The Queen of New Beginnings (8 page)

Still nothing.

He leaned down and tapped on the window. He would not be denied his peanut butter. Very slowly, the window was lowered and a grudging three-inch gap appeared at the top.

Through which the barrel of a hand gun appeared.

“OK, sonny, I’m warning you now, any funny business and I’ll blow your head off.”

Rooted to the spot, Clayton knew that he should be backing away, and fast. But he couldn’t move. His body had locked tight. He was rigid with mind-numbing terror. Even his life was too scared to flash before him. The only part of him that appeared to have ability to move was the bit that Glen maintained he’d never been able to control: his mouth. “And a good day to you, madam,” he heard himself say.
Stay out of trouble
, Glen had said…

“Oh, fancy yourself a smart aleck, do you? Well, let’s see how smart you are with half your ugly mug missing!”

Clayton Miller, aged just forty-four and the nation’s favourite comedy writer, was brutally murdered by a mad woman. What has the world come to when an innocent and much-loved genius is gunned down simply for asking directions so that he could buy himself a jar of peanut butter?

“Are you listening to me?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’d drifted off there for a moment.”

“Drifted off?” Her beady eyes looked at him incredulously. “Are you on drugs?”

“Never touch the stuff. So don’t waste your time trying to sell me any.”

She pursed her thin lips. There was a hint of a moustache on her top lip and her face, creased and severely weather-beaten, looked like it had been given a regular coating of creosote for the last fifty years. “You’ve escaped from somewhere, haven’t you?” she said. “You’re not the full shilling.”

“Do you suppose we could hold this delightful conversation without that gun being pointed at me?”

“Not until I’m sure about you. What do you want?”

“Directions. I’m trying to get to the nearest shops.”

“Where’ve you come from?”

He hesitated.
Stay out of trouble…

The beady eyes tightened their grip on him. “You’re obviously not local. Where are you staying? Come on, out with it. I haven’t got all day.” She had one of those terrifyingly superior voices, the sort of voice that had been born to boss people about.

“Cuckoo House,” he said obediently.

“Oh, there.”

“You know it?”

She snorted. “I’ve lived here all my life; of course I know it. You’re a friend of the Armstrongs, then?”

“Yes,” he lied. “They’re letting me stay there until I’ve got myself sorted.”

“If you’d said that at the outset, it would have saved us both a lot of bother.” She withdrew the gun. “Saddle up and get in. I’m on my way to the shops; I’ll give you a lift. I’ll give you a lift back if you behave yourself.”

• • •

At about ten miles an hour the Morris Minor rattled, juddered and backfired its way along the winding road. Its driver seemed happily oblivious to the deafening racket of the car. She was too busy wiping the steamed up windscreen with the back of her hand and crashing the gears to worry about a little thing like hearing loss.

“Sorry about the gun,” she shouted at him. “But one can never be too careful. What was I supposed to do? I see a strange man standing in the middle of the road—you could have been anyone. What’s your name?”

“Ralph Shannon,” Clayton said. “Well, Shannon, you can call me George.”

“Is that Miss, Ms. or Mrs.?”

“Just George. And that’s Percy in the back.”

Percy? Who the hell was Percy? Clayton spun round. On the back seat was a large, murderous-looking rooster. His head was tilted and his eyes were as beady as those of the mad woman driving the car. A choice between death by rooster or a single gunshot; Clayton knew which he’d take any day of the week. The rooster glared threateningly at Clayton, then jerked his head and began scratching and pecking at the tattered seat. “Stop that at once, Percy!” the woman roared, making Clayton jump. “Or Shannon and I will have you for supper!” She turned to Clayton. “I had to bring him with me. He’s turned into a frightful sex pest and won’t leave the poor hens alone. He’s at them day and night.”

“Right,” said Clayton as though they were having a perfectly normal conversation. He stared intently ahead, despite being unable to see anything out of the windscreen. There was only one windscreen wiper and it was on the driver’s side.

“So where’s home?” she demanded. “London, I’m guessing. Am I right?”

“You might be.” She thought he looked like a Londoner in this garb? Or maybe that was the point; no local in his right mind would dress so preposterously.

“Of course I’m right. You have that worn-down manner only Londoners have. Had some kind of a breakdown, have you?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“You’re as jumpy as hell.”

“So would you be if you’d just had a gun shoved in your face.”

She thumped the steering with both hands and laughed out loud as though he’d said the funniest thing. He had to find a way to stop the old biddy asking so many questions. A thought occurred to him. “You said you’ve lived here all your life?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know a girl called Alice Shoemaker? I believe she grew up here.”

“Shoemaker, you say. No, that name doesn’t ring a bell. I knew an Alice Barrett. The Barretts owned Cuckoo House years ago.”

“How many years ago was that?”

With a bloodcurdling scream of resistance from the engine, she changed gear and shot him a look. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m interested.”

“Evidently. But
why
are you interested?”

“I…I met a girl the other day called Alice Shoemaker and she said she grew up at Cuckoo House.”

“Really? How old was she?”

“I’m not very good at guessing ages. Especially when it comes to women.”

“Don’t be pathetic. I’m looking for a rough ball-park figure. Imagine I have my gun to your head, and your life depends upon an answer. Was she in her twenties? Thirties? Fifties?”

Imagining all too well the gun pressed to his head, Clayton suddenly remembered exactly how old Alice was. “She’s thirty-one,” he said.

“That’s a very precise ball-park figure, but in that case I’d say you met Alice Barrett, as was. Where did you meet her? London? I always suspected that’s where she ran off to.”

“I met her at Cuckoo House.”

“Well, I never. Alice back at Cuckoo House. Mind you, I thought she’d show up one day.”

After another gear change and a thunderous explosion from the rear of the car, they juddered to an abrupt stop. Clayton’s seat belt did little to prevent him from very nearly slamming against the windscreen. Surely the car would never pass an MOT? But then its owner didn’t strike him as being the sort of person who would worry over such a minor detail.

“Right, Shannon, here we are. There’s a Co-op over there. A butcher’s next door, a grocer’s shop across the road and a baker’s right here where we’re parked.”

“Is there a bank?”

“In between the outdoor clothing shop and the Penny-Farthing cafe. Be back here in an hour. Any later and I’ll be gone and you’ll have to walk.”

• • •

The good news was that the rain had let up. Clayton was about to dispense with his hat and stuff it in a pocket when he thought better of it. The hat gave him something to hide beneath. Although, as he caught sight of his reflection in a shop window, he had to acknowledge that overall he stuck out like a very sore thumb. He wasn’t exactly blending in, was he? Most other people were sensibly dressed in ordinary coats and carried umbrellas.

It was midafternoon and the light was fading; illuminated shop windows shone invitingly. His first port of call was the bank. He needed some cash. This he acquired from a hole in the wall since the bank itself had closed for the day. He then progressed to the butcher’s. He wanted some more of those sausages Alice had bought him. There was a choice of three different varieties, so he bought two pounds of each. He could use the freezer back at Cuckoo House to store a fortnight’s worth of them. He did the same with bacon. And since the butcher also sold eggs, he bought a dozen of those, too.

Next it was on to the Co-op.

Peanut butter, peanut butter
, he silently chanted to himself as he grabbed a trolley. He found it next to the pots of jam and marmalade and stripped the shelf of its entire stock, all three jars. He then worked methodically round the store, slinging items into the trolley. He was joining the queue for the checkout when he noticed the depleted racks of newspapers. He couldn’t stop himself. He added three tabloids to the basket and joined the queue.

It took an age to pay and, heavily laden with six bags of shopping, he hurried outside. He crossed the street to where he’d been instructed to meet the old woman.

But there was no sign of her. Or of the Morris Minor. He checked his watch. He was two minutes late.

• • •

Alice’s headlights picked out the lumbering figure ahead of her. Even before he turned round, she knew who it was and what she was going to do and say. After all, this was no accidental meeting; curiosity in all its grubby glory had drawn her here.

She slowed the car, pulled alongside him and lowered her window. “You’re lucky it’s stopped raining,” she said. “Want a lift?”

A grimace of tired relief passed across his face. “I’ll give you anything you want,” he groaned, “just so long as you get me back to Cuckoo House, preferably alive.”

She got out of the car, went round to the boot and opened it. She helped him to load the shopping inside, and noticed the newspapers protruding from one of the carrier bags.

He slumped in the passenger seat next to her. “You’re not used to exercise, are you?” she said, managing to stifle a smile at the sight of him in such a ridiculous get-up.

Ignoring her question, he said, “What brings you to this neck of the woods? The desire to gloat?”

“Oh, don’t be like that. Not when I’m doing such a splendid job of being your very own angel of mercy. Would ‘thank you’ be so very difficult for you to say?”

“Thank you.”

“With a little more feeling would be nice.”

“What do you want? Blood squeezed drop by drop from me?”

She smiled to herself and drove the rest of the journey in silence. When they reached the gate at Cuckoo House, she said, “You left it open; I wouldn’t have thought a man in your position would do that.”

He said nothing.

She drove through the gate, then stopped the car. She turned and looked at him. “Yes, that’s right, I’m waiting for you to get out and close it.”

Scowling, he did as she instructed.

When he was back in the car, he said, “What did you mean, a man in my position?”

“You tell me.” She saw a flicker of unease darken his eyes.

Up at the house, she helped him carry his shopping inside. “That’s a lot of peanut butter you’ve bought,” she remarked as she automatically started to unpack the bags for him while he shrugged off the enormous coat he’d been wearing.

“I thought I’d stockpile a few jars since I’ve developed an unaccountable craving for it.”

“I know what you mean; I was addicted to it as a child. I still slip back into my bad old ways now and then. It has to be the ultimate in comfort food, don’t you think?”

“Are you suggesting I’m in need of comfort?”

She held up her hands. “I’m suggesting nothing. Merely making polite conversation.”

When he made no effort to reply, she said, “Since I’m here, is there anything you’d like me to do for you?”

“I’ve dispensed with the agency.”

“I know. I was offering my services for free.”

“Free? There’s no such thing.”

“Not in your world maybe, but in mine there is.” She reached into the last remaining bag to unpack and pulled out the newspapers. The one she’d read at lunchtime was on the top. “Would you mind if I checked the television programmes for tonight, please?” Without waiting for him to respond, she opened the paper, but seeing the undisguised alarm in his face, she stopped what she was doing. It was unnecessarily cruel to tease him this way. She had no idea how much truth had been written about him in the papers, if any, but one thing she knew with unquestionable certainty, from first-hand experience, was that things were rarely as they first appeared. During her drive home from the studio she had wondered about his comment the other day that he’d been under a lot of stress lately. Had that been before his spectacular fall from grace or as a result of it? Stress was guaranteed to make a person act out of character and for all she knew his inability to write—as mentioned in the newspaper—might be the cause of his problems.

“I have a confession to make,” she said, deciding to come clean. “I found out earlier today who you really are. You’re Clayton Miller.”

He could not have looked more shocked.

“I read about you in the paper,” she explained, experiencing a rush of compassion for him. Seeing him like this, she couldn’t believe the worst of what she’d read. It just didn’t square up. He seemed no madder or more malicious than her. “It took me a while to make the connection,” she said, “but I eventually recognized you from the pictures.” She sounded as if she was apologizing for having recognized him.

He came over to her, held out his hand for the newspaper. “May I?”

She gave it to him, then watched him sink into the nearest chair. He flicked through the pages until he found what he was looking for. His hand flat on the table as if steadying himself, he began reading. Not knowing what else to do, Alice made herself useful. She filled the kettle, put it on the hob, then opened one of the packets of crumpets on the table. She slotted four into the Dualit toaster, found some plates and knives, a dish of butter in the fridge and lastly a jar of newly bought crunchy peanut butter. She then cleared the table of the shopping, taking care not to knock the paper that was being read so intently. The poor man now had his head in his hands.

The kettle began to whistle. She made the tea, the crumpets popped up and seconds later they were oozing a trillion calories a piece. She slid one of the plates in front of the man whose spirit she appeared to have broken. For the first time since he’d sat down, he looked up at her. “How do you like your tea?” she asked.

“Milk, no sugar,” he murmured.

She poured out two mugs, gave him one. Her hand resting on the back of a chair opposite, she said, “May I?”