CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It transpired that Jessie Cartwright was a formidable woman in her mid-eighties, not at all ghost-like as Mel Harvey had described. Anne found herself slightly in awe of her but Charley readily identified with a tall, angular, blunt speaking woman whose hard features and a fiercely determined glitter in each eye gave the immediate impression of someone who saw no earthly reason to be blessed with a mind other than to feel free speak it. She opened the front door and looked them over with frank distrust. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“We’ve come about Alice Shepherd,” Charley took the lead.
“She’s dead.”
“We know. But we were wondering if you might clarify something that cropped up after the funeral…” her voice trailed off as even Charley began to feel intimidated by the icy stare.
“It’s for a local history project,” Anne explained, “We want to do a profile on local characters like Alice.” Charley beamed at her. Anne blushed, rather pleased with the lie that had come to her like manna from heaven.
“Local history project, fiddlesticks!” snorted the figure in the doorway. “You’re after something, the pair of you. Well, you’ve knocked at the wrong door. Sling your hooks before I call the police.” She began closing the door but Charley stuck her foot out.
“We’re not after anything except information. Maybe you can help, maybe you can’t. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. But don’t you at least want to know what it is?” It seemed to Charley as if she could hear her ex, Briggs, whispering in her ear as she spoke, reminding her that no one liked to be left in the dark. Nor did Jessie Cartwright prove an exception to Briggs’ regular discourse on human nature.
“I suppose you might as well come in,” Jesse Cartwright muttered ungraciously, opening the door just wide enough to let them pass. “Go through,” she stuck out a thin arm, “The sitting room is straight ahead.”
Anne had to press her back against the wall to edge past. She felt the woman’s hot, quick breath on her face and began to debate the wisdom of their visit with an unresponsive alter ego. She followed Charley into a small, comfortable room if on the dark side.
“Sit down then, unless you’d rather stand,” snapped their hostess, already settling herself a floral patterned armchair swathed in matching cushions. “You’ll want a cup of tea I suppose.”
“That would be nice, if it’s no trouble,” Anne ventured.
“Well, it is, so that’s that. I’m expecting a friend. If you’re still here when she arrives, I might see about some tea. Now, what do you want?”
Charley saw no point in beating around proverbial bushes with this woman so took the direct route. “There’s a letter…” she began hesitantly but soon got into her stride and imparted the contents to the expressionless figure sitting opposite.
Jessie Cartwright listened carefully and without interruption. Her hearing wasn’t what it was and she was anxious not to miss anything. Moreover, the two women whom she privately nicknamed Chalk and Cheese intrigued her. Cheese was plainly the driving force and earned her respect by not taking her for a fool and coming straight to the point.
“We were wondering if you could shed any light on it.” Charley finished as she had started, with a directness Anne found quite breathtaking.
“On what, exactly?” their hostess demanded.
“It would help to know why Alice felt obliged to revert to her maiden name, for a start,” Charley replied evenly. If you think you can intimidate Charley Briggs with your beady eyes and scowl like a gargoyle’s, you’re very much mistaken. She was beginning to doubt whether she and Mel Harvey had been discussing the same person.
“Help who?”
Anne found her voice at last. “We were hoping we might be able to help Owen. It can’t be right for a man to spend his whole life in his mother’s shadow, can it? We thought that, if Alice had anything to hide and we knew what it was, it might help us to encourage Owen to become his own person again. I’ve never quite understood what it was about Alice that made him feel he couldn’t leave her. Secrets always do that, though, don’t they? They tie people up in knots. Love does too, of course,” she hastened to add. “but love speaks for itself, doesn’t it? Secrets don’t have a voice. If it’s hard to keep a secret, it’s even harder to be kept guessing? Whatever her secret, it can’t hurt Alice now...Well, can it?” she finished lamely.
“I’ve heard Owen Shepherd called a few things in my time, but a man isn’t one of them,” declared Jessie Cartwright with such waspishness that Anne felt obliged to leap to his defence.”
“How dare you say such a thing? Owen is one of the nicest, kindest people I have ever met.”
Jessie fixed Anne with a scornful expression. “Then you’re a fool, woman. Owen Shepherd is a creep. Worse, he’s a frightened creep. Afraid of his own shadow, that’s Owen Shepherd. He could have got away, made something of himself. But, no, he’d rather hide behind a veneer of so-called love. Huh!” she snorted, “As if there was any love lost between those two. “
“Owen adored his mother,” Anne protested.
“A mother isn’t some icon to be adored by her offspring. Love, yes. Adoration is for idiots. I have three sons and two daughters. Do I ever see then? No. Well, rarely. Do they love me? Of course they do. I made them what they are today and I’m proud of that. But I wouldn’t be proud of them if they were still clinging to my apron strings and shouting for their dinners. Poor Alice, she never gave up hoping she could be proud of Owen. Huh, fat chance!”
“So you don’t know why she changed her name?” Charley broke in. She saw that Anne was getting hot under the collar on Owen’s behalf and couldn’t see it leading anywhere.
“Did I say that?” said the woman with the hint of a sneer that exasperated Charley and disturbed her at the same time.
The doorbell rang.
Jessie Cartwright rose and, for all her years, seemed to Anne as if she towered over them. “That will be my friend. You will stay for a cup tea, won’t you?” she added with a warm smile that took both Anne and Charley by surprise. She left the room.
“What do you make of her?” Anne whispered.
“An enigma, if nothing else,” Charley hissed back, “Other than an old bat with a nasty streak, that is.”
Anne opened her mouth to reply but her lips hung open as Jessie Cartwright returned with a smartly dressed woman she recognized instantly.
“Hello,” said Fern McAllister.
………………………………..
Watching Lynette paddling but a few yards away from her deckchair, Cathy Taylor reflected on their invitation to the Shepherd’s flat the next day. Lynette had been full of it, practically non-stop. Moreover, she was clearly expecting her father to be there too. Cathy was none too sure about that. Steve had been in a strange mood since she and Lynette had returned from Ipswich in the early hours. Now in the late afternoon sunshine, she resolved to grasp the nettle.
“Lynette’s so looking forward to tomorrow,” she commented to Steve, who was lying back in his deckchair, eyes closed, and answered with a mere grunt. “You will come, won’t you? She’ll be so disappointed if you don’t.”
“I wasn’t aware I’d been invited,” murmured Steve.
“Of course you’re invited. We were invited as a family.”
“For what, just to feed some bloody hens? I can think of better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon.”
Obviously you and I won’t be expected to feed the hens. But Lynette can’t wait. Anyway, when have you ever turned down a free lunch? Besides,” she added, “it will be nice to have other people to talk to.”
“You could be right there,” agreed Steve testily. “It has to be an improvement on you and me barely speaking at all. Let’s hope no one notices, eh? Don’t want people to get the wrong idea, do we? Mustn’t let anyone suspect we’re not exactly playing happy families these days, must we?”
“Lynette will be upset if you don’t come.”
“Lynette will be too taken with the damn hens to give a toss and you know it. I’m sure Owen Shepherd will be only too happy to stand in for me. That’s always assuming your friend Anne lets him get a look in. Though I dare say she’ll be too taken with you to notice much else. Honestly, Cathy, you have to admit they’re a rum pair. If you ask me, the whole set-up’s weird.”
“How can you say that?” Cathy was indignant. “Anne and Owen are two very nice people. But that’s just typical of you, isn’t it? The poor man has just lost his mother. Yet he’s kind enough to go out of his way to make a little girl happy and all you can say is it’s weird!”
Steve sat up and regarded his wife with frank hostility. “Doesn’t it strike you as in the least bit…well…unhealthy? That Gates woman’s interest in you is bad enough but how can you encourage that creep Shepherd’s interest in Lynette?”
“Now you’re being ridiculous!” Cathy protested.
“Maybe I am. But I don’t want you or Lynette going anywhere near that place tomorrow. For that matter, I don’t want you seeing that Gates woman or Shepherd again.”
“Oh, no, and how are you going to stop us, lock us in our rooms. Hillcrest is a hotel, darling, not a prison. At least, it wasn’t the last time I looked.”
“I wish I could say the same,” he muttered inaudibly then, “If I come tomorrow, for Lynette’s sake, will you promise to give the pair of them a wide berth after that?”
Cathy hesitated. “Actually, Mum wants to meet Anne. Dad’s up for it too. They say we’re welcome to bring her any time.”
“What?” Steve exploded and leapt to his feet. “Your mother actually said she wants to meet Anne Gates?”
“Yes.”
“She must have been at the booze then, that’s all I can say.”
“We may have had a tipple or two, so what?”
Steve opened his mouth and shut it again. It was neither the time nor the place to tell Cathy her mother was an alcoholic.
“Dad’s up for it too,” Cathy repeated hotly, “so you’re outvoted.”
Steve, fists clenched, could barely get the words out. “One day I’ll make up my mind about your dad. Either he’s a bloody fool or a saint. God knows, he has enough to put up with. At least I only have to put up with you!” he fumed.
“Not for much longer, you won’t, by the look of things!” Cathy retorted and went to join Lynette at the water’s edge. Steve watched her go, saw the child’s face light up as she saw her mother approach, look for her father and wave. He waved back.
Cathy took Lynette’s hand and they ventured farther into the shimmering water. Fighting a desire to storm off and leave them to it, Steve settled back in the chair to observe his daughter’s game, if clumsy attempts at the breaststroke.
We saw you at Alice’s funeral,” commented Anne to Fern McAllister once their hostess hade made cursory introductions. “Did you?” was all the other said, raising a dismissive eyebrow as she sat down in an armchair. “I did love that suit you were wearing,” Anne told her.
Fern McAllister nodded graciously and continued to smile…as if she were posing for a bloody photograph, thought Charley uncharitably.
“I’ll go and make some tea,” announced their hostess and abruptly left the room.
“A close friend of Alice, were you?” Charley enquired.
“No, not close,” Fern McAllister murmured, “Not for many years, anyway.”
“Once though, I believe?” Charley persisted and thought she detected a tremor in the silky voice.
“Once,” the other woman agreed.
“What happened?” Charley was in no mood to be circumspect.
“One loses touch,” was the cool reply.
“Sad, isn’t it, when that happens?” put in Anne, instantly miffed but curious as to why Charley should give her a look that plainly said, Leave this to me.
“I suppose you must have had some contact, though, or you wouldn’t have been able to track her down, seeing as how Alice reverted to her maiden name. Odd that, wasn’t it? I mean to say, it’s not as if she and Owen had anything to hide…or did they?”
Neither Anne nor Charley could help but notice how Fern McAllister visibly winced, the classic, oval face turning a shade puce.
“I’m sure Alice had her reasons. As for tracking her down, I didn’t need to. Jessie told me.”
“Oh?” Charley’ expressed such frank curiosity that the other woman could only have sidestepped it with difficulty.
Jessie’s youngest son, Bob and I were partners once,” Fern McAllister explained. “Not that she and Alice had ever met then, they hadn’t, and I’m quite sure Alice had no idea Jessie lived in the Brighton area. If she ever knew at all, she must have forgotten. It must have come as quite a shock to poor Alice, going to all that trouble only to discover it was a complete waste of time.”
“When Jessie discovered Alice and she were practically neighbours, naturally she mentioned it to me. Alice would have known that of course. I dare say she relied on our friendship for my discretion, Jessie’s too.” She frowned. “I had nothing against Alice, you see, only her son.” She paused, plainly disconcerted, and then, “That’s Bob, since you’re so interested…” now pointing to a row of photographs in silver frames on a sideboard, “the one at the end in his graduation gown. Mind you, why he went to Cambridge only to become a plumber is anyone’s guess.”
She rose with practised elegance, glided sylph-like across the floor, picked up the photograph and observed it dispassionately before handing it to Charley. “Not that Bob is anyone’s fool. He probably has more to show for being a plumber than most people with university degrees.”
“A fat bank balance, that’s for sure,” said Charley, studying the photograph briefly but intensely before passing it to Anne.
“People will always need a plumber,” commented Anne who gave it but a cursory glance before handing it back to Fern McAllister.
“That’s why they get away with charging the earth,” agreed Charley ruefully.
“He’s a very handsome man,” Anne observed.
“We were happy for a while, and then…” her voice trailed off. She replaced the photograph and sat down again.
"And then…?” Charley prompted, doing her best to sound nonchalant.
Fern McAllister gave a little shrug. “Why do all good things come to an end? Call it fate, whatever. Things…happen. Big things, little things…and before you know it, you’re back at square one if you’re lucky or left flat on your face if you’re not.”
In spite of a persistent aloofness about the woman, Charley began to warm to her. “Which was it in your case?” she asked with a wry smile.
Fern McAllister smiled back but there was neither warmth nor humour in it. Before she could form a reply, however, Jessie returned bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. “Your friends were asking about Robert,” she told their hostess.
“Oh? And why would that be?” She glared first at Charley then Anne. “They’re friends of Alice, not mine, or so they say,” she added in a tone that not only implied suspicion and hostility but something else it took Charley a while to place.
It was fear.
She’s afraid of something, Charley sensed, or someone.
Anne took a biscuit she did not want rather than meet her hostess’s beady stare. Charley, though, had no such qualms. “We were just wondering why Alice changed her name from King to Shepherd and your son’s name cropped up,” she explained.
“Beats me if I see a connection,” snapped Jessie and sat down. “You and Robert were good together,” she said bluntly, looking directly at Fern McAllister.
“While it lasted,” Fern agreed.
“You’re worth ten of that piece he’s with now.” Jessie Cartwright told her bluntly before turning to Anne as if sensing another ally. “Northern lass, she is, as common as muck. Years younger than him. yoo. No class. Keeps him on a tight leash, she does. Mind you, that’s only because she can’t bear to let his wallet out of her sight.” She stared into her teacup then back at her guests, albeit with a slightly softer expression. “I never see him. But that’s kids for you, isn’t it? You struggle to bring ’em up then it’s out of sight, out of mind, as far as they’re concerned. It’s only right, of course. Can’t expect to keep ’em tied to the apron strings can you?”
Charley stifled a yawn. Jessie glared.
“I used to think Bob and I would grow old together,” Fern McAllister mused aloud then, “But we all know what thought did, don’t we?” she added with another dry, humourless laugh.
“We do?” Charley countered with an attempt at humour that fooled no one.
“Followed its nose and lost its head,” muttered Jessie and it seemed to Anne as if the beady eyes were issuing an unspoken challenge.
“Relationships are so fragile,” Anne murmured and started as three pairs of eyes rounded upon her, “Even when they seem strong, they can break so easily.” .
“It takes two to make and two to break,” was Jessie’s verdict.
“True,” said Fern McAllister and sipped her tea.
“Cause and effect,” commented Charley, and gave Fern McAllister what Anne thought was a very old-fashioned look. “It’s like you said, things happen.” She paused. “Take poor Anne here, one minute she was happily married with a little girl, the next she was left devastated and on her own.”
“Oh?” Jessie stared at Anne while Fern McAllister, Charley noticed, gazed blankly into her teacup.
Anne experienced an involuntary surge of dismay. It was as if some alien presence in the room was homing in on her and making her head swim. Now I’m being silly, she told herself. It wasn’t as if it was the first time or likely to be the last that she would be made to feel like an object in a Curiosity Shop window. “My daughter…disappeared,” she said slowly, feeling briefly faint, but rallied suddenly. “It was a long time ago. That’s why I come back here every year. Not to take some morbid trip down Memory Lane, you understand, but…I find it a comfort.”
No one spoke.
“A biscuit?” enquired Jessie stiffly and handed the plate round. No one took up her offer.
“A terrible thing,” Charley said, “Wouldn’t you agree Mrs McAllister?”
Indeed,” said the other woman who rose from her chair, again seeming to tower above them all. “May I use your toilet, Jess?” Jessie gave a sympathetic nod. “Excuse me,” she said to the others and left the room.
Charley looked at their hostess expectantly. But Jessie Cartwright was giving nothing away.
Fern McAllister was gone some time. When she returned, she was composed but her expression indicated surprise at finding Charley and Anne still there.
Anne chose to take the hint. “I suppose we had better be going,” she announced and got to her feet, much to her companion’s annoyance. “It was kind of you to see us, Mrs Cartwright, and thank you so much for the tea.” She turned to Fern McAllister who stood to accept Anne’s proffered hand in hers. “It has been nice meeting you too, Mrs McAllister.”
Take care, my dear. It’s a cruel world out there.”
Anne thought it was the oddest thing to say, if true enough, and could only nod and smile. Although Fern McAllister would not look her in the eye, the hands that embraced hers gently squeezed, as if meaning to offer some encouragement as well as sympathy. Or compensate for their icy coldness perhaps...?
Charley was frankly baffled. Why hadn’t the McAllister woman said a word about her own tragedy or Jessie Cartwright for that matter? It was her turn to shake hands. “We’re all off to help Owen feed his hens tomorrow,” she told Fern, “It’s a treat for a friend’s little girl really, but should be fun. Why don’t you join us? The more, the merrier, that’s what I always say and I’m sure Owen would love to see you.”
Fern McAllister froze then appeared to relax, but unconvincingly, as if aware that her body language was under scrutiny. “If I felt obliged to poor Alice to pay my last respects,” the silky voice murmured without inflexion, “that is where any obligation on my part ends.”
In other words, thought Charley dryly, you wouldn’t be seen dead with the likes of Owen Shepherd.
Anne overheard. It struck her that ‘obligation’ was a curious choice of word to use, but put a hand to her forehead and dismissed it from her mind almost at once. She was feeling a little faint again. Certainly, she couldn’t wait to escape the room’s oppressive atmosphere and feel a fresh sea breeze on her face. She made a mental note, too, to ask her friend something. Who had told Charley that Alice Shepherd’s maiden name was King?
“I’ll see you out,” Jessie Cartwright declared gruffly.
Left to her thoughts, Fern McAllister wiped away a crumb from her mouth with a folded handkerchief. She was in no doubt that a letter she’d left at Alice’s house had set wheels in motion that would not stop until they reached their bitter end. She felt an immense sympathy for Anne Gates. But Anne, she suspected, was the stuff martyrs were made of and for whom she had no use. The Briggs woman, on the other hand, was of an altogether different mettle. She knew the sort, had never been able to decide whether she admired or despised them. Whatever, it had to be said that they were not easily distracted or intimidated by idle talk of curiosity and cats.
Fern McAllister permitted herself a smug smile. Her plan was taking shape much sooner and even more effectively than she had dared hope.
.........................................
Fern McAllister nodded graciously and continued to smile…as if she were posing for a bloody photograph, thought Charley uncharitably.
“I’ll go and make some tea,” announced their hostess and abruptly left the room.
“A close friend of Alice, were you?” Charley enquired.
“No, not close,” Fern McAllister murmured, “Not for many years, anyway.”
“Once though, I believe?” Charley persisted and thought she detected a tremor in the silky voice.
“Once,” the other woman agreed.
“What happened?” Charley was in no mood to be circumspect.
“One loses touch,” was the cool reply.
“Sad, isn’t it, when that happens?” put in Anne, instantly miffed but curious as to why Charley should give her a look that plainly said, Leave this to me.
“I suppose you must have had some contact, though, or you wouldn’t have been able to track her down, seeing as how Alice reverted to her maiden name. Odd that, wasn’t it? I mean to say, it’s not as if she and Owen had anything to hide…or did they?”
Neither Anne nor Charley could help but notice how Fern McAllister visibly winced, the classic, oval face turning a shade puce.
“I’m sure Alice had her reasons. As for tracking her down, I didn’t need to. Jessie told me.”
“Oh?” Charley’ expressed such frank curiosity that the other woman could only have sidestepped it with difficulty.
Jessie’s youngest son, Bob and I were partners once,” Fern McAllister explained. “Not that she and Alice had ever met then, they hadn’t, and I’m quite sure Alice had no idea Jessie lived in the Brighton area. If she ever knew at all, she must have forgotten. It must have come as quite a shock to poor Alice, going to all that trouble only to discover it was a complete waste of time.”
“When Jessie discovered Alice and she were practically neighbours, naturally she mentioned it to me. Alice would have known that of course. I dare say she relied on our friendship for my discretion, Jessie’s too.” She frowned. “I had nothing against Alice, you see, only her son.” She paused, plainly disconcerted, and then, “That’s Bob, since you’re so interested…” now pointing to a row of photographs in silver frames on a sideboard, “the one at the end in his graduation gown. Mind you, why he went to Cambridge only to become a plumber is anyone’s guess.”
She rose with practised elegance, glided sylph-like across the floor, picked up the photograph and observed it dispassionately before handing it to Charley. “Not that Bob is anyone’s fool. He probably has more to show for being a plumber than most people with university degrees.”
“A fat bank balance, that’s for sure,” said Charley, studying the photograph briefly but intensely before passing it to Anne.
“People will always need a plumber,” commented Anne who gave it but a cursory glance before handing it back to Fern McAllister.
“That’s why they get away with charging the earth,” agreed Charley ruefully.
“He’s a very handsome man,” Anne observed.
“We were happy for a while, and then…” her voice trailed off. She replaced the photograph and sat down again.
"And then…?” Charley prompted, doing her best to sound nonchalant.
Fern McAllister gave a little shrug. “Why do all good things come to an end? Call it fate, whatever. Things…happen. Big things, little things…and before you know it, you’re back at square one if you’re lucky or left flat on your face if you’re not.”
In spite of a persistent aloofness about the woman, Charley began to warm to her. “Which was it in your case?” she asked with a wry smile.
Fern McAllister smiled back but there was neither warmth nor humour in it. Before she could form a reply, however, Jessie returned bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. “Your friends were asking about Robert,” she told their hostess.
“Oh? And why would that be?” She glared first at Charley then Anne. “They’re friends of Alice, not mine, or so they say,” she added in a tone that not only implied suspicion and hostility but something else it took Charley a while to place.
It was fear.
She’s afraid of something, Charley sensed, or someone.
Anne took a biscuit she did not want rather than meet her hostess’s beady stare. Charley, though, had no such qualms. “We were just wondering why Alice changed her name from King to Shepherd and your son’s name cropped up,” she explained.
“Beats me if I see a connection,” snapped Jessie and sat down. “You and Robert were good together,” she said bluntly, looking directly at Fern McAllister.
“While it lasted,” Fern agreed.
“You’re worth ten of that piece he’s with now.” Jessie Cartwright told her bluntly before turning to Anne as if sensing another ally. “Northern lass, she is, as common as muck. Years younger than him. yoo. No class. Keeps him on a tight leash, she does. Mind you, that’s only because she can’t bear to let his wallet out of her sight.” She stared into her teacup then back at her guests, albeit with a slightly softer expression. “I never see him. But that’s kids for you, isn’t it? You struggle to bring ’em up then it’s out of sight, out of mind, as far as they’re concerned. It’s only right, of course. Can’t expect to keep ’em tied to the apron strings can you?”
Charley stifled a yawn. Jessie glared.
“I used to think Bob and I would grow old together,” Fern McAllister mused aloud then, “But we all know what thought did, don’t we?” she added with another dry, humourless laugh.
“We do?” Charley countered with an attempt at humour that fooled no one.
“Followed its nose and lost its head,” muttered Jessie and it seemed to Anne as if the beady eyes were issuing an unspoken challenge.
“Relationships are so fragile,” Anne murmured and started as three pairs of eyes rounded upon her, “Even when they seem strong, they can break so easily.” .
“It takes two to make and two to break,” was Jessie’s verdict.
“True,” said Fern McAllister and sipped her tea.
“Cause and effect,” commented Charley, and gave Fern McAllister what Anne thought was a very old-fashioned look. “It’s like you said, things happen.” She paused. “Take poor Anne here, one minute she was happily married with a little girl, the next she was left devastated and on her own.”
“Oh?” Jessie stared at Anne while Fern McAllister, Charley noticed, gazed blankly into her teacup.
Anne experienced an involuntary surge of dismay. It was as if some alien presence in the room was homing in on her and making her head swim. Now I’m being silly, she told herself. It wasn’t as if it was the first time or likely to be the last that she would be made to feel like an object in a Curiosity Shop window. “My daughter…disappeared,” she said slowly, feeling briefly faint, but rallied suddenly. “It was a long time ago. That’s why I come back here every year. Not to take some morbid trip down Memory Lane, you understand, but…I find it a comfort.”
No one spoke.
“A biscuit?” enquired Jessie stiffly and handed the plate round. No one took up her offer.
“A terrible thing,” Charley said, “Wouldn’t you agree Mrs McAllister?”
Indeed,” said the other woman who rose from her chair, again seeming to tower above them all. “May I use your toilet, Jess?” Jessie gave a sympathetic nod. “Excuse me,” she said to the others and left the room.
Charley looked at their hostess expectantly. But Jessie Cartwright was giving nothing away.
Fern McAllister was gone some time. When she returned, she was composed but her expression indicated surprise at finding Charley and Anne still there.
Anne chose to take the hint. “I suppose we had better be going,” she announced and got to her feet, much to her companion’s annoyance. “It was kind of you to see us, Mrs Cartwright, and thank you so much for the tea.” She turned to Fern McAllister who stood to accept Anne’s proffered hand in hers. “It has been nice meeting you too, Mrs McAllister.”
Take care, my dear. It’s a cruel world out there.”
Anne thought it was the oddest thing to say, if true enough, and could only nod and smile. Although Fern McAllister would not look her in the eye, the hands that embraced hers gently squeezed, as if meaning to offer some encouragement as well as sympathy. Or compensate for their icy coldness perhaps...?
Charley was frankly baffled. Why hadn’t the McAllister woman said a word about her own tragedy or Jessie Cartwright for that matter? It was her turn to shake hands. “We’re all off to help Owen feed his hens tomorrow,” she told Fern, “It’s a treat for a friend’s little girl really, but should be fun. Why don’t you join us? The more, the merrier, that’s what I always say and I’m sure Owen would love to see you.”
Fern McAllister froze then appeared to relax, but unconvincingly, as if aware that her body language was under scrutiny. “If I felt obliged to poor Alice to pay my last respects,” the silky voice murmured without inflexion, “that is where any obligation on my part ends.”
In other words, thought Charley dryly, you wouldn’t be seen dead with the likes of Owen Shepherd.
Anne overheard. It struck her that ‘obligation’ was a curious choice of word to use, but put a hand to her forehead and dismissed it from her mind almost at once. She was feeling a little faint again. Certainly, she couldn’t wait to escape the room’s oppressive atmosphere and feel a fresh sea breeze on her face. She made a mental note, too, to ask her friend something. Who had told Charley that Alice Shepherd’s maiden name was King?
“I’ll see you out,” Jessie Cartwright declared gruffly.
Left to her thoughts, Fern McAllister wiped away a crumb from her mouth with a folded handkerchief. She was in no doubt that a letter she’d left at Alice’s house had set wheels in motion that would not stop until they reached their bitter end. She felt an immense sympathy for Anne Gates. But Anne, she suspected, was the stuff martyrs were made of and for whom she had no use. The Briggs woman, on the other hand, was of an altogether different mettle. She knew the sort, had never been able to decide whether she admired or despised them. Whatever, it had to be said that they were not easily distracted or intimidated by idle talk of curiosity and cats.
Fern McAllister permitted herself a smug smile. Her plan was taking shape much sooner and even more effectively than she had dared hope.
To be continued on Monday.
