Bunburry--Sweet Revenge Page 10

“I don’t … I can’t … ” Olivia stuttered.

  “It’s internal bleeding. You need to bring Greg right now if there’s any hope of him seeing his grandfather alive,” said Emma crisply, and the call ended.

  As Olivia still hesitated, Greg staggered to his feet. “This is your doing,” he grated.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “My grandad’s dying because of you.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” she wailed. “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody. It was just a prank that went wrong.”

  “A prank?” He was incredulous. “You call it a prank, killing an old man who never did you any harm?”

  “I wasn’t trying to kill anyone!”

  “But that’s what you’ve done. I’m going to make sure you go down for murder. Twenty years, minimum.”

  “No, Greg! You’ve got to explain, that we’d had a row - ”

  “How does that justify poisoning people?”

  “It wasn’t poison! It was just an ordinary laxative from the chemist.”

  “I’ve seen how ill Grandad is. You expect me to believe that?”

  “Yes! I poured it into the cocktail jugs before they were set out on the tables – it doesn’t have a smell or a taste, so I knew nobody would notice. I was just trying to upset things a bit – I’m not a murderer!”

  “Reckless manslaughter,” said Greg. “That’s what they call it. Same difference. Life imprisonment.”

  “You’ve got to tell them I didn’t mean it!”

  “Olivia Browning.” It was a new voice, Emma’s. Her old school friend. Who was walking down the aisle towards her, just as she had walked down the aisle behind Heather.

  “Emma? What are you - ?”

  “Olivia Browning, you are under arrest -”

  Olivia felt her knees buckle. She was going to faint. Greg caught her before she fell to the ground but this wasn’t how she wanted him to hold her.

  Emma was still talking. “Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

  “No,” moaned Olivia. “No, I don’t understand.”

  “Very well,” said Emma. “I’ll say it again.”

  13. Epilogue

  “Where is that girl?” said Marge impatiently. “I’m tired of waiting, Alfie – I want to hear what happened.”

  He turned to Liz, sitting in her usual chintz armchair.

  “I don’t know what’s holding her up, but I’m quite keen to hear the story as well, Alfie. On you go,” she said.

  “It was Emma who made the arrest, but I suppose I had a bit to do with it, so I’ll tell you,” he said. “Philip had been startled during the wedding when Greg and Heather exchanged rings – he said Olivia had a look of pure rage. Not what you expect from the bride’s best friend.”

  “No indeed,” said Marge primly from her rocking chair. “Although who knows how I would have looked if Clarissa had married Morgan Sutcliffe.”

  “Thankfully, dear, we’ll never know,” said Liz from her armchair. “Go on, Alfie.”

  “I was sure Greg was hiding something, which he was. Just not what I thought. I suspected he had tried to kill Morgan. In fact, he didn’t want anybody to find out about him and Olivia.”

  Marge’s rocking chair speeded up. “They were having an affair!” she said gleefully.

  “The problem was that they weren’t,” said Alfie. “He had gone out with Olivia for a while when they were teenagers, but eventually he settled for Heather. Heather and Olivia were best friends, and he thought all was well.”

  “Morgan Sutcliffe to the life,” snapped Marge. “Playing the field without a care in the world. What happened then, Alfie?”

  Alfie wasn’t entirely sure that he believed everything Greg had told him, but he continued reporting what the young man had said. According to Greg, he had never had anything to do with Olivia again, apart from meeting her socially with Heather from time to time.

  That was until Heather and her mother had gone up to London for a few days to check out wedding paraphernalia. Olivia had turned up on the doorstep, Greg had invited her in, they had had a few drinks …

  “And then what happened?” asked Marge, her eyes wide behind her oversized spectacles.

  “Not what you might think,” said Alfie. “Olivia tried to seduce Greg, but he turned her down.”

  “Not another Morgan Sutcliffe then,” murmured Liz.

  “She was furious,” Alfie went on. “She threatened to tell Heather that they were having an affair, even though they weren’t. Greg was terrified that she would, but he was also terrified of telling Heather what had happened in case she called off the wedding. So he was suffering an even worse case of premarital nerves than most bridegrooms.”

  “Honesty is always the best policy,” said Marge.

  “You’re right, dear,” said Liz quietly. “But you can’t guarantee that the person you’re honest with believes you. I didn’t believe you about Morgan, remember? I’m sorry for the things I said to you.”

  Marge waved a dismissive hand. “Clarissa, it was forgotten moments later. The only person who should apologise is Morgan Sutcliffe.”

  “I’m just about to get on to him,” said Alfie. “Philip and I had a chat with Greg, when he told us all about Olivia.”

  Almost as soon as they sat down with him in the hospital cafe, the whole story came tumbling out. Greg had been desperate to talk.

  “We suggested that he meet up with Olivia in the church and challenge her about being responsible. While he was talking to her, he got a call warning him that Morgan had taken a turn for the worse, and he had to get to the hospital as quickly as possible if he wanted to see him alive.”

  “That’s awful!” gasped Marge. “Is Morgan all right?”

  “Marge dear, I think it may not have been entirely true. Am I right, Alfie?” said Liz.

  Alfie smiled at her. “Absolutely. The call was from Emma, who was lurking in the vestry. According to her, Greg performed brilliantly, pretending to be devastated by the message. When Olivia thought Morgan was about to die, and she was going to be accused of murder, it led to a full confession. Constable Hollis then emerged from the vestry to make the arrest.”

  “And it wasn’t the fudge,” said Marge with satisfaction.

  “It certainly wasn’t. But I was so fixated on Morgan Sutcliffe being made ill by the fudge that I didn’t see what was right in front of me in the photograph – everyone raising a glass to the bride. But not everyone drank the cocktails. Rosemary Savile didn’t because she was driving. Heather’s mother didn’t because they were too sweet and she’s diabetic. David Savile, on the other hand, had several.”

  Jasmine Cottage’s ding-dong doorbell rang out.

  “About time,” muttered Marge, descending from the rocking chair and pattering down the hallway to open the front door.

  “Good heavens, what are you wearing?” they heard her exclaim.

  A moment later, Emma came in, wearing her police uniform. Alfie’s heart sank. She was about to go and grovel to the loathsome Sergeant Wilson. He could only imagine how much that would cost her. And he could also imagine Wilson taking great delight in it.

  “Can’t stay,” said Emma breezily. “I’m off to work.”

  “I thought you were suspended,” said Liz.

  “I was. But I got a call from the sarge.” She put on the gruff voice that was a perfect imitation. “Where the hell have you got to, Hollis? I’m gasping for a coffee. White, two sugars, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “The nerve of the man!” said Liz, bristling.

  “Aunt Liz, for the sarge, that’s an abject apology,” said Emma. “He needs me back. He may be missing dragging me through a disciplinary hearing, but now he’s solved a crime and made a collar.”

  “Ridiculous! Taking the credit yet again w
here none’s due,” snorted Liz. “He didn’t do any of that. Alfie’s just been telling us. It was you.”

  “And Alfie. The Bunburry Parallels.”

  “Clarissa, I don’t know why you’re sitting there chatting,” said Marge. “We’re way behind with our fudge orders. Alfie, we need you back here in a couple of hours to start the deliveries.”

  “At your service, ladies,” said Alfie with a bow, before following Emma out of the cottage and down the steps to the street.

  She smiled up at him. “We did not badly, partner.”

  “I think we did pretty well,” he agreed.

  “Hopefully we can do it again.”

  “Hopefully.”

  As she turned to head for the police station, he said: “When we left the Sutcliffes’ house, Olivia said something to you. Did it help with the investigation?”

  “Oh, that? No, no, it didn’t help with the investigation at all.” Something seemed to be amusing her.

  “You haven’t told me what she said,” he persisted.

  “I haven’t, have I? She took one look at your car, and said ‘He’s a keeper.’” She gave him a quick grin and walked briskly away.

  Typical Olivia, he thought as he walked back to Windermere Cottage. He had almost reached Love Lane when there was a call behind him, and there was the postwoman, Dorothy, running after him.

  “Sorry, Alfie,” she wheezed when she reached him. “This postcard from Betty for you seems to have arrived a while ago, but it must have got overlooked. You know how these things happen.”

  Alfie had a pretty good idea. He reckoned it had been doing the rounds of the post office staff while he was in London, and very likely the customers as well. The post in Bunburry was seen as a community information service. Dorothy’s pink cheeks were probably as much to do with embarrassment as with running.

  But he was so relieved to find that Betty had sent him a postcard after all that he wasn’t going to make a fuss.

  “That’s lucky that it was found,” he said, taking it from her. “Thank you.”

  He waited to read it until he was inside the cottage, wondering if he was the last person in Bunburry to see it. It was a picture of yellow cabs in New York. Betty must be visiting her ex-supermodel mother, even though their relationship seemed fraught.

  Alfie turned the postcard over. It read: “Joni said it. Best, Betty.”

  The message was much more brief and businesslike than the one she had sent Philip. And also cryptic. Alfie puzzled over it for a moment before realizing that she was referring to the Joni Mitchell song, “Big Yellow Taxi.” A song for environmental activists, warning that we don’t appreciate what we have until it’s gone.

  Perhaps Betty was no longer in New York. Perhaps she had discovered plans for fracking or open-cast mining in an area of natural beauty, and even now was preparing to lie in front of the bulldozers. He hoped she was safe. Part of him was relieved that she wasn’t here in Bunburry; part of him wished she was here, so that he could explain that she had got it wrong about him at the Saviles’ party.

  But Oscar was right. There was no point in moping, either in London or in Bunburry. He had things to do, sorting out Agatha’s Amateurs, for one thing, and getting the community library running properly.

  He gazed around him. If he was staying, then it was time to make the cottage his own. And the first thing to go would be the ghastly avocado bathroom suite.

  There was still over an hour and half before he had to take up his delivery duties. He had never gone through Aunt Augusta’s things, the morass of old furniture and boxes in the garage, the contents of the hall cupboard. But if he was going to renovate, he would have to take all the junk to the dump. He couldn’t just throw things out sight unseen, in case there was anything valuable or of local interest.

  Tackling the garage was too ghastly a prospect. He opened the hall cupboard and took out the first box he saw, carrying it to the kitchen table.

  It was full of papers, parish council minutes, old bills, letters. He should get a shredder, make sure what went into the recycling couldn’t be read.

  And then with a shock he recognized his mother’s uneven handwriting on an envelope. Augusta Lytton, Windermere Cottage, Love Lane, Bunburry.

  He extracted the letter.

  Gussie, it began, when all’s said and done, we’re still sisters. It’s been difficult to accept what you did, but you’re the only family I have left apart from Alfie. He still talks about you – or at least about your car. He tells everyone his aunt took him out in her Jaguar and did the ton. I wouldn’t put it past you.

  He’s growing up fast. I worry that I put too much responsibility on him, but that’s how it has to be. He’s never going to be an academic, but he’s doing all right at school. He helped write a play in the English class based on Hamlet, and he was chosen to play Hamlet. I enclose a photo.

  We should meet. I can’t get enough time off work to come to Bunburry, but perhaps you can come up to London. Let me know.

  Verity

  He was shaking at the sight of the familiar writing after all these years. She had never brought him back to Bunburry after her parents’ death, and she had died of cancer before she was forty.

  He had been twelve when he played Hamlet – the photograph his mother had enclosed was now in a silver frame on Aunt Augusta’s mantelpiece.

  He turned the letter and the envelope over. His mother hadn’t put on her address or the date. But she had asked Aunt Augusta to get in touch. She was probably so tired when she wrote the letter that she simply forgot. She was always doing things like that – she worked so hard that she flaked out when she got home. Had Aunt Augusta wanted to get in touch with her and not been able to? Or was she too ashamed to meet her younger sister whose marriage she had broken up?

  There was so much he wanted to know, and nobody he could ask. He had googled his father, Calum McAlister, and while there were several men with that name, it was obvious they weren’t the one he was looking for.

  Still holding his mother’s letter, he walked to the bedroom and rang Oscar on the landline.

  “It’s me,” he said as soon as the phone was answered. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “Anything, dear boy, except sit through another performance of Antony and Cleopatra on Segways.”

  “I want you to get me a private investigator. A reliable one. Efficient. Discreet. Can you do that?”

  “Of course. My contacts are impeccable. But how thrilling! Is this to help with the Bunburry Triangle’s latest case?”

  “No,” said Alfie. “I want them to find someone. I want them to find my father.”

  Next episode

  Sheep Secrets

  BUNBURRY – A Cosy Mystery Series

  by Helena Marchmont

  Preview

  Cherringham – A Cosy Crime Serie

  Matthew Costello

  Neil Richards

  Murder under the Sun

  1. A Night on the Town

  Jack pushed open the door of the Ploughman’s and looked around the crowded pub. Friday evening, seven o’clock; the place always busy with an after-work, bring-on-the-weekend buzz.

  But even so, it wasn’t hard to see the guys he came here to meet.

  There they were, gathered round the bar, pints in hand, identical bright red T-shirts proclaiming #LostWeekend.

  Nick Marston’s stag “team”.

  And there was Nick at the heart of the crowd of boisterous young men looking to Jack like he was already well into the ritual drinking.

  Something for the future groom to watch, especially with everyone offering to buy him one.

  Jack remembered getting a little wobbly at his own bachelor party at Randazzo’s in Sheepshead Bay.

  A lifetime ago.

  And there wasn’t going to be a lot of time for N
ick to recover. In just a few days he’d be walking down the aisle of Cherringham’s St James’s Church to join Grace, Sarah’s long-time friend and work partner, in a wedding that had been so long in the planning.

  Jack took a deep breath and eased his way through the crowd towards them, smiling and nodding to locals who knew him as he passed.

  “Jack!” said Nick, stepping forward from the group and giving him a big hug like a long-lost relative. “Thought you weren’t going to make it, mate!”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Jack, sensing already that he was more than a couple of drinks behind this crowd.

  He saw Nick turn to his team.

  “Guys, guys – let me introduce our second very special guest for the night – Jack Brennan – top New York detective—”

  “Er, ex-New York detective,” said Jack, out of habit.

  “—and all-round great guy. Got me out of trouble big time a few years back. Let’s hear it for Jack!”

  Jack watched as the whole crew cheered loudly, raised their beer glasses in salute, taking big quaffs, then patted him on the back, bringing him in closer to the bar.

  “Second special guest?” said Jack, smiling. “You’d better introduce me to the first.”

  “Ha, you’re standing next to him,” came a voice at Jack’s side. “Hi, Jack.”

  He turned to see another familiar face – Grace’s father, Len, maybe fifty or so, looking a tad out of place here in his sensible collared shirt and cardigan, chinos and deck shoes.

  Jack knew Len from his own occasional ventures with the village choir, though he’d never really had a chance to get to know him better.

  “Len,” he said. “So, you got the star-billing?”

  “Think that might have something to do with the fact I’m paying for the bloody wedding, Jack,” said Len, laughing, shaking his hand. “Get you a drink?”

  “Already sorted,” said Nick, quickly stepping back from the bar to reveal a row of beer glasses lined up one after the other. “Jägertrain!”