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- Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Bunburry - A Cosy Crime Series Compilation
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Miss Marple meets Oscar Wilde in this new series of cosy mysteries set in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry. Here, fudge-making and quaffing real ale in the local pub are matched by an undercurrent of passion, jealousy, hatred and murder - laced with a welcome dose of humour.
This compilation contains episodes 7-9.
SWEET REVENGE
Alfie is back in London - but even a wild social whirl with his best friend Oscar can't disguise the fact that he misses Bunburry. And then a cry for help reaches him - Liz and Marge are in trouble, and Alfie races back. But as he and Police Constable Emma Hollis join forces to clear the ladies' names, he has to confront a growing suspicion...
SHEEP SECRETS
Bunburry is basking in midsummer sunshine when a shepherd finds a body in a nearby quarry. The deceased was taking part in an outdoor survival training course. The death seems like a tragic accident, but amateur sleuth Alfie decides to join in order to find out if the other participants are as innocent as they seem...
DEADLIER THAN FICTION
Alfie McAlister enjoys his volunteer work in Bunburry's community library, set up in the mansion of the formidable Miss Radford-Jones. The library is home from home for eleven-year-old Noah, an Agatha Christie fan who sees murder round every corner. At first Alfie dismisses this as a child's overactive imagination - but then he himself is attacked. Could young Noah be right after all?
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Contents
Bunburry – A Cosy Mystery Series
Miss Marple meets Oscar Wilde in this new series of cosy mysteries set in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry. In “Murderous Ride,” the second Bunburry book, Alfie discovers that he has not only inherited a cottage from his late Aunt Augusta but also a 1950s Jaguar. He is dismayed: for reasons of his own, he no longer drives. Aunt Augusta’s best friends, Liz and Marge, persuade him to get behind the wheel again – but that’s just the start of his troubles.
About the Book
Sweet Revenge
Alfie is back in London, trying to pick up his old life there. But even a wild social whirl with his best friend Oscar can’t disguise the fact that he misses Bunburry. And then a cry for help reaches him - Liz and Marge are in trouble, and Alfie races back. But as he and Police Constable Emma Hollis join forces to clear the ladies’ names, he has to confront a growing suspicion. Has Liz made a mistake while making her celebrated fudge, or have the ladies been up to something more sinister?
Sheep Secrets
The picturesque village of Bunburry is basking in midsummer sunshine when a shepherd finds a body in a nearby quarry. The deceased was taking part in an outdoor survival training course run by Neil Walker, friend of Constable Emma Hollis. The death seems a tragic accident, but Emma insists on amateur sleuth Alfie McAlister joining the course to save Neil‘s good name. But are the other participants as innocent as they seem? Add an undercover reporter and a mysterious druid to the mix, and Alfie‘s investigation becomes more complex than he imagined …
Deadlier than Fiction
Amateur sleuth Alfie McAlister enjoys his volunteer work in Bunburry’s community library, set up in the mansion of the formidable Miss Radford-Jones. The library is home from home for eleven-year-old Noah, an Agatha Christie fan who sees murder round every corner. At first Alfie dismisses this as a child’s overactive imagination - but then he himself is attacked. Could young Noah be right after all?
The Author
Helena Marchmont is a pseudonym of Olga Wojtas, who was born and brought up in Edinburgh. She was encouraged to write by an inspirational English teacher, Iona M. Cameron. Olga won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2015, has had more than 30 short stories published in magazines and anthologies and recently published her first mystery Miss Blaine’s Prefect and the Golden Samovar.
HELENA MARCHMONT
EPISODE 7 - 9
Digital original edition
Copyright © 2021 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany
Written by Olga Wojtas as Helena Marchmont
Idea and series concept: Kathrin Kummer & Rebecca Schaarschmidt
Project editor: Kathrin Kummer
Cover design: Kirstin Osenau
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock: Canicula | Sk_Advance studio | ivangal | Ola-la | Giraphics; © iStockphoto: Ian_Sherriffs
E-book production: Dörlemann Satz, Lemförde
ISBN 978-3-7517-0774-9
Follow the author on Twitter: @OlgaWojtas
Cast
Alfie McAlister flees the hustle and bustle of London for the peace and quiet of the Cotswolds. Unfortunately, the “heart of England” turns out to be deadlier than expected …
Margaret “Marge” Redwood and Clarissa “Liz” Hopkins have lived in Bunburry their entire lives, where they are famous for their exceptional fudge-making skills. Between Afternoon Tea and Gin o’clock they relish a bit of sleuthing…
Emma Hollis loves her job as policewoman, the only thing she is tired of are her aunt Liz’s constant attempts at matchmaking.
Betty Thorndike is a fighter. Mostly for animal rights. She’s the sole member of Bunburry’s Green Party.
Oscar de Linnet lives in London and is Alfie’s best friend. He tries luring Alfie back to the City because: “anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there.”
Augusta Lytton is Alfie’s aunt. She’s dead. But still full of surprises…
Harold Wilson loves a pint (or two) more than his job as local police sergeant.
BUNBURRY is a picturesque Cotswolds village, where sinister secrets lurk beneath the perfect façade…
HELENA MARCHMONT
Sweet Revenge
“Marriage is a long, dull meal with dessert served at the beginning.”
Oscar Wilde
1. London Town
The wine waiter held out the bottle of red, displaying the label.
“Would you like to taste it, sir?” he asked.
Before Alfie could reply, Oscar said: “Just pour it as quickly as you can. We’re in urgent need of alcohol’s anaesthetizing properties.”
Radiating disapproval, the wine waiter filled Oscar’s glass, and even as he turned to do the same for Alfie, Oscar drained a quarter of it.
“Thank you, my dear fellow. I needed that,” said Oscar. “Stay close. I imagine we’ll need a second bottle before too long.”
The waiter placed the bottle on the table. “Very good, sir,” he said, his tone implying the opposite, and stalked off.
“You’ve upset him,” said Alfie. “He thinks a wine with such an exorbitant price tag should be treated with more respect.”
Oscar took another draught and topped up his glass. “My dear McAlister, since I’m paying the exorbitant price tag, I think I can treat it any way I like. And however upset our waiter friend might be, he’s not as upset as I am.”
Alfie laughed. “You knew it was going to be an avant-garde production.”
“There’s avant-garde and there’s sacrilege,” said Oscar. “When one is performing Shakespeare, there must be limits. Dear God, I never thought I’d live to see Antony and Cleopatra whizzing around the stage on Segways. I would have walked out had we not been sitting in the middle of the row.”
“I wouldn’t have let you,” said Alfie equably. “That would have been very unkind to the cast. When you and I were in The Importance of Being Earnest, how would you have felt if someone had walked out?”
“I would have assumed they had been called away to a family emergency,” said Oscar. “You and I were excellent. And we weren’t on Segways.”
Alfie had first met Oscar in that amateur production. It was an unlikely friendship: Alfie, the self-made man, brought up by a single mother in London’s East End; Oscar de Linnet, languidly aristocratic, who had only ever lived a life of privilege. Oscar had no hesitation in indulging his eccentricities, and only ever had phone conversations on a landline to avoid the problem of a mobile signal breaking up.
Alfie also suspected that this 21st-century Oscar thought of himself as a reincarnation of Oscar Wilde. Perhaps a Wildean quote might be a way of getting through to him right now.
“When a man is old enough to do wrong, he should be old enough to do right also,” Alfie remarked.
Oscar quirked an eyebrow. “I sense an implied rebuke, my friend.”
“Perhaps you could sip your wine instead of swigging it?”
Oscar made a show of raising his glass to the light in order to study the colour, before swirling the liquid round and round.
“And now to assess the bouquet,” he said, taking a deep sniff. He paused. “Ah.” He took a delicate mouthful of wine, and carefully replaced the glass on the table. “I say, Alfie, that really is rather special.”
Oscar signalled to the wine waiter who came over with obvious reluctance.
“Another bottle, sir?”
“Absolutely not,” said Oscar. “This is a wine to be savoured, not downed like lemonade. I wanted to apologise. I mistreated it. It’s no excuse, but I was recovering from a most traumatic experience.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I hope all is now well.”
“It’s not the sort of behaviour you expect from the queen of Egypt - ”
“Everything’s fine,” Alfie broke in. “We’re very happy with the wine. Thank you.”
The wine waiter left, looking confused, as a waitress arrived with the Wagyu beef. She was young, like many of her Bunburry counterparts, but unlike them had no visible piercings or tattoos. She was perfectly groomed, wearing her uniform as though it was haute couture, and she presented the plates as though they were the latest treasures in the British Museum.
“The finest steak in the world,” said Oscar enthusiastically. “Don’t you agree?”
Alfie, pretending to concentrate on chewing, inclined his head in a way he hoped signalled agreement. But the truth was he didn’t agree. He had travelled the world – had eaten Wagyu beef in Japan – and the finest steak in the world was definitely served in the Drunken Horse Inn, Bunburry.
He glanced round at his plush surroundings, velvet drapes, monogrammed plates, original art on the walls, a battalion of waiting staff. It couldn’t be more different from the Horse, a traditional English pub, some of whose wooden chairs were distinctly rickety. But the Horse’s lovingly prepared, locally sourced food was better than the meal in front of him, which cost at least five times more than anything in Bunburry.
But the latest phone call from the village had revealed that the Horse had changed since his return to London three months ago.
“You remember Edith?” he asked.
Oscar laid down his knife and fork. “Ah, the redoubtable Edith, the first person to greet me when I came to visit. My dear fellow, I could win Mastermind with the inhabitants of Bunburry as my specialist subject. Edith, mother of William, who is landlord of the Drunken Horse, and mother-in-law of the tempestuous Carlotta. Engaged in a perpetual battle to serve traditional English fare to the Horse’s patrons in preference to Carlotta’s fine Italian cooking, which Edith describes as ‘foreign muck’.”
He picked up his fork again and made inroads on the fondant potatoes. “I overheard huge praise for Carlotta’s braised rabbit pappardelle – though never in Edith’s hearing, obviously. I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to try it.”
“And now you’ve missed your chance completely,” said Alfie. “Carlotta’s gone vegan.”
Fondant potatoes fell from Oscar’s fork. “Did you say - ?”
Alfie nodded. “Arrivederci braised rabbit pappardelle. Hello quinoa and lentils. Edith is apoplectic.”
“As, I presume, are the diners,” said Oscar.
“Not at all,” said Alfie. “Carlotta’s new menu is very popular. Which of course has made Edith even more apoplectic. William’s now spending most of his time outside, smoking to calm his nerves.”
Oscar raised his glass. “To Mesdames Hopkins and Redwood. Long may they continue to supply you with the latest Bunburry news.”
“Liz and Marge are very good with their weekly phone call,” Alfie agreed, raising his own glass. “That reminds me. They sent you this with their compliments.”
From his jacket pocket, he retrieved a small bag, neatly tied with a red ribbon, and handed it to Oscar.
“And long may the dear ladies continue to supply me with the best fudge in the Cotswolds,” Oscar said. “I take it the fudge-making business continues to do well?”
“Going from strength to strength,” said Alfie. “Liz renovated her kitchen so she could increase output, and she got top marks in the Food Hygiene Rating Scheme – she’s very proud. You’re lucky they could spare you a bag, since they’ve been hard at work catering for a wedding.”
“Too kind,” said Oscar, stashing the fudge in his own pocket. “Please pass on my sincere thanks. But fudge-making must be quite dreary in comparison to solving crimes. Of course, the two Misses Marple can’t be doing much amateur detecting without you, since you are arguably the hypotenuse of the Bunburry Triangle.”
“A ridiculous name,” said Alfie. “Marge came up with it and unfortunately it’s stuck. But the village seems to be an oasis of calm at the moment, apart from the uncivil war in the Horse.”
“How very disappointing,” said Oscar. “I hope for more drama in next week’s bulletin.”
“I haven’t finished this week’s,” said Alfie. “You remember Dorothy?”
Oscar gave a shudder. “Dorothy from the post office. The second person who greeted me when I came to visit. She knew everything about me. I swear she knew things about me that even I didn’t know. Frankly, I don’t believe it’s a post office. I think it’s the real headquarters of MI5, and the building in London is just a dummy.”
Alfie laughed. “She does take a keen interest in the mail she delivers. But in this case, it was nothing to do with the post. She turned up on the vicarage doorstep, and the vicar -”
“Philip,” interrupted Oscar, anxious to show off his Mastermind specialist subject potential.
“Philip,” confirmed Alfie. “He naturally thought she was delivering a parcel, or needed him to sign for something. But no. She said she wanted to become a Christian and could he baptise her?”
Oscar, intrigued, put down his knife and fork again. “At a time of dwindling congregations, he must have been thrilled. I presume he baptised her there and then?”
“No, he invited her in for a coffee.” Alfie thought fondly of his visits to the vicarage, with its lumpy settee and terrible instant coffee, delicious home baking from the parishioners, and Philip’s calmness and understanding.
“Philip told her adult baptism was perfectly acceptable in the Church of England, but that becoming a Christian involved slightly more than that. She seemed open to believing in God if that was part of the deal, but Philip still wanted to know why she was contemplating this step.”
Oscar attempted to look pious. “An angelic visitation, perhaps?”
“No, an email.”
“Goodness,” said Oscar. “Is that how the churches are recruiting these days? How very modern.”
“She’d had an email claiming to come from the trustees of a multi-million pound fund in a Swiss bank - ”
Oscar groaned. “Don’t tell me. The money would be hers as soon as she passed on the details of her bank account. No doubt closely followed by her PIN number.”
“Exactly. It might have been disastrous, but fortunately the so-called trustees said Dorothy had been chosen because she was a good Christian woman. She was terrified that if they found out she wasn’t, she wouldn’t get the money. So she approached Philip, who was able to set her straight.”
“And baptise her?”
“No, she lost interest once she discovered the email was a scam. In fact, I think she holds Philip partly responsible for depriving her of a fortune.”
“Poor Dorothy,” said Oscar. “What do you suppose she would have done with her millions?”
“Built a bigger post office, I imagine,” said Alfie.
Oscar took another delicate sip of wine. “I would buy several cases of this nectar,” he said. “And what news of Bunburry’s lady policeman? I was sorry not to meet her.”
Emma had been on holiday during Oscar’s brief visit to the Cotswolds. Alfie had come back to London with Oscar, so had never said goodbye to her. He wondered whether she had noticed he had left. But of course she had: there was little that Emma didn’t notice.
“Constable Hollis continues to be overworked, according to her great-aunt,” he told Oscar. “You know Liz, you know she’s the gentlest person you could ever hope to meet. But she utterly detests Sergeant Wilson – she’s convinced he gets Emma to do all the hard work and then takes the credit.”
“Yes,” murmured Oscar, “I met the good sergeant. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. He doesn’t like you, Alfie. You need to be careful.”
“I’m well aware that he doesn’t like me,” said Alfie drily. “But thankfully I don’t need to be careful, since Sergeant Wilson is in Bunburry, and I’m here.”
Oscar took a final mouthful and laid his cutlery on the plate.
“It’s been wonderful having you back in London,” he said. “If you hadn’t been with me this evening, I might well have drunk myself to death. Segways in Shakespeare – there should be a law against it. But much as I adore your company, it’s time you went back to Bunburry.”
“What?” said Alfie, stunned.
Further conversation was curtailed by the haughty young waitress arriving to remove their plates.
“Would you like to see the dessert menu?” she asked.
Oscar smiled up at her. “Let us relax for a few minutes, if you would, and then we’ll both have the frangipane tart.”
“Of course, sir,” she said with an answering smile.
“Did you just order for me?” Alfie asked when she left.
“I had to, dear boy,” Oscar said airily. “If you can’t work out where you should be living, you certainly can’t work out what you want for dessert.”
“Oscar, I don’t find this funny,” said Alfie.
“I’ve never been more serious. Bunburry isn’t Mars, it’s only a couple of hours in that sporty Jaguar of yours. You could still come up to London whenever you liked.”
Alfie picked up the wine bottle and refilled his glass. “Why on earth would you suggest I go back to Bunburry?”
“It’s obvious,” said Oscar. “You sat through that atrocious performance of Antony and Cleopatra, which filled in a couple of hours. I’m sure you’re enjoying this fine meal and fine wine. Another few hours gone. All you’re doing is passing the time. But when you talk about Bunburry, your face lights up, you’re animated. These are people you care about, a real community, where you should be. And what about all the projects you had there? You’re not doing anything like that here.”
Alfie drank some wine before replying. “You know why I left Bunburry.”
“I know why you left London,” said Oscar. “You were grieving over Vivian. It would have been pure hell to be here without her, being reminded every moment that she had gone. Of course, you had to get away. But leaving Bunburry was completely different. I’m sorry things didn’t work out with the Green goddess, but if you ask me -”
“I’m not asking you anything,” Alfie spat out.
But Oscar continued: “– it’s time you stopped hanging about in London, moping. She may not even be in Bunburry.”
The waitress arrived with the two desserts. Alfie waved his away.
“I’m sorry. I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Can I get you a coffee?” she asked.
Alfie stood up. “Thank you, no. I really should be going.”
“You really should,” said Oscar patiently. “Back to Bunburry.”
With the briefest of muttered farewells, Alfie left the restaurant and decided to walk home. After a while, he found himself passing St Martin’s Theatre with its glowing neon sign proclaiming, “Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap.” He had gone there with Vivian, that day they decided to play at being tourists. But he was shocked to find the pang of loss he always felt when he thought of Vivian wasn’t his only reaction.
He also felt sudden guilt. He had been pressganged into becoming director of Bunburry’s amateur dramatics group, dubbed “Agatha’s Amateurs” by the villagers, since the only play they ever put on was “The Mousetrap” at Christmas. That tradition continued, but he had managed to persuade them to put on a summer production as well. In his absence, nothing would be happening. And the community library – it needed a lot of hard work if it was going to succeed.
The pedestrian light switched from red to green. Alfie stepped off the pavement and was almost run down by a delivery bike whose rider swore loudly at him. Shaken, Alfie made his way towards The Strand. Even after three months, he hadn’t fully adjusted back to London life. The capital seemed too crowded, too frenetic. He missed Liz and Marge, he missed Windermere Cottage, he missed Sunday lunch at the Drunken Horse, he missed Dorothy quizzing him about his post, he even missed the cows which had terrified him so much when he first arrived.
He owed Oscar an apology. Oscar had been trying to help, and Alfie had just been too pig-headed to listen to the truth. Perhaps Oscar was still in the restaurant – Alfie could go back and join him for a nightcap.
He got out his phone, which he had put on silent in the theatre. He had six missed calls. All from Marge.
He was preparing to ring back when Marge called again. He dodged into a shop doorway to minimise the traffic noise.
“Marge? Marge? Sorry, I can’t hear you. Could you speak up?”
To his horror, he realised she was crying.
“Oh, Alfie,” she sobbed. “It’s awful! Something terrible has happened. Alfie, please, we need you to come and help us.”
2. Back to Bunburry
The distinctive Cotswold Blue Jaguar headed down the Mall towards Buckingham Palace, bearing right at the Queen Victoria Memorial to reach Hyde Park Corner.
Alfie had tried to get Marge to tell him what terrible thing had happened, but she was too distressed. He reassured her that he would come first thing in the morning. Having barely slept, he set out before 7am after a rushed cup of coffee and a slice of toast.
Even at this early hour, there was traffic, and it took Alfie a while to traverse London and get on to the motorway.
As the Jaguar swallowed up the miles, he thought back to the last time he had seen the elderly ladies.
The doorman had called the flat. “Mr McAlister? There’s a lady here at the desk for you, a Ms Hopkins, calling on behalf of Liz and Marge.”
He had felt almost the same alarm as yesterday. Liz, in London? Which he knew the ladies considered a filthy, dangerous place, to be avoided at all costs. Why was she here?
“Thanks, Darren – please send her up.”
Alfie was waiting at the lift door when Liz emerged, flustered.
“Goodness, Alfie, this is all quite something, the sliding glass doors and the carpets and the doorman. He said it was all right for me to come up, I hope you don’t mind -”
“Of course I don’t mind,” said Alfie, kissing her on the cheek. “But is everything all right? How’s Marge? Where is she?”
Liz fluttered a hand in the direction of the street. “Outside in the car. She’ll drive off if any blue meanies appear, and then come back for me.”
“We can’t have her worrying about parking tickets,” said Alfie. “She can have a visitor’s space in the underground car park. I’ll sort that out. Come and have a seat.”
He ushered her into the drawing room overlooking the Thames.
When he returned with Marge in tow, Liz didn’t appear to have moved from the spot where he had left her.
“Goodness,” she said faintly, sitting bolt upright on the settee as though trying not to disturb anything. “You can see Tower Bridge from here.”
“I know,” said Alfie, smiling. “It’s particularly lovely at night, when everything’s lit up. And if you come round here and look in that direction, the pointy skyscraper is the Shard.”
“Goodness,” she said again, more faintly, not moving an inch.
But Marge had already rushed over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and was exclaiming about the view.
“And a balcony! Alfie, this is marvellous. Look at that cruise boat with all the people on it! Do you sit out here with your coffee and croissant, and wave to them?”
“Sometimes,” said Alfie, amused by her enthusiasm. “Speaking of which, what can I get you? Tea? Coffee? Gin?”
“Ooh, gin, please,” said Marge. “Easy on the tonic.”
“Margaret!” said Liz sharply. “You can’t drink – you’re driving. Alfie, we’ll have a nice cup of tea.”
“Driving?” said Alfie. “But you’ve only just got here.”
“We can’t stay long,” said Liz firmly. “We want to get home before it’s dark.”
“And we want you to come with us,” declared Marge.
“Pardon?” said Alfie.
“You’ve been away for a week,” said Marge. “It’s time you came back. We’ve come to get you.”
Liz gave a long-suffering sigh. “We agreed, dear, that I would do the talking, didn’t we? And you’ve rushed in like a bull in a china shop. I’m sorry we’ve just sprung it on you like this, Alfie, but Marge is right. We’ve been worried about you, just running off like that.”
“I had things to sort out here. Urgently,” said Alfie. He was lying, and he knew they knew he was lying.
The two-storey flat had three bedrooms. There was no sign that the ladies had brought overnight bags, but the concierge service could get them whatever they needed. He could invite them to stay, show them round London. But no. They would wear him down and he wasn’t prepared to reverse his decision.
“Let me get you that tea,” he said.
An hour later, he was waving them off, mortified by the look of disappointment on their faces.
“I just need a little more time. To sort things out. I’ll be back soon,” he assured them. He hadn’t meant it then, and again he knew they knew that. Now they never asked him about his plans in their weekly phone calls, never talked about Agatha’s Amateurs, the community library, volunteering at the hospice. They never mentioned Betty, and he never asked. He had no idea whether she was back in Bunburry.
But now it didn’t matter whether she was or not. Last time, Liz and Marge had asked him to come back for his sake. This time, they were asking him to come back for theirs, and there was no question of him refusing.
He took the next motorway exit, and was soon on the narrow roads that had unnerved him so much when he resumed driving. Now, he felt elated to be among the gently rolling hills, to see the warm golden stone of the tiny villages, catching sight of the occasional patient fly-fisher in a limestone stream. He wished the roof of the Jaguar was open, so that he could breathe the clear air, but there was no time for that. He wanted to get to Liz and Marge as quickly as possible.
He reached the familiar turn-off for Bunburry, and minutes later was in the village itself, reducing his speed to a sedate twenty miles an hour. He passed the Drunken Horse, with its lop-sided agglomeration of buildings; he passed the post office, closed since it was Sunday; he passed the church with its tapering spire, and thought he caught a glimpse of Philip in his black cassock.
As he neared Jasmine Cottage, he saw a police car parked outside. Emma. He was glad she was already here, to support her great-aunt. He parked the Jaguar in front of the other car and climbed up the three stone steps to the white wooden gate.
The front door of the cottage was open, and he could hear raised voices. None of them Emma’s. One of them a man’s. Emma’s boss, Sergeant Harold Wilson.
He couldn’t make out what they were saying until the sergeant suddenly appeared in the doorway, pursued by Marge. Alfie had heard the quips about how Margaret Thatcher handbagged her opponents. Now he was witnessing an actual handbagging, Sergeant Wilson ducking out of the way as Marge swung at him, Liz standing open-mouthed in the background.
“Assaulting a police officer carries a twelve-month prison sentence!” Wilson shouted at her.
“And what sentence does police harassment carry?” Marge shouted back. “How dare you come round here upsetting everyone!”
Alfie still had his hand on the latch of the gate. Suddenly, he found himself shoved aside as the gate was flung open. Emma darted past him to join the melee.
“Aunt Liz! Aunt Marge! Are you all right? What’s going on?” she yelled, which was exactly the question Alfie wanted to ask.
He stepped through the gate and said in his most encouraging voice: “Hello everyone! Let’s all calm down for a moment and see how we can sort things out.”
Nobody paid the slightest bit of attention.
“Margaret Redwood, I’m arresting you for assaulting a police officer,” shouted Sergeant Wilson, “and Clarissa Hopkins, I’m arresting you for refusing to assist a police officer. You do not have to say anything but -”
Emma grabbed hold of him and pulled him away from the ladies. “You leave Aunt Liz and Aunt Marge alone! You can’t arrest them. They haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Haven’t done anything wrong?” Wilson spluttered. “That one there hit me with her handbag.”
Marge, now clutching her handbag to her bosom, gave a grim smile suggesting she would be perfectly happy to do it again.
“That’s going to sound great in court, you complaining about being hit by Aunt Marge,” said Emma. “Good luck with making her out to be the Muhammad Ali of the Women’s Rural Institute.”
Alfie had to agree. Marge, small and birdlike, peering warily through her oversized glasses, looked even tinier beside the large overweight sergeant, his belly hanging over his belt.
Wilson turned to Emma as though seeing her for the first time. “Constable Hollis, you are suspended with immediate effect for insubordination,” he snapped.
Emma gasped. “You can’t do that. There are procedures.”
“Oh, there will be procedures, my girl, you can be sure of it. And be in no doubt that at the end of them, you’ll be kicked off the force.”
He turned on his heel and marched past Alfie, down the garden and the steps to the police car.
“Suspended on full pay, I take it,” Emma called after him. “That suits me just fine.”
But as the car drove off, Alfie saw her face crumple, and tears start rolling down her cheeks. He was dismayed. Emma was always so professional, so self-possessed. He could never have imagined her crying, and now he was witnessing it.
Liz was crying as well, and Marge shooed her into the house, Emma trailing after them. Alfie followed on, wondering whether he should alert them to his presence. So far, nobody had acknowledged that he was there.
He cleared his throat, and at that very moment, Marge turned and glared at him.
“Go and make some tea,” she ordered.
Behind her oversized glasses, her eyes were glistening with tears as well. Three weeping women. Alfie did the only thing he could, and fled into the kitchen.
He took his time over making the tea in the hope that they would have managed to console one another by the time he joined them. But despite the tears and the upset, he felt a sense of contentment. He was back in Bunburry, and he knew it was the best place for him to be.
When he came in with the tea tray, Emma and Liz were sitting on the chintz-covered sofa, Emma with her arms round her great-aunt. Marge was seated on her customary rocking chair, rocking furiously.
“I’ve brought the tea,” Alfie announced unnecessarily, putting the tray down on one of the two nests of coffee tables, and pulling out tables for their cups.
Nobody else spoke. He would have to try to lighten the mood.
“Marge always says a cup of tea is very dry without something to go with it. I don’t suppose you’ve got any fudge?”
Liz burst into tears again.
Emma turned to him. “Alfie, you idiot!” she said in reproach. “Why would you say that?”
“Say what?” asked Alfie, bewildered.
She shook her head in vexation. “Just pour the tea.”
Alfie did what he was told, setting a cup beside each of the women, which none of them touched. Marge was still rocking back and forth, her expression grim. Emma still had her arms round Liz.
“I came as soon as I could,” she said gently to her great-aunt. “But what was Sergeant Wilson doing here in the first place?”
“Throwing his considerable weight around,” answered Marge. “That beer belly’s bigger every time I see him. He just stormed in, told us there would be an investigation, and we had to stop everything right now.”
The rocking chair was beginning to creak.
“Marge was wonderful,” said Liz, looking gratefully at her friend. “She was so brave. She told him to leave, that it was nothing to do with him.”
“I did!” said Marge, her voice shrill. “I said, ‘Get out of here, Harry Wilson. This isn’t a police matter - there hasn’t been a crime.’ That’s exactly what I said.”
She stopped rocking and picked up her tea cup. “That man! He’s a tin-pot dictator. What about you, Emma? He can’t just suspend you like that. You’re in a union, aren’t you?”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Emma. “I’ll get on to the Police Federation rep tomorrow, and it’ll be sorted out before you know. In the meantime, I’m looking forward to a few days’ paid leave. I can spend some time with the pair of you. That’ll be nice, won’t it?”
She gave Liz an affectionate nudge.
But her great-aunt didn’t respond to it. Instead, she said in a bleak tone that Alfie had never heard from her: “It’s all over. When the word gets out, I’m finished. I don’t know what to do. Oh dear, I just don’t know what to do.” She stared blankly at the patterned carpet.
“Please,” said Alfie. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”
“For heaven’s sake, Alfie, isn’t it obvious?” said Emma impatiently.
“Since you ask, no,” he said.
“Oh, Alfie, don’t you understand? It’s the fudge.”
3. The Drunken Horse
When Alfie came into the Drunken Horse, he was greeted by a squeal of delight from Edith.
“Look who’s here! Hello, stranger!”
Edith might be seventy-something, but she was perfectly sprightly as she rushed round from behind the bar to give him a hug. The other patrons called out greetings, some coming over to shake Alfie’s hand. Oscar was right. This was a community. Nowhere in London would he get a reception like this.
“Leaving us without a word,” Edith scolded. “You didn’t even tell Liz and Marge where you were going, you bad boy. Off somewhere exotic with that girlfriend of yours, I suppose?”
Edith was Bunburry’s gossipmonger-in-chief, and Alfie was relieved that Liz and Marge hadn’t been discussing him with her: she clearly didn’t know he had been holed up in his London flat.
“No, Betty and I were … travelling separately,” he said. Edith had him paired off with Betty long before he himself had entertained the prospect. However much he contradicted her, she always called Betty his girlfriend, and in the end he just went along with it. He had never worked out whether she was joking or not.
“So when’s she coming back?” Edith asked. “We haven’t heard a cheep from either of you, all these months.”
“I’m not sure of her timetable,” said Alfie. “She’s doing some work with Greenpeace at the moment.”
That was what she had said in her letter, and he saw no reason to conceal it: he wasn’t telling Edith what Betty was doing or where, since he didn’t know.
Edith sniffed. “Heaven knows when she’ll be back then. Probably travelling by canoe so as not to leave a carbon footprint. So what can I get you?”
“A pint of Bunburry Brew, please, and one of your fine Sunday roasts.”
Edith beamed at him. “You’ve missed my lunches, then?”
“Why else would I have come back?” asked Alfie.
She patted his cheek. “Go and sit down, young man, and I’ll bring it to you. On the house. Thank goodness you still appreciate good food and don’t want any of that vegan muck. William! A pint of Brew for Alfie, and don’t charge him.”
She pattered off towards the kitchen.
Alfie, embarrassed, went up to the bar, and took out his wallet.
“You heard the lady, your money’s no good round here,” William said as he pulled the pint. “Glad to see you. It’s been a nightmare since Carlotta turned vegan. The pair of them are at one another’s throats. You don’t know how lucky you are, single man living on his own. Nobody hassling you, nobody yelling: ‘William! Come and see what she’s done now!’”
“Have you thought of joining the Foreign Legion?” said Alfie sympathetically.
“All the time, mate. All the time.”
William handed over the pint, and Alfie headed for his customary booth at the back of the pub. The beer was as good as he remembered. He savoured it and sat waiting for Emma.
She had begun to explain the saga of the fudge in Liz and Marge’s, but Liz had promptly burst into tears again, and Emma had hustled him out.
“Meet you in the Horse at lunchtime,” she said as she showed him the door. “I’ll explain it all properly then.”
It was practically lunchtime anyway, and he was starving after his paltry breakfast. He’d driven round to Windermere Cottage, surprising himself by how excited he felt to see the old place, the door as purple as ever, the carriage lights gleaming in the sunshine.
He didn’t yet yield to the pleasure of going inside, but simply parked the car in the lane and walked to the Horse.
Now, settled in the pub with his pint, he tried to grasp what Emma had been saying before he was ejected. There had been a wedding yesterday, presumably the wedding Liz and Marge had been talking about. Everyone had been struck down by food poisoning.
Sergeant Wilson had taken malicious delight in informing Liz and Marge that everything the guests had eaten would be investigated by environmental health. Including the fudge. He instructed them to stop production immediately and await an inspector. And he warned them if there had been the slightest infraction, the business would be closed down for good.
“Here you are,” said Edith cheerfully, approaching with a laden tray. She offloaded a plate of roast beef, roast potatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, peas, carrots and two Yorkshire puddings, followed by sauce boats of gravy and horseradish sauce.
“Edith, I’ve no idea how I managed to stay away for so long,” said Alfie, his mouth watering.
The door of the Horse opened and Emma came in. Alfie waved across the bar to her.
“Emma’s joining me,” he explained to Edith.
“First day back and meeting other women already?” she sniffed. “That girlfriend of yours had better start paddling faster. And the free lunch only applies to you.”
Emma, oblivious, came over and sat down at Alfie’s table.
“I’ll give you a couple of minutes to look at the menu,” said Edith.
“No need,” said Emma. “I’ve had a look at Alfie’s plate. I’ll have what he’s having. And a half of Brew.”
“Right away,” said Edith. “Oh, and have you heard about the fun and games at the wedding yesterday?”
Emma, with a fixed smile on her face, said: “Yes, amazing,” and leaned forward to pick up one of the Yorkshire puddings.
Edith smacked her hand away. “Leave that alone, Miss! Poor Alfie needs feeding up. I’ll bring yours in a minute.”
Alfie stared after Edith in astonishment. She could be lacking in tact, but she wasn’t malicious. Why on earth would she bring up the topic of the food poisoning, which could threaten Liz and Marge’s business, in such a casual way? Alfie would have expected her to be sympathetic, and ask Emma how the ladies were bearing up.
Emma showed no sign of making another assault on the Yorkshire puddings, and Alfie realised she had been diverting Edith’s attention from the wedding. He had been shocked to see the ladies’ distress, but now he was intrigued as well.
“So this wedding, what exactly happened?” he asked.
“I’ve asked an old school friend to join us,” said Emma crisply. “Olivia. She was the chief bridesmaid yesterday. I’m going to have a chat with her, and I just want you to sit and listen.”
“I can hardly wait,” said Alfie.
She turned cool brown eyes on him. “This is important. Now, what do else you need to know? Not much – the bride’s name is Heather, she was at school with us as well. The groom’s Greg, also at school with us in the year above. His family’s loaded, they live in a huge house on the way to Witney. The wedding was at the church here, the wedding breakfast was at Greg’s parents’ place. Got all that?”
He was tempted to say: “Why, will there be a quiz?” but sensed that her curtness stemmed from anxiety.
“Got it,” he said.
The door of the Horse opened again. As the newcomer scanned the pub uncertainly, Emma stood up and called to her.
“Hey, Olivia! Over here.”
The young woman was slim. Too slim, Alfie decided. She looked as though she could be blown away in a high wind. Her shoulder-length hair was in intricate ringlets, which he guessed had been done specially for the wedding. As she got closer, he saw her mascara-ringed eyes were red and puffy, as though she had been crying. Not another one.
The two women hugged one another, each exclaiming how fabulous the other looked and how they hadn’t changed a bit. Alfie tried to imagine doing this with Oscar, and failed.
“What is it, two years since I saw you?” said Olivia.
Emma pondered. “Nearer three.”
“Awful,” said Olivia. Her lower lip trembled. Please don’t cry, thought Alfie.
She covered her face in her hands and he could just make out: “Oh, Emma, the whole thing’s been dreadful.”
Emma gave her another hug. “It must have been. Come and sit down, and tell me all about it.”
She drew her friend towards a chair, and for the first time, Olivia noticed Alfie, who was standing politely, waiting to be introduced.
Emma gestured towards him. “This is my friend Alfie.”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” said Olivia with unmistakable interest, extending a limp hand, her long fingernails decorated with glittery patterns. “Sorry – I’m a bit upset. It’s really lovely to meet you, Alfie.”
“He’s just a friend,” said Emma impatiently. “Not a boyfriend or anything.”
Alfie felt thoroughly rebuffed.
“No, not even an anything,” he said. “Good to meet you too, Olivia.”
Edith bustled over with Emma’s half-pint and Sunday roast, which Alfie noted had only one Yorkshire pudding. “And another one for lunch? What can I get you?”
“Oh no,” said Olivia. “No lunch. Just tap water for me.”
Emma looked at her keenly. “Have you had breakfast?”
Olivia shook her head. “It was all a bit disorganized this morning.”
“You’ve got to have something.” Emma picked up the menu and handed it to her friend. “You need to keep your strength up.”
Olivia opened it without enthusiasm and then brightened. “Oh, you’ve got vegan options. I’ll have the sweet potato and miso soup.” She turned to Edith. “You know what would be a good idea? Putting the calorie count beside all the dishes.”
Edith didn’t look as though she thought it was a good idea at all.
“Edith, I’ve nearly finished the gravy – I wonder if I could have some more?” said Alfie quickly.
She stalked away, muttering.
“Poor Heather,” said Emma. “Her wedding day totally ruined.”
“And she had planned every second of it so that it would be perfect,” said Olivia. “To tell you the truth, she was a little bit of a bridezilla, and her mum was even worse.”
“That must have been difficult for you,” said Emma sympathetically.
Olivia gave a small laugh. “It was all right. I just did what I was told, and accepted that ‘chief bridesmaid’ meant ‘gofer’.”
Emma gave her a complicit grin. “I want to hear everything. First and most important, what was your dress like?”
Olivia sighed. “It was gorgeous – very simple, very classic. Pink silk, with appliquéd silk cotton lace at the neck and shoulders.”
“Wonderful,” breathed Emma. “And your hair’s fabulous. You must have looked amazing.”
Alfie glanced at her. He had only ever seen her in her police uniform, or dressed casually, and hadn’t thought she would be into bridal fashion. Of course, it wasn’t a topic he’d discussed with her. A lot of women seemed to get obsessive about weddings.
“Tell me about Heather’s dress - and how did you get to the church? I hope it was a horse and carriage,” said Emma.
Alfie zoned out and concentrated on the beef, which was every bit as delicious as he remembered. The potatoes were roasted to perfection, crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside. And the Yorkshire puddings were airy and melt-in-the-mouth.
He suddenly realised that the word “fudge” had been mentioned.
“Heather had organised drinks and fudge at the church, directly after the service, so that people would have something to do while the photographer and the videographer were doing their thing.”
“Fudge?” asked Emma innocently.
“It’s the in thing now, according to Heather. She heard that the Saviles served it to all the film stars at that amazing party they had.”
Olivia saw Alfie looking at her and said: “David and Rosemary Savile were at the wedding – they’re terribly rich. They have a grand country house which is where Pride and Prejudice was filmed. The one starring Dorian Stevens.”
“Dorian Stevens is totally gorgeous,” sighed Emma.
“He so is,” agreed Olivia. “The Saviles threw a massive party after the film was made, and everybody adored the local fudge, and now all the stars order it too.”
Alfie considered saying: “I know, I was at the party. There wasn’t only fudge, there were ice sculptures, and Japanese fireworks, and a dead body,” but contented himself with nodding.
Emma nodded too, rather than saying: “It’s my Great-aunt Liz who makes the fudge.”
But she did say: “Where on earth did you have that? Were you all packed into the vestry?”
Olivia laughed a little patronisingly. “There were far too many of us to fit into the vestry. No, Heather persuaded the vicar to let her put up a sweet little marquee round the side of the church where it wouldn’t show up in the photos.”
“I can see why you’d want to hide it,” said Emma. “Fudge isn’t exactly photogenic.”
“Oh, but it was,” said Olivia. “It was on tiered silver stands decorated with pink and yellow roses, just like Heather’s bouquet. And the drinks were set out between the stands, strawberry rosé punch and lemon Champagne punch to match the flowers. Alcoholic and non-alcoholic versions, of course.”
“Of course,” said Emma. “I can see Heather thought of everything.”
“Micro-management,” said Olivia. “Half the time she was checking up on things herself, and the other half, she was checking up on me doing it for her.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Emma. “The chief bridesmaid’s got enough to do without supervising drinks and nibbles.”
“You know what she’s like,” said Olivia.
“Oh yes,” said Emma, and they both laughed. “I suppose the photographs took hours.”
“Hours. Heather and Greg, Heather and Greg and the bridesmaids, Heather and Greg and the parents, Heather and Greg and the bridesmaids and the parents. Greg’s grandfather was there, in a wheelchair, and there was a shot of everyone toasting the bride while she knelt down beside him with one of the salvers of fudge and fed him a piece.”
Suddenly, Olivia’s face crumpled. She started to cry. Alfie wondered whether he should produce a handkerchief, but Emma already had her arms round her friend and was making soothing noises.
Edith turned up at this moment with the soup and gave Alfie a look that seemed to say: “What’s the matter with her?”
Alfie shrugged, so Edith put the soup on the table and went away.
“He was so ill,” sobbed Olivia. “They had to call an ambulance.”
“What happened?” asked Emma. “Tell me.”
But Olivia stood up, pushing her chair back. “I have to go,” she choked. “Greg’s in such a state, and so’s Heather. I told her I wouldn’t be long.”
She grabbed her bag and dashed out of the pub.
Emma looked heavenwards. “That went well.”
“What’s going on?” demanded Edith, coming back to the table.
“She took one look at the vegan soup and ran for it. Can you blame her?” said Alfie, eliciting a loud cackle from Edith.
“She was the chief bridesmaid at the wedding yesterday,” said Emma. “She’s a bit upset about it all.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Edith. “What a palaver. Old Morgan Sutcliffe got taken away in an ambulance, you know.”
“What?” said Alfie, feigning ignorance. “I didn’t know that.”
Edith turned round and signalled to the young woman behind the bar. “Joanne! I’m taking five minutes. Keep an eye on the lunches.”
“Will do,” Joanne called back.
Edith sat down in Olivia’s vacant seat and leaned forward confidentially. “I heard it all from Elsie – her grand-daughter was working for the caterers. Reckons they’ll be closed down. And if Morgan dies, they’ll be done for murder.”
“No, they - ” Emma began but was silenced by a tap on the leg from Alfie’s Italian leather loafer. She glared at him, but he didn’t want anything to distract or annoy Edith.
“It was a big do at the groom’s family house, or rather in a marquee in the garden,” Edith went on. “Elsie’s grand-daughter was working for the caterers and said she’d never known anything like. No expense spared. A sit-down lunch after the wedding ceremony, with all the speeches, Champagne for the toasts, and then in the afternoon, tea and cucumber sandwiches like the Queen has, with no crusts, and a harpist playing, and then a full-scale dinner and dancing to a live band. Except -”
She leaned even closer and lowered her voice. “It got cancelled. The harpist was in the middle of I Could Be Happy With You when they all started dropping like flies. Poisoned.”
Alfie exclaimed in shock, since this seemed to be what Edith expected. She patted his hand. “I don’t mean like the Borgias. It’s not a case for the Bunburry Triangle. Food poisoning from the lunch. Elsie’s grand-daughter said she’d never seen such a mess.”
“Oh dear,” said Alfie. “Being sick is never good.”
“No, they weren’t sick,” said Edith with relish.
“I thought you said they had food poisoning?”
“Yes, but they weren’t sick.”
“But – oh.” Alfie took in the implication of her words.
“And Elsie’s grand-daughter said there were only half a dozen portaloos in the garden. Posh portaloos, mind, with proper soap, and flowers in vases. There were people dashing for the portaloos, people dashing into the house – Elsie’s grand-daughter said some people just headed for the bushes.”
She had to be stopped before she went into more detail. Alfie was about to speak when Emma said: “Bridesmaids.”
“Yes, bridesmaids, bride, best man, everyone,” said Edith.
“I mean the film, Bridesmaids. It’s an American comedy. There’s a hen party that goes wrong, and they all get the trots, and they’re not near a loo.”
“A comedy?” said Edith. “That’s the sort of thing Americans find funny, is it?”
“Maybe you have to see it,” said Emma.
“I don’t think I’ll bother,” said Edith.
It didn’t quite add up. “You said everyone was affected,” said Alfie. “But Olivia seemed okay. She didn’t say she’d been ill.”
“Not everyone,” said Edith, a little testily. “Let me think. What did Elsie’s grand-daughter tell her? The groom was fine. The mother of the bride was fine. When I say fine, she went completely hysterical and phoned Harold Wilson to come and arrest whoever was responsible for ruining the wedding.”
Alfie and Emma exchanged startled looks.
“I think a couple of others were fine as well. But that’s not important,” Edith said. “I was telling you about the groom’s grandad, Morgan Sutcliffe – he was a big noise on the council years ago, not that you two are old enough to remember that. Morgan was a Bunburry boy who got too grand for all of us. Not a nice man. The things I could tell you - ”
She stopped abruptly. “Anyway, all that high living’s caught up with him. Elsie says he’s been in poor health for a long time, and she doesn’t think he’ll pull through.”
“Dreadful,” said Alfie. “What do you think gave them food poisoning?”
Edith considered. “Elsie recited the whole menu to me. What was lunch and what was dinner? Oh yes, lunch was smoked salmon to start with, or chicken liver pâté, and the main course was venison or pork. They had some vegetarian options as well for the people who don’t appreciate good food.”
She looked balefully at Olivia’s untouched soup bowl.
“And the pudding was cheesecake or fruit salad.”
There was a sudden crash. Joanne had dropped a plate.
“For pity’s sake, girl!” Edith sprang up and went to sort things out.
“Thank goodness,” said Alfie. “At least Edith doesn’t suspect the fudge.”
4. A Walk with Emma
Emma, her hands thrust into her jacket pocket, her head down, was striding ahead. Up the hill towards Wildshaw Woods.
