More Than Murder

PROLOGUE

‘And thereby hangs a tale.’

William Shakespeare As You Like It

Julia has never been prone to boredom – until now. It has only been ninety-two days, two hours and thirty-five minutes since she found herself in retirement, a fact that continually surprises her. For most of those ninety-two days, two hours and thirty-five minutes, she has kept herself busy. She replaced the old wooden garden gate, and is proud to say she painted it herself in a soothing cobalt blue; had a set of railings made for the front wall, a deterrent for all and sundry to refrain from sitting on it; replaced the green downstairs carpet that had been in the cottage for as long as she could remember; washed every window weekly; cleaned every cupboard; took to the charity shop piles of black bin bags full of useless bric-a-brac and old clothes that were an unwelcome memory of a body shape long departed; joined a bridge group, a dominos group, and the Women’s Institute; and also volunteered at the local animal sanctuary. But none of these activities held her attention for more than a fleeting moment. She set about reading all thirty-three of Agatha Christie’s Poirot novels, in the order in which they were written, a challenge that she has now completed. All of these have been a distraction from the task that she has tried to start on a number of occasions. A task that continues to elude her. This time, however, she feels there is a chance of success. This time everything is in place.

Careful not to mark the tooled green leather surface of her nineteenth-century Rosewood desk, bought at the local antique dealers, especially for the occasion, Julia takes a coaster from the top drawer, sets it out on the desk, and meticulously places a glass of water on the coaster. Aligned perfectly with the top right-hand corner of the desk is Agatha Christie’s Curtain. The scene is set. Julia opens her laptop.

She puts on her glasses and stares at the screen for a moment, then takes them off, cleans them, and puts them back on. She takes a sip of water and, with her finger, swirls around the condensation from the glass that has collected on the coaster until it disappears. Staring at the blank screen, she waits, hopeful for a moment of inspiration.

In between the fruitless minutes that follow, Julia tries various chair positions, including even sitting astride the chair with the back against her chest. She tries folding and unfolding her arms, then rests her elbows on the desk, clasping her hands in a prayer-like position, waiting. But there is not a discernible thought that might, in a moment of glory, spectacularly transform itself into a flurry of the tapping of keys that would miraculously result in her having written a sentence.

It is ninety-two days, three hours, and forty-two minutes since the first day of her retirement.

CHAPTER 1

‘Every why has a wherefore.’

William Shakespeare Comedy of Errors

Little Clarsden is a hidden gem in a sleepy corner of the county of Berkshire. The name implies that there is a ‘Clarsden’, which there is not. But it has been so for many years and no one has as yet felt the need to rewrite history, although there are some who may wish to do so.

The village sits between wealthy neighbours, Cookham to the south, famous for being the birthplace ofthe artist Stanley Spencer, and Little Marlow to the north, celebrated for attracting famous writers including T.S. Eliot, Mary Shelley, and more recently, Ricky Gervais, although The Office, in Julia’s opinion, is hardly the work of a genius. On the southernmost boundary of the village is a tributary of the Thames. A narrow high street runs through the centre of the village where there is an eclectic collection of shops that provide for everyday needs: a butcher’s; a newsagent, with a post office; Alfred’s general store, which is like the Tardis and stocked with everything you need, no matter how obscure; Gladys’s vegetable shop; Irene’s bakery and café; Harry’s antique shop, which also acts as a place to swap books since the library closed, despite many protests; and of course the local pub, The Coach and Horses. At the heart of the community is the village green, used for many and various activities throughout the year.

Overlooking the green is Rose Cottage, where Julia has been living for nearly three months, moving in shortly after she retired. She inherited the cottage from her Aunt Lucy, her mother’s sister, to whom she became very close after her mother died a few years before. Aunt Lucy had always been very canny with money, and her lifelong friend and financial advisor, Mrs Lily Ryan, who was also the Trustee of Aunt Lucy’s estate, had, at Lucy’s wishes, used the other assets to ensure that the cottage was passed on without any tax burden. This, along with the money Julia released from the sale of her own house around the corner ensured her a comfortable retirement.

Julia has never been sure why the cottage is called Rose Cottage. There aren’t, nor have there ever been - to the best of her recollection - any roses in the garden. There is, however, a glorious wisteria that stands proudly next to the front door – which she has recently painted in cobalt blue, to match the garden gate. In May it exudes an unmistakable sweet scent, the wisteria’s tresses of purple flowers cascade down like stalactites, while the intertwined branches reach up towards the thatched roof.

There was one last request that her crafty aunt had made from beyond the grave. A request that Julia was made aware of some months previous when there was a knock on her door …

Mrs Lily Ryan is wearing a Paul Smith pinstripe suit with Jimmy Choo shoes. She is a great believer in maintaining high standards, the presentation of herself being of the utmost importance. Testimony to this is the endless range of designer outfits she alternates between, most of which would normally be beyond the reach of her modest salary. She has a secret – a charity shop in Little Marlow where the local celebrities donate their cast-offs for a good cause – in this case, Mrs Lily Ryan.

‘Lily. Do come in,’ Julia says.

They step into the hallway.

‘I wasn’t expecting to see you. Is everything all right?’

‘Can’t stop.’ Lily hands Julia a white envelope. ‘Your aunt asked me to give you this after her passing.’

‘Right, okay, thanks. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘I’ve left Arnold looking after the grandkids. You know what he’s like – they’ll be covered in paint and chocolate, as will my carpet if I leave them alone too long.’

And with that, Lily leaves.

Julia is blissfully unaware that the contents of the letter will be a matter of some consequence.

My dearest Julia,

I know how much you love Rose Cottage, and I do so hope that you will decide to live there. Your mother and I grew up at Rose, and you and Frankie also have many happy memories within those walls.

I know there is a rift between you and Frankie, and that you are not as close as you used to be. I’ve always believed that if the two of you were to spend enough time in each other’s company, you would be able to rekindle your relationship. In the words of the Bard, ‘Pray you now forget and forgive.’

I’m asking that you both spend twelve months living together at Rose Cottage. If during that time either of you wishes to leave, then her share of the cottage will pass to the other sister. If you both decide to stay, then, at the end of the twelve months, you will jointly own Rose Cottage. If one of you fails to live at Rose Cottage within three months of my funeral, then the cottage will go to the other sister.

You and Frankie will always be in my heart. Good luck!

Love you.

Aunt Lucy xx

This request didn’t bother Julia when she received it; she thought it should be easy: her sister never stayed in the same place for more than a few months at a time. Testimony to this is the fact that the last time Julia saw her was at Aunt Lucy’s funeral. As usual, she turned up late and, Julia thought, was dressed completely inappropriately in bright red trousers and a shirt which looked as if it had been dipped in a variety of colours. They had a civil and brief conversation, for the benefit of the assembled guests, in which Julia learnt that Frankie was off to Thailand on another one of her ‘adventures’ and would be gone for some time.

Now, the three months in which Frankie has to lay claim to the cottage is very nearly up and, sitting at the breakfast bar in the cottage’s kitchen, Julia has a mixture of emotions whirring in her head. Not wanting to lose Rose Cottage is one thing; having to spend a year with her sister is quite another. She spent most of the night tossing and turning, having the weirdest dreams, one of which was of Frankie, dressed in a full cowboy outfit, riding a white stallion, chasing her across the village green away from Rose Cottage, as she takes a gun from her holster and aims it right at her.

In principle, Julia wants to honour her aunt’s wishes, but she genuinely has no idea where in Thailand Frankie is, if indeed she is in Thailand at all. Even if she could find her, which at the present moment seems highly unlikely, what then? If Frankie doesn’t want to come back to Rose Cottage, there is simply nothing Julia can do about it. She has to put it out of her mind and let fate take its path. Comforted by the words of Gautama Buddha – ‘No one saves us but ourselves’ - Julia decides that Frankie is responsible for walking her own path, and if that path should lead away from Rose Cottage, then all the better.

Finishing her breakfast, a toasted cheese-and-tomato sandwich, on slices of a fresh wholemeal loaf she bought from Irene’s bakery, she plans to go for a walk along the tributary after lunch. It is a clear-blue-sky day and the weather is perfect for a stroll. Julia loves being near the water. There’s something calming about the rhythm of the sea lapping against the shore, or the gentle flow of a river, always in the same direction, always knowing where it’s headed. Maybe she should set her novel near water? Maybe even in Little Clarsden? Her mind wanders, sinking deep into her imagination, swimming through memories. A loud knock at the door snaps her back to reality.

Standing in the doorway is local greengrocer Gladys, a no-nonsense woman with a passion for marrows. ‘Thought I’d drop this by, save you coming over later.’ She hands Julia a small box of assorted vegetables, fresh from the allotment.

‘Thanks, Gladys.’

‘No problem. It was on my way. You coming?’

‘Oh, yes, sorry I lost track of time. Can you give me a minute and I’ll be right with you.’

On the village green, opposite Rose cottage, Patsy, 52, is ready for action. Her dyed blonde hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she wears brand-new white trainers, white shorts, and a T-shirt with ‘Pace It Out With Patsy’ on the front. She is the self-appointed leader of the Nordic Walking group, on account of having visited the Taiga Forest in Finland for a walking holiday earlier that summer. With a view to turning her hobby into a business, she has been fortunate enough to acquire some walking poles in an eBay auction for a knock-down price. On this fine Sunday morning, Patsy has invited three potential customers for a free trial, Julia; Gladys and baker Irene, a slightly plump woman who amends the calorie count in a custard tart to suit every diet she tries.

Patsy hands out the walking poles. ‘The first thing we do is measure our pole length. Take hold of your pole and place your elbows parallel to your side, forearm horizontal, like so.’ She demonstrates the required position.

Julia leans towards Gladys, ‘I think we all know how to hold a stick.’

Gladys chuckles.

Patsy moves along the line, twisting the poles to lock and unlock them as she adjusts them to the correct height for each walker.

Satisfied that all is in order, she continues. ‘You place your hand into the strap, and tighten, so.’ She uses the Velcro on the strap to secure it. What might seem like a simple task, however, proves to be more challenging while holding two poles. In an attempt to secure her left hand in place, Irene lifts her right hand, which is also holding a pole, to fasten the strap, and in doing so hits Gladys on the back of her legs. Meanwhile, Gladys has struck Julia across the back with her right pole, and it is only because Julia is standing at the far end of the line that she has avoided causing any injury to another party.

Undeterred by these minor setbacks, Patsy carries on, while making a mental note to take out an insurance policy for her new business. ‘Now, the quick release. Inside the pole, near the top, you’ll see a button. You push that up while pulling the strap towards you.’

Thankfully, this command passes without incident. The returning of the strap to its locked position, however, is a different matter for Irene, who keeps trying to force it back into the top of the handle, until Gladys gently points out that she needs to put it into the slot at the front of the pole.

Patsy parades down the line. ‘Does anyone have any injuries that I should know about?’ Gladys and Irene shake their heads. ‘Julia?’

Julia rubs her back. ‘Not until a moment ago.’

‘Sorry, Julia,’ Gladys says.

‘It’s not your fault. It was the order in which we were asked to complete the task that caused the problem.’

Patsy glares at her.

Julia leans against her poles. ‘I’m merely pointing out that in any lesson, the teaching needs to be in a logical order.’

Not to be intimidated by Julia, Patsy draws herself up to her full five foot three and a half inches.

Gladys steps between them. ‘Shall we carry on?’ she says brightly.

Parading in a circle around Patsy, Irene, Gladys, and Julia are still trying to master the art of Nordic Walking. ‘Heads up, relax those shoulders!’ Patsy bellows. Julia is merrily swinging the pole in her left arm in unison with her left leg, pleased with herself that she seems to have finally mastered the technique. Noticing Julia’s mistake, Patsy calls out, ‘Opposite arm and leg Julia, opposite.’

To no avail, Julia tries to coordinate her left leg and right pole. This creates a tangle of arms and legs which flail around wildly. Patsy sighs; teaching isn’t going to be as easy as she thought.

‘Everyone, stop!’ As if talking to a group of small children, Patsy demonstrates the correct technique. ‘Left arm, right foot forwards, right arm, left foot forwards. Now, follow me.’ Patsy strides off.

Julia looks at Gladys and Irene, then unclips her poles and lays them on the ground. One thing she won’t stand for is being patronised. She’s noticed a marked increase in this type of behaviour towards her since she retired. People talk to her loudly as if she has suddenly lost her hearing, or assume she doesn’t understand how to do the simplest task, like changing a lightbulb. It’s exasperating. She strides off across the green, undeterred by Patsy’s commands to come back.

In the comfort of Rose Cottage, and with a cup of tea in hand, Julia sinks into the sofa. She looks at the collection of silver-framed photos carefully arranged on the 1930s Art Deco walnut sideboard. Her mother, Grace, looks radiant in both of her wedding photos. In one, she wears a traditional white wedding dress and is holding hands with a fair-skinned, impeccably dressed groom in a top hat and tails – Julia’s father. The other photo has the causal look of an impromptu second marriage, a snatched moment of Grace laughing with her new husband, who is dark-skinned and ruggedly handsome, in the background a grumpy-looking twelve-year-old and a young girl of seven in a Wild West outfit, complete with a white Stetson. Her sister has always been very annoying.

The sweltering and humid tropic of Thailand. On the small island of Koh Tao, a woman cools her feet in the water as she walks along the beach carrying an armful of colourful sarongs, hoping to make a sale. Her skin is aged by the god the lounging tourists worship, offering their bodies up for burning in the mid-afternoon sun. A palm tree, made famous by its many appearances in holiday snaps and brochures advertising this tropical paradise, breaks line with its neighbours and reaches out horizontally across the sand, lined with restaurants, bars, dive shops and wooden huts eager to welcome customers. Less welcome are the stray dogs.

Frankie, early sixties, crawls out from underneath a beach hut, pulling a large net behind her. She dusts down her colourful Bermuda shorts and sand-stained yellow T-shirt. Beads of sweat run down her arms and face, glistening against her dark skin. Her jet-black hair falls from beneath her well-loved white Stetson. Frankie is a free spirit. A glorious blend of colourful hues, she has meandered through life enjoying herself and has tried her hand at most things, from scuba diving to rock climbing. She is always on a mission or championing a cause. This time, it’s volunteering at the Koh Tao Animal Clinic.