of the house, wiping her hands on her apron as she came towards them. ‘I used to watch you when you were just a wee thing. You were a handful. Inquisitive little thing. And those red curls. Pretty as a summer’s day, you were.’

‘It’s Carlisle now, I’m afraid. Hello,’ Cat said. ‘You must be Bede Turner? Thanks for being here to greet us.’

‘Let me take those bags.’

Cat looked at Annie, who smiled and shrugged her shoulders, as they stepped into the house. Memories flooded over Cat. She hadn’t been in the house for more than thirty years. Back then, the sweeping staircase that wound around the wall up to the second floor had been cluttered with books, coats, knapsacks, and other childhood detritus waiting to be carried up and put away. Now the stairs lay empty. The bannister gleamed with a high shine. A long trestle table rested against one wall, a single brass lamp sat on top of it. That, along with a rug large enough to cover a good part of the parquet floor, was the only furniture in the room. Cat liked the austerity of it.

‘I’ve always liked this part of the house. You might want to add more furniture, a bigger table,’ Bede said. ‘Follow me. I’ll just show you to your rooms.’ Bede headed up the stairs, chattering all the while. ‘If you don’t like where I’ve put you, no worries. You’ve got five to choose from. Mrs Carlisle, I thought you’d want the biggest room. It’s only proper.’

She stopped at the room. ‘This is yours, miss.’ Annie stepped into her room and gasped. ‘It’s beautiful.’ She put her carryall down and rushed to the window. ‘Look at the view. I’m going to paint this. Tomorrow. First thing.’ A tall twin bed with a mahogany headboard was nestled against one wall. A vanity and mirror, along with a matching wardrobe had been placed opposite. The wardrobe had tall mirrors on its doors. They reflected the light from the windows. A small chaise had been tucked into the corner, a reading light next to it. Annie walked over to it. ‘Would it be all right if we moved this?’

‘Whatever for?’ Bede said.

‘I’m going to set up my studio here,’ Annie said. ‘I’m an artist.’

Cat laughed. ‘Let’s just wait and see the rest of the house, Annie. We’ve plenty of room. You shall have a studio, but let’s get the lay of the land before we decide where it will be.’

‘Okay.’ Annie shrugged. ‘Thanks for carrying my bags up, Bede. I like to cook, and will help you in the kitchen if you want me to.’

‘Do you now?’ Bede said. ‘I’d welcome the company, miss. I’ll just show Mrs Carlisle to her room, and then I’ll be back to unpack for you. There’s fresh towels in the bathroom down the hall.’

They left Annie unpacking her art supplies, a contented smile on her face.

‘She has a hard time accepting help with domestic chores,’ Cat whispered. ‘Feels guilty being waited on.’

‘She’s a painter? An artist? She’s just a girl.’

‘I know,’ Cat whispered back. ‘But she’s quite good. Even sold a couple of paintings. She wants to illustrate children’s books.’

‘Is she one of them child prodigies?’

‘You know, Bede, I believe she is.’ Cat stepped into her room. ‘This is absolutely perfect.’ The room was bigger than Annie’s, but it was situated in the corner of the house and had the benefit of windows on two walls. The furniture was old, made of heavy wood. The bed looked comfortable, with clean linen sheets and a peach silk counterpane. She pushed open a window and took deep breaths of the country air. Green fields seemed to stretch for miles before they reached the woods. The side windows showed a view of the road that led to the village. Farther along the lane was a brick house with a large garden surrounded by tall hedges.

A sweep of memories came rushing back. In her mind’s eye she saw herself as a child, her long red braids dangling down her back as Beth pushed her on the swing that used to hang from the old oak tree. Beth’s family had their own house, but her parents travelled a lot, so Beth and Cat spent a lot of time at Beth’s Aunt Win’s. The tree had grown bigger in the twenty-plus years she had been gone. Its gnarled branches seemed to wave at her, as the memories came forth, unbidden. Cat closed her eyes and leaned against the windowsill. She saw her mum walking through the gate and up the path to Win’s house, come to fetch Cat home. Cat shook her head and pushed those memories away. Now wasn’t the time.

‘Whatever happened to Win Billings? Does she still live there?’

Bede came to stand next to Cat. ‘Winifred Billings. That’s a sad story there. She had a car accident. Drove right off the Lea Road that leads to the village. Come to find out her brakes had been tampered with. She was murdered.’ Bede said the words slow, with dramatic emphasis.

Cat turned to face Bede. ‘Murdered? Are you sure?’ This was a small village. Gossip spread quickly and was often embellished in the process.

‘It’s true. There was an inquest. I heard it with my own ears. Cliff Swan got up on the witness stand – he’s the village mechanic. Knows more about cars than anyone. I’m friends with his mum. He always had a talent for building things – has one of those mechanical minds. He testified under oath someone cut through some pipe with a hacksaw. Said it disabled the hydraulics, so the brakes couldn’t stop the car.’ Bede’s eyes teared up. She wiped them with her apron. ‘Excuse me, ma’am. Miss Win was a dear soul. I used to do for her on Tuesdays. Now I go in and do the rough for Beth and her daughter Edythe.’

‘Beth married then?’

Bede looked at Cat. ‘That’s right. You two were mates. She’s Beth Hargreaves now. She and her daughter Edythe live in the house now. She’ll be right pleased to see you.’ Bede moved to shut the window.

‘Let’s leave it open for a while,’ Cat said. ‘The fresh air is bracing.’

The women headed downstairs, Bede chattering all the while about the peculiarities of the house. Cat stopped in front of Annie’s door and rapped. When Annie didn’t answer, she pushed it open to find Annie on her bed, fast asleep.

‘Poor thing,’ Bede said. ‘Exhausted. I noticed it when I laid eyes on her.’

‘It’s the sirens. Our house in London is near the police station. They go off all night. And they are so loud.’

‘We don’t have no sirens around here. We’ve got evacuees, a lot of women and children who aren’t familiar with country ways, but we’ve got no sirens.’

They had buttered toast, apples, and biscuits still warm from the oven at the table in the kitchen. Cat insisted Bede eat with her.

‘Tell me more about Beth,’ Cat said.

‘Inherited the house, Beth did. Win changed her will and left everything she owned to her niece. Well, not everything. Her scoundrel of a son got some money and a cottage off the high street. There are those who say Beth murdered Win for her money. But that’s not true, miss. No how. Beth loved Win like her own mum. And she’s a hard worker. Bakes cakes for fancy parties and weddings. Delicious cakes. I am a fairly decent baker myself, but my biscuits and cakes don’t come close to Beth Hargreave’s. She’s got a gift for it. Anyway, her husband died, left her and the girl – Edythe, she’s 18 now – short of funds. Win took them in. She enjoyed having them around. She was lonely. Husband died so young. He was the love of her life, so she never remarried. Miss Win had money, but she didn’t put on airs. Used to eat the midday meal with me. Sometimes when I was busy cleaning, she’d get right in the kitchen and cook for us.’ Bede shook her head. ‘She was a great lady.’

‘Are the police investigating the murder?’

‘Now I don’t say nothing about that. Best not to ask questions about them police. They have their own way of doing things. Beth didn’t do nothing wrong. That’s all I can say about it.’ Bede refilled Cat’s cup. ‘Now, about them drapes …’

After the tour of the house, Cat and Bede sat down together and spent a pleasant hour making arrangements for Bede’s employment. They discussed meal times, menus, and provisions available with rationing. Bede knew many farmers, and as such was able to barter for eggs, butter, and milk. ‘We’ll get some vegetables planted in the garden outside. Once we’ve got some vegetables to trade, we may be able to get a bit of meat. We could keep our own chickens, so we can barter with eggs, too.’ Cat agreed to all Bede’s suggestions, glad to have someone so competent in her employ.

Bede pushed away from the table. ‘I’ll wash up and unpack your things. Why don’t you walk over to Beth’s house? I’m betting she’d be glad to see you after all this time. I’ll see Miss Annie is tended to when she wakes up.’

‘Thank you, Bede. Do we have secateurs in the garden shed? I may cut some of those flowers for Beth.’

Half an hour later, Cat headed down the lane, a bunch of lupines wrapped in newspaper under her arm. She would have to face Beth sometime and tell her that she had seen her best friend kissing her boyfriend. Although that particular tragedy diminished with news of her parents’ death, Cat knew that she had to tell Beth what she had seen on that brutal day so long ago. Beth would have wondered why Cat hadn’t responded to the myriad of letters she had sent. Best to get it over with now. The wind had died down. The air still held a chill, but the sun felt good between her shoulder blades. As she walked down the lane, the anxiety about Thomas, Annie, and the move evaporated. She had made the right decision for Annie and for her. All she needed was for Thomas to arrive. She missed him.

* * *

Beth’s front door stood open. Cat’s stomach growled in response to the smell of cinnamon, ginger, orange, and vanilla that wafted towards her. Cat rapped on it, and called out. ‘Hello?’

‘In here,’ a voice responded. ‘In the kitchen. Come in.’

If Beth’s cakes were as good as they smelled, Bede was right. There was something inherently intoxicating about the scents. Cat stepped into the kitchen, a spacious room with a tile floor and a large work space in the middle. Copper pots and pans gleamed from shelves along the walls. In the centre of the work table lay three tiers of un-iced cake. Next to it on a cooling rack were several dark nutty loaves.

She found Beth sitting at the table, her blonde curls piled on top of her head and covered with a hairnet. Wisps had escaped and hung into her eyes.

‘Cat! I meant to come to you as soon as I finished working.’ Beth stood up and hurried over to Cat. She wrapped her arms around her, as though the past hadn’t happened, and pulled her tight. ‘I heard you were taking St Monica’s. Are you glad to be home? Please, have a seat. I’ll make some tea.’

‘These are for you,’ Cat said.

Beth took the flowers. ‘Thank you. They must be from your garden?’

‘Yes,’ Cat said. ‘And there’s plenty more where those came from, so feel free to pick a bouquet for yourself anytime. I’m about to get busy planting vegetables. Getting used to country life.’

Beth poured strong sweet tea into the same cups with the red peonies on them that she and Cat had used as young girls.

‘I remember these cups,’ Cat said.

‘I knew you would.’ Beth smiled. She took a cake from a tin, sliced two pieces and brought those to the table as well. ‘I read about you in the papers. We all did. Your husband’s murder, the police investigation. Was it terribly horrid?’

Cat nodded. ‘I’m still picking up the pieces. Every now and then someone recognizes me on the street, or the newspapers run a story on Benton’s death, trying to revive the sensation. At least they did before the war, and the fall of France. Safe to say I am no longer newsworthy. I’m hoping this move will give me – and Annie – a fresh start.’

‘Who’s Annie? Your daughter?’

Cat explained Annie’s place in her life.

The buzzer dinged. Beth pushed away from the table and took two round cakes out of the oven. With professional expertise she took them out of the pan and placed them on cooling racks on the worktop. That finished, she topped up the cups with tea and sat back down.

‘I take it you bake professionally?’

‘I do, by necessity. Rationing makes things a bit difficult these days, but baking is the only thing I’m good at.’

Cat spoke, eager to clear the air between them. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t write back to you.’

Beth looked at Cat with sad eyes. ‘Why didn’t you? When your parents died, you left without saying goodbye. You were my best friend.’

‘I saw you, Beth.’

Beth looked at Cat as though she didn’t understand.

‘With Bill. I was so angry at both of you, especially you.’

‘Bill told me that when he spoke to you, you gave us your blessing. Then when you just upped and left—’

‘Bill never told me about the two of you. I saw you heading into the woods together and followed. I saw him kiss you. Admittedly, the betrayal stung at the time. When you wrote, I just didn’t have the courage to write back and confront you. My life was in a tailspin.’ Cat shook her head. ‘It’s all so long ago.’

‘I’m so sorry, Cat. We fell in love. I tried not to acknowledge my feelings, but there they were. Bill said he told you about us and that you were fine with it. And then your parents died, and you were gone. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.’

‘I forgave you ages ago. I’m ashamed for not reaching out. Bede mentioned that Bill died. I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you. It’s been six years, but I still ache for him. We had a child together, Edythe. She’s just turned 18. We worked his parents’ farm, and we were really happy together. And then he died, and I’ve got Edythe to think about …’ Beth sighed, holding her tea cup with both hands. ‘Aunt Win took us in. Gave us this home. And then someone bloody murdered her and the police think it was me.’ Tears welled in Beth’s eyes. ‘Sorry. I’m at my wits’ end.’

‘Surely they don’t,’ Cat said.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure. I have a motive, you see. Aunt Win changed her will and left all of her assets, with the exception of a small cottage and a settlement, to me. Her son, Phillip, isn’t too pleased.’

Cat vaguely remembered stories about Phillip Billings as a child, but other than that she had no recollection of him.

‘I’ve been advised not to leave town. Two of my best clients have cancelled their orders. I’m almost afraid to answer my telephone.’

‘Oh, Beth, that’s horrible for you.’ After Cat’s husband had been murdered, she had been under police scrutiny. She knew how unnerving it was to have your every move examined, to feel as though you were being watched all the time.

‘Actually, I was hoping I could get you to help me,’ Beth said. ‘I want to hire you to find out who killed my aunt.’

‘I’m not a detective,’ Cat said. ‘What could I do?’

‘You solved your husband’s murder. I read about it in the papers. You were the talk of the village, a local celebrity. I’ve got everything ever written about you.’ Beth stood and took a folder out of a drawer in the kitchen. ‘See. You solved your husband’s murder. Now I need you to find out who killed my aunt. Everyone in the village knows that I’m a suspect – you remember how gossip travels here. What if the police can’t find out who killed her? The nagging cloud of suspicion will hang over my head. I’ll probably have to move. Thank goodness I don’t have to worry about the money anymore, but there’s Edythe to consider.’ Beth wiped a tear. ‘God, I feel so helpless.’ She gave Cat a rueful smile. ‘The police have had me in to answer questions – nothing direct, mind you, more like a gathering of historical data about my past, about my relationship with Win before my husband died.’

‘Be honest with the police. Trust them to get to the truth.’ Cat set her cup down and pulled the plate towards her.

‘I have been honest with them. And cooperative. They still think I killed her.’

‘Who do you think killed her? You must have some idea.’

Beth met Cat’s eyes. ‘I think my cousin killed his mum, thinking he was going to inherit. I cannot think of anyone else who would want to harm her. She had so many friends. She was loved by so many people.’