Blackthorn Winter (14 page)

On the way home, Mom and I had passed the police station. I wondered if Simon Jukes was in there, locked in a cell. I remembered his brother Henry's outburst after the funeral. People said Henry was strange, not quite right in the head. But ... what if he were right? What if his brother were innocent? How horrible to be locked away for something you didn't do while the real murderer got away with murder.

When I finished the history assignments, I moved outside to sit on the warm stone step of our cottage and read my science textbook. It felt so much like a true spring that I decided the Coopers were wrong this time about its being false. The long morning ticked slowly past. Mom didn't go upstairs to her sunroom studio even though she'd said the day before that she thought she could work again now. Instead, she puttered in the sitting room, unpacking one of our remaining boxes. Then she went out again, carrying canvas tote bags, to buy groceries at the Emporium. I went inside and watched the clock and began a descriptive essay for English about my arrival in Blackthorn. At lunchtime I made a sandwich for myself and poured a tall glass of milk. The Goops always complained that English milk tasted different, and they fussed when Mom wanted them to drink it. But I liked the taste, and I'd drunk more than enough tea lately.

As I finished eating, the sky darkened and the rain started again, but it was a soft rain and still held that wonderful scent of spring. Mom came home, juggling her umbrella and two tote bags of food. I unpacked them for her: fruit and veg from the greengrocer's (I loved that name almost as much as
ironmonger
) and packets of pasta and cereal and cans of soup (
tins
of soup, they were called here)
from the Emporium. Mom spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone, arranging to lease our rental car long-term. She didn't go near the sunroom. I worked on my assigned chapter of algebra until the Goops came barreling home from school with dripping raincoats and damp book bags. They were full of stories about their first day, and again I felt a twinge of regret that I'd refused to consider going to school here. Half an hour later Duncan was home from school, too. He came over and casually invited me out for a walk.

"Maybe we'll stop somewhere for a coffee," he added. That sounded so classy and ... European. At home my friends drank mostly soda. Mom said I could go, but to be back in time for dinner.

I grabbed an umbrella and my hooded jacket, and we set off down the path and around to the wall with the shiny red door. "I've been stuck at home all day," I said. "Thank you for coming to rescue me."

"At your service, madam," he said gallantly, then slanted a shy glance at me. "Actually I've been, er, sort of thinking about you all day. Sitting home while I slave at school ... I've been dying to get home and be with you."

"Dying?" I asked, wincing.

"Okay, wrong word," he said. "I was longing to
hang
with you. To
chill
with you. To impress you with my use of American slang!" I laughed, and we headed for the Angel Cafe on the corner of Castle Street and The Mews.

"That's where Liza Pethering lived," Duncan said, pointing down the narrow lane. "Where Oliver lives."

"All alone now," I said softly. Then I wondered how sad he really was about that.

"Should we call on him?" asked Duncan, as if he had read my mind. "Have a little chat with our prime suspect?"

"He isn't really that," I objected. "Oh, I don't know. Let's wait."

"Let's eat while we wait," Duncan said, and he opened the door to the Angel Cafe. Inside, the cafe was brightly lit and cheerful. The small room held about twelve tables, and half of them were taken. Most of the customers seemed to be kids about our age. Duncan waved to a few people he knew as the waitress led us to a table by the window.

"What would you like?" she asked us, smoothing her apron and pulling a notepad out of the pocket.

Duncan ordered coffee, but I opted for hot chocolate. We both ordered scones as well. They came quickly, warm and fresh, and we piled on the strawberry jam and fresh clotted cream, yellow and thick.

We began talking in low voices about whether to approach Oliver Pethering, but we were soon interrupted by a group of teenagers, some still in school uniforms, who ambled into the cafe, laughing. "Hey, MacBennet!" one boy hailed Duncan.

"Cor—look at him!" another bellowed. "This is serious, man!"

"Did she say she'd marry you?" a third boy called out. He winked at me.

"I wouldn't recommend it," the first boy said to me, shaking his head mournfully. "MacBennet snores something fierce. I had to share a bunk bed with him on a school trip to London and he kept me awake all night long. Sounded like a donkey!"

The boys started braying—
hee-haw, hee-haw!
—and the girls laughed. I saw suddenly that one of them was Veronica Pimms, with her purple hair tucked back inside a hood. I hadn't recognized her at first.

"Sod off," Duncan said, but he smiled at the kids and then introduced me. "Everybody, this is Juliana. Juliana, this is the lot you're cleverly avoiding by staying out of school. You can see you've made the right decision." Then he pointed to each kid in turn: "Brian Harkins, Harry and Will Brooks, Alina Sinclair, and you know Veronica already."

"I'm on a break from work," she said. "Thought I'd have a drink with the schoolchildren."

"Hi everybody," I said.

They pulled up chairs at the table next to ours and ordered tea and coffee and fizzy drinks. The waitress frowned when one of the boys—Brian, I thought it was—propped his feet on an empty chair, but generally she seemed happy that the little cafe was such a popular hangout on this wet afternoon.

"So how do you like Blackthorn?" the girl named Alina asked me. She had short, dark curls that hugged her head like a cap. Her hair was damp from the rain, and her red jacket was spattered with wet spots.

"I do like it," I said.

"You're American," commented the boy called Will. "Listen to that accent!"

I felt my cheeks color self-consciously. "From California," I said.

They started imitating an American accent (badly) and asking questions about California, and I sat there for about fifteen minutes laughing and trying to dispel the notion that I knew movie stars personally, went surfing every morning before school, and got rocked in earthquakes every couple of days. I remembered how I'd looked for the rose-covered, thatched-roof cottages on the day we'd arrived in
Blackthorn.
Stereotypes,
I thought. At least the kids weren't asking if I only ever ate hamburgers and fries.

"Why did you want to come here, that's what I don't get," said Alina.

"I didn't want to, really," I admitted. "My mom did."

"I know, but I mean, why would she—when you were living in
California,
for chrissake! I mean, that place is everybody's dream destination!"

"The Golden Dream," Will added.

The boy named Harry snorted, sinking low in his chair. "Anything would be more golden than
this
dump." He pointed out the window at the dark, rainy street.

I shrugged, looking out. "I don't think it's a dump! And even though it wasn't my idea to come here, I can see what my mom likes about England—especially about a small village like this one. It's so ... so
old,
somehow. There's an atmosphere. And there's—"

"Rain," said Harry dolorously.

"Well, true. The weather in California is definitely better. But, I don't know, there's something really
nice
about this village. It's beautiful ... with all those narrow streets and tall stone walls and cobblestone lanes and hidden gardens. And the smell of woodsmoke everywhere—"

"Pollution," grunted Harry.

"I'd rather live in California," Alina maintained staunchly.

"Okay, okay." I finally gave in. "But enough about California. What about Blackthorn? What do you do here for fun?"

The kids looked at each other, perplexed. "Well," Duncan said after a moment, "there's the church fete in June—that's always good fun."

"And Carnival—in September," said Alina. "I was voted the Baby Queen in Year Two!"

Veronica smirked. "I was one of the Carnival Queen's Ladies-in-Waiting two years in a row."

"That was back when you were a looker," Brian teased. "Back when your hair was normal."

She flipped her purple mane over her shoulders. "Ladies-in-Waiting grow up. That's what they're waiting for."

"There's not that much to do in Blackthorn, not for teenagers," conceded Duncan. "There's the youth club on Thursday nights, but not much goes on there, and I've got too much homework, usually, to go over. There's the snooker club—I used to go with my grandad. It was fun to hang out with the old men and play."

"You can join the Drama Society, I suppose," said Will. "My mum and dad are always at me to try out for a play. But it's not really my scene."

"There are clubs in Lower Dillingham," said Veronica. "Dancing and drinking and some good bands. I've been escaping to Lower Dillingham for years."

"Yes, but you're supposed to be eighteen to get in those!" Alina raised her brows.

Veronica raised hers back and said mockingly, "Oh, no,
really?
Oh dear me!" Then she shrugged. "Anyway, I'm eighteen now. I'm older than you lot. You forget."

Duncan rolled his eyes. "Blackthorn was a great place to be a little kid, though, you have to admit it. Lots going on for the small fry."

"When we were babies it seemed a sleepy sort of fishing village, with a lot of artists setting up easels on the pier," Harry said musingly. "I remember that every time I came
to the sand with my bucket and spade, some artist type would come by and start sketching me!"

"But there weren't tourists in summer then, not like there are now," Alina added. "I think it was really
your
parents who changed that, Dunk-o. Your mum and Quent, I mean."

"How?" I asked. "What did they do?"

"They became famous! They put Blackthorn on the map as a brilliant place for artists. People from London started coming here on the weekends, and loads more people in the summers. It used to feel like a small village. Now we're practically a
city!
"

I had to laugh. "You should see the Bay Area—in northern California where I come from. Believe me, this is a very, very
tiny
village!"

"You haven't been here in summer yet," Will declared. "It gets positively overrun with tourists and day-trippers."

"But even then it's really still a small village," I insisted.

"I suppose so. It's all relative." Will grinned at me. "Anyway, that's what we were saying. It's boring for teenagers, but great for little kids. Most kids get to run around and have a lot more freedom here than they would if they lived in a city."

"Yeah, because it's so safe," agreed Alina. "Everybody knows everybody."

"Need I remind you we've just had a murder in this village?" Veronica asked icily. "And it's probably someone we all know? That's hardly 'so safe,' is it? You might as well be living in America!"

"But, Ronnie, Simon Jukes is locked up," Alina pointed out comfortingly. "He always was a terror. I'm glad he'll be going to prison for the rest of his life."

Veronica snorted. "Everybody wants to think we're so safe with Simon Jukes locked up, but I don't know about that. His brother Henry swears they were together the night Liza Pethering died. He swears Simon didn't have anything to do with it. What if he's right?" Veronica pushed back her chair. "Anyway, I'd better get back to work or I'll be sacked again." She grinned at Duncan. "Good thing it's only just down the road! Who knows what evil stalker might reach out and grab me from a dark lane?"

She paid for her drink and left. I sat there thinking about what she'd said about Simon Jukes, while the other kids started chattering about films and how that was something Blackthorn sorely needed: a cinema. They were sick of having to take the bus or beg a ride to Lower Dillingham each time they wanted to see a film.

I listened idly. Alina, Brian, Will, and Harry all seemed like nice kids. I felt comfortable with them, and they seemed to accept me, American accent and all. I hoped I'd see them again. Veronica was something else.

After a while they said they had to leave. Duncan shoved back his chair, too. "Shall we go?" he asked, and I nodded. He paid for our drinks and scones, and we stepped out of the warm room into the cool, misty evening. At least it had stopped raining. We said good-bye to the others, and waved as they set off up the street. Alina called back to me that she'd ring me soon, and I had the warm feeling I'd made another friend. Across Castle Street the figure of Henry Jukes lurched through the archway of the Old Ship.

"So what do you think?" I asked Duncan.

"Think about what?"

"About what Veronica said. About Henry's brother.
About Simon Jukes. Do we have a prime suspect? Is Simon really it?"

We stood on the corner outside the cafe. "You mean you're wondering about Oliver again? Well, should we call in and say hello? Check on how he's doing, at least—even if we can't exactly accuse him of murder! We still have time before you have to be home, and he lives right here—in The Mews."

The rain started again, a gentle mist. We started walking into The Mews, a narrow, cobbled lane with terraced stone houses rising straight from the street on both sides. "What would we say to him?" I asked.

"We'll just say how sorry we are, and see where the conversation goes." Duncan knocked on the door of number 3.

"We can say I never got to see Liza's gallery, and I wondered if he'd mind..."

Duncan and I huddled together in the drizzle, but no one answered the door. "Stupid me," Duncan said after another minute. "Of course Oliver will still be at work."

"The day after his wife's funeral?"

"Lots of people lose themselves in work when they're grieving," Duncan said, frowning at me. "It doesn't mean anything."

I didn't argue the point. I wondered if Duncan's frown meant he had coped that way himself after his mother died—immersed himself in schoolwork, or something. We walked back to Castle Street and over the footbridge to the Emporium. The stream, already swollen from the rain, rushed under the bridge and surged against the riverbank. The paved walkway was puddled. There was no sign that anything had happened here recently; there was no mark on the pavement, no yellow crime scene tape from the police investigation, no marks of struggle or distress. But we both fell silent and stood staring down at the dark water. The stream flowed swiftly. Pieces of sticks were carried downstream, and I could see underwater reeds and, in the streetlight, a flash of rock, white and gleaming, beneath the surface.