The Twisted Way (27 page)

An elderly resident from the village found Matthew’s corpse the next morning when she took her small Yorkie dog for its constitutional. The body had been washed to the Enderly village side of the river and was wedged between two drooping willow branches. She felt her stomach turn over and almost fainted with shock. ‘My angina,’ she croaked in a low husky voice, shaky and full of fear that the familiar chest pains would rear up and overcome her. ‘I could do without this,’ she moaned. The pain did not come and after a few seconds she managed to reach into her handbag for her mobile phone. Steeling herself she raised the alarm.

The local police were soon at the scene. Matthew was stiff and cold, streaky brown river weeds clung to his once attractive pale yellow hair and a purple bruise showed clearly on one side of his forehead. His face was ashen but mud had splattered across his high cheekbones and clung to the edges of his once attractive mouth. His body was removed to the local morgue after careful inspection at the scene by DI Peter Holmes and his assistants who combed the river bank for clues without success.

DI Holmes was convinced that Matthew’s death was not the result of a simple accident but there was no proof of foul play. He thought that Timothy and Felicity knew more about the incident than they had admitted. The autopsy too indicated that there were no injuries to the body other than those that could be inflicted following drowning and bruising as a result of being buffeted by trees and other obstacles encountered in a swiftly flowing river.

Matthew, like his grandfather, was buried in Enderly churchyard. Janet did not feel well enough to attend the funeral so Felicity acted as her representative. It was a quiet affair compared to Peter’s. Hardly anybody had been invited. Jeremy had mumbled a few words about his son in the church, between deep sobs. She had labelled Timothy Carter ‘the fairy boy’ and was interested to note that he attended the funeral service but to her amusement crouched at the back of the church like a frightened animal. The meal that had been arranged in the Maces’ cottage later Felicity thought was dreadful, and the wine was in her opinion even worse than the rubbish she had tasted at Peter Mace’s wake. She made an excuse to leave early. Jeremy consumed at least three bottles of the putrid wine and had to retire to bed before all the guests had left.

After Matthew’s accident the Mace business was taken over by rival local firm Wilkins and Partners and Janet’s will was stored in their vault. Felicity was interested to discover that the Mace business had, until Matthew took over, not been in a healthy financial state. She learned too through listening to local gossip that Jeremy had drunk and gambled away the profits over many years, but had already guessed that might be the case.

A young woman from the new firm appeared one day to have a chat with Janet but became concerned about her mental condition and to Felicity’s relief decided to leave things as they were.

‘Mrs Lacey’s last will, though slightly old, was adequate,’ she said. ‘There is no point in worrying her about making any changes.’ Felicity was now convinced that she had seen the latest will and her spirits rose.

Felicity decided to turn her attention to Tom Hands. She would make some enquiries about him now. She was pleased to have something like that to do.

Robbie enjoyed his game of bridge each week in the Green Man. He had been unwell recently, though so far he had 
kept it to himself, and he needed a change. A good dupli
cate club could perhaps offer a chance to take his mind off things. It was a good game and he hoped it would help him to keep his mind active; at least that was a theory he had read somewhere –it was beneficial for the elderly. He gave some thought to joining Little Brinton Bridge Club which was only about four miles away where his old friend Pat Field and another villager, John Elk, were already members. Pat was feeling his age and did not really enjoy club bridge so much as he had in the past.

‘Robbie,’ he urged, ‘you would be doing me a big favour if you would partner John Elk. I’m getting too tired at the end of an evening’s bridge. John is a shy chap and would not like to play with a stranger. He would play with you, he knows you well and has played with you in the pub. You’d enjoy Little Brinton Club and the standard of play is quite high.’

‘I would like to Pat, but are you sure? You’ve been a member there since the club started in 1995.’

‘Quite sure.’ John Elk was pleased too. ‘I’ll look forward to playing with you Robbie, we know each other’s game.’

Pat was getting forgetful and their results were not so good as they had been in the past. Pat found it difficult to learn any new conventions and John was anxious to improve.

Robbie phoned the Secretary, Patsy Croft.

‘You would be welcome to come as a guest next week,’ she told him in a brisk tone. ‘We can probably find you a partner if you do not have one.’

‘I have arranged to play with John Elk,’ Robbie said in a tentative voice.

Patsy’s tone changed on hearing the name John Elk; her reply was soft and almost pleasant.

‘Oh that’s good. Well then, we’ll look forward to meeting you on Thursday. Play begins promptly at seven. You know where we are, in any case I expect you could get a lift with John.’

Robbie was intrigued when he met Patsy. She was skinny, angular and almost anorexic in appearance, with a sharp commanding voice. He had pictured her in his mind after his telephone conversation as being older and even more shrew-like than she was. Her straight hair was a dull mousy colour which she twisted into a small bun on the top of her head giving her a stern matron-like appearance. Tiny blue eyes sheltered behind thick metal-framed glasses that balanced on the bridge of a small straight nose. She pressed her wide but well sculptured and full-lipped mouth together in a stiff and rather unnatural way but if she had relaxed, rather than assuming the role of a martinet, Robbie thought that she would be quite pretty and underneath that stiff exterior he guessed that she was quite soft hearted. He thought she could only be at most in her early forties though he was not very good at guessing the ages of women. Patsy greeted him with a thin and slightly waspish smile on her narrow face but introduced him to several of the other members and made him welcome, or as welcome as she could manage. She was an odd young woman, efficient but somewhat antagonistic towards the male sex. The vibes reached him.

Robbie shrugged. It would not worry him. He was too old to care and he looked forward to playing duplicate bridge in a well-established club. Robbie found the majority of the members helpful and he began to enjoy himself. Many of the players were his age or about ten years younger but there were a few bright and eager young people who had recently joined who had previously been members of a much larger club in Everton but enjoyed the friendlier atmosphere found in the club in Little Brinton. They thought the standard could have been better but they might have a reasonable game. One or two were in Robbie’s opinion quite competitive but it would not hurt to play against them, indeed he might even improve his own game.

‘Have you played much bridge?’ one conceited young man asked him, looking Robbie over as though he was something the cat had brought in.

‘Quite a lot,’ Robbie answered swiftly and was rewarded by the man’s face dropping an inch or two. Silly young puppy, a good smack on the bottom would not be amiss. He, without doubt, thought he was God’s gift to bridge. Robbie looked forward to the challenge he presented. Yes, he was going to have a rewarding time in this club.

The chairman, Ned, was an odd fellow. He had an East End London accent which he tried to hide. Ned Windsor was quite a regal name, Robbie thought with interest.

Ned stepped forward to greet the newcomer. ‘Welcome,’ he said, and gave Robbie a lopsided smile that at best made Robbie feel ill at ease. There was something he did not trust about the man but he was, as far as he could tell, running the club well. He could be an ex-con Robbie thought. He certainly looks like one. He wondered how he came to be chairman of the club.

A few of the members had dubbed Ned appropriately ‘King of the Bridge Club’. He had been the club chairman now for a year and, although efficient, he was considered by many of the members to be a rather a rough diamond. He had a mocking look in his watery eyes as though he found the whole bridge scene amusing. He was, a member was pleased to tell Robbie later, an excellent card player and had played for many years when he was in the Merchant Navy.

‘Our first chairman, Jack Headley, you know,’ one elderly lady insisted on telling Robbie, ‘was framed for murder by his brotherin-law George Berry. It was a dreadful business. He was sent to prison for a while but his name was cleared and he is now living in Scotland near his sister.’

‘Really,’ Robbie replied feigning interest.

‘Oh yes,’ the woman continued with relentless determination, ‘Jack was a nice man, helpful to the old people in the village but he had an eye for the ladies. His wife was killed in a car accident in Germany where Jack had been working for a good number of years – they had been just about to buy a retirement bungalow in Little Brinton too. It was very sad.’

Robbie vaguely remembered reading something about the Little Brinton murder in a newspaper. A well-known jockey from South Africa had been strangled in June 2000. It was obviously still a talking point in the club and had put Little Brinton on the map for a while.

Tea and good quality chocolate biscuits were served in the interval by Emily, a pretty young girl from the village. The previous lady had given up the job, Robbie was told, after an altercation with the Ned who thought she was too nosy and a spy for the Village Hall Committee.

‘Nonsense, of course’, old Mrs Noakes told Robbie, ‘she was a nice woman, very helpful and much better than young girls when it comes to making tea and coffee. Emily does nothing but listen to pop music with earphones strapped to her head and dream of boys. She spilt tea on Mrs Brooker’s feet a few weeks ago. Luckily they were not badly burned.’

Robbie smiled. Old Ned was running a tight ship and enjoying himself.

There were about twelve tables in the club and the overall atmosphere seemed quite pleasant. Robbie was relieved. He had heard some disturbing tales about competitive duplicate bridge players in the past that were not encouraging.

John Elk was painfully shy. He had a mop of curly red hair about which he had been teased at school. His large slightly bulging grey-green eyes were heavily lidded and fringed with short stubby lashes though his face was strong and masculine. He was a keen, astute bridge player who was quite popular. He, like Patsy, was slim and angular with narrow shoulders and long gangly arms that were tipped with slim artistic fingers. He could not be described as a handsome and outgoing man but Robbie liked him. He found him intelligent and a good, if somewhat terse, conversationalist. He lived in a small terraced house in Enderly that he had recently purchased, in fact the same one that John Lacey had bought when he first moved into the village.

That John Elk liked Patsy Croft was obvious to Robbie. They were approximately the same age. He must have been one of the few men in the club who did really like her, Robbie thought, and he found it difficult to know what the attraction was. Her slim face was shrew-like and she made little effort to improve her looks though she could be quite pretty with care. A number of the members made a point of telling him what he had already surmised about her dislike of the male sex. She had been secretary for a year when Robbie first played with John Elk and like John Elk Patsy was highly intelligent, he thought. He was soon informed by one of the chatty elderly members that she held a good managerial post in a firm in Everton after studying Economics and Mathematics in Everton Technical College and had a flair for organisation, which was appreciated by her employers. He was told too that she was one of the founder members and a much-respected local girl and, despite her uncharitable attitude towards the opposite sex, she had quite a few friends. He detected admiration and pride by a number of the members for the prowess of their somewhat prickly secretary.

‘Patsy,’ John ventured one evening shortly after Robbie had joined the club, ‘would you like to go to a classical concert with me in Everton next week? I belong to the music club there and the Jubilate quartet, a good local group, will be playing some Mozart.’

There was a stunned silence. Several of the bridge members turned their heads with eager anticipation. They expected that Patsy would send him packing in her usual scathing sharp voice. This could prove to be entertaining. After a breathtaking few moments Patsy replied in a voice that sounded unusually meek and controlled. There were a few audible sighs of relief. She glanced at John Elk through her modern shallow glasses, purchased earlier that day, that she hoped improved her small eyes. As she peered at him her heart unexpectedly missed a beat. He has a nice face, he’s skinny like me, not too much of a hunk, she thought. He probably will not be much of a threat and I have actually got to like him over the past year. That thought surprised her. In fact she had to admit to a slow-growing affection for the man. She would enjoy going to a concert with him she thought, and Mozart was her favourite composer. How on earth did he know she liked classical music? A strange affinity had begun to draw them together.

‘Hmm ... well yes, I would love to, thank you.’ By that time the whole room of bridge players had been alerted to the conversation. Patsy Croft going out with a man, my goodness that was unheard of! What a gracious reply she had made too; some of the members looked as though they would swoon in their seats. A few surprised mumblings could be heard echoing around the room: ‘Patsy is going out with a man,’ and ‘That’s a turn up for the books ...’

Patsy and John appeared oblivious to the mutterings. They were busy looking at each other with mirrored surprise. Patsy could not believe that she found a man so interesting and shy John found it difficult to believe that he had summoned the courage to ask her out on a date. He was elated now that she had accepted his invitation.