A Stab in the Dark Read online

  “Dawn isn’t happy,” he remarked, pushing the olives towards her. “It seems her barman didn’t show up for work, so she’s had to do his shift.”

  “Oh, I just remembered.” Araminta sat up. “The barman, McVeigh. He was on the tour this afternoon. I was surprised to see him. Didn’t seem like his cup of tea.”

  “Perhaps the police are still questioning him?”

  “No, he left before I found the body.” Araminta frowned. “I wonder...”

  “What? Something wrong?”

  “No, it’s just—” Araminta shook her head, rubbed her forehead. “When McVeigh left Missenden Hall, he was thunderous. Earlier, he’d had an argument with Ollie, the gardener. I had to break them up. He was quite furious.”

  Garrick took a pull of his beer and wiped his mouth. “Well, McVeigh is often in a bad mood. Like me, he isn’t exactly a ray of sunshine.”

  “Yes, but you’re not an aggressive bulldog like he is.” Deep in thought, Araminta ran a finger over the top of her wineglass. “What if—now I know this is going to sound terrible, but...what if McVeigh did the deed?”

  Instead of scoffing, Garrick appeared to consider her question seriously. “Did he have the opportunity?”

  “Oh, yes. McVeigh—and everyone else on the tour—saw the silver dagger in the display cabinet. He could have sneaked back in after the tour, taken the dagger, and killed Joel.”

  “When would he have done it? Before or after the argument you saw him having?”

  “It could’ve been either. If he’d done it before, it would explain why he was so ornery with Ollie. On the other hand, he could’ve done it afterwards because I saw him leaving on his motorbike about fifteen minutes after the argument.”

  Garrick tapped his fingers on the scarred table. “Hmm. And what about this hidden staircase? You say you didn’t show it to the tour group, and if this was McVeigh’s first visit to the house, how would he know about it?”

  “Maybe he’d heard about it from someone else? Or maybe—” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Wait a jiffy! I remember something. During the tour, in the library. I remember McVeigh running his fingers over the books. At the time I thought he was trying to read the titles of the books, but what if he was searching for the hidden catch that opens the staircase?”

  “Do you think he found it then?”

  “He might have.” Araminta ran her fingers through her long red hair. “I was distracted at the time. Rev Percy was putting everyone to sleep talking about cricket, you see.”

  “Ha,” Garrick said with a wry smile. “I don’t mind the reverend rambling on. Means I don’t need to make conversation.”

  “Anyway, I interrupted him and moved everyone onto the swords and knives, which was when that episode with Debra and Tristan happened.” She went on to explain how the teenager had ended up injuring his finger, causing his mother to harangue Araminta.

  “Sounds like you have a smorgasbord of potential culprits,” Garrick remarked, “including a hapless vicar, an obnoxious mother, and a tattooed barman.”

  “The vicar? Surely not!”

  “He might’ve gotten into an argument with the victim about who is the greatest English cricketer of all time.”

  Araminta leaned back in her chair and waved a hand. “Okay, you’re joking there, but seriously who do you think did it?”

  Garrick gave her a deadpan look. “It was the butler, with the candlestick, in the conservatory.”

  “We already know the weapon was a knife, and my uncle doesn’t have a butler or a conservatory.”

  “Well, I give up, then.” Garrick picked at his Fair Isle sweater. “Although...”

  “Yes?”

  “I do know something else about Joel Taylor.”

  Araminta sat up. “Do go on.”

  “I believe he was going out with Cherise.”

  “Cherise? Oh, of course, she’s your shop assistant. She was helping Hetty in the tearoom.” Araminta propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “Are you sure about them? I don’t want to sound mean, but I’m having a hard time picturing Joel and Cherise as a couple. They’re so different.”

  “Yes. It was all a bit strange. The going out part, I mean. According to Cherise, she and Joel were dating, or whatever you call it these days. But, to be honest, I got the impression it was more casual in reality. There were no long phone calls or planned dates or activities. He never came to see her at the shop. It seemed he would call her only when it suited him, and she’d always jump at the chance to see him. Cherise is nice enough, but she doesn’t have a lot of self-confidence. He took advantage of her, but that’s just my opinion.”

  “Poor Cherise. She must be devastated. No wonder she dropped that tray.”

  “There’s more,” Garrick continued slowly. “Joel broke up with her just two days ago. It happened right in the shop. She started howling and sobbing. I didn’t know what had happened. I thought maybe she’d hurt her back or something. But eventually she told me. Joel sent her a text message saying he didn’t want to see her again.”

  “A text message? What an utter weasel!”

  “I agree. It was bad of Joel to break up with her like that, but maybe he knew how Cherise would react. She was practically out of her mind, banging her head and pulling her hair. I was afraid she’d injure herself. I’d never seen her like that before. She was a complete wreck.”

  “How awful.”

  “I drove her home and told her to take some time off, but the next morning she was back at the shop. I thought I should talk to her, but she brushed me off. Said she didn’t want to discuss it anymore. Well, that was fine by me; I’m no good at that counselling stuff, but she was obviously still very upset.”

  “She was still upset today, even before the murder.” Araminta swirled her wineglass, then took a sip. “It makes you wonder...”

  “Wonder what?”

  “Oh, come on, don’t pretend you’re not thinking the same thing.” When Garrick continued to look blank, Araminta added, “That Cherise could have, you know, killed Joel.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “And why not? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, especially one who’s been dumped by text message. And you did say she was practically out of her mind.”

  “It was an expression. Anyway, when did she have the chance to do it? According to you, she was busy in the tearoom all afternoon, and the housekeeper was there with her.”

  Araminta lifted a shoulder. “Hetty was constantly sending her to the main house to fetch this or that. She could’ve done it on one of her errands.”

  “Just picked up a knife and stabbed him? She would’ve had to lure him into the library somehow.”

  “Maybe she threatened to have a scene.” Araminta tapped her fingernails on the wooden table. “Yes, I can see how it might have unfolded. Cherise sees Joel at Missenden Hall. She’s already heartbroken, devastated, and she’s been bottling up her emotions—not very successfully—for a couple of days. Maybe she tries to talk to Joel, hoping he’s come to see her because he’s changed his mind, but he quickly dashes her hopes. She starts to break down, and Joel hurries her into the library because men hate having to deal with crying women in public. He’s brusque with her, tells her to buck up or something silly like that. Cherise is already on the verge of a breakdown. This tips her over the edge. She grabs the knife and stabs him in the chest, then runs out, and fortunately for her, there are no witnesses. She rushes back to the tearoom, and no one notices anything different about her because she was already behaving strangely.”

  “But the knife was in the display cabinet, wasn’t it?” Garrick pointed out. “So Cherise would have had to open it and then pick up the weapon. Surely Joel could have fought her off?”

  “Maybe she surprised him while his back was turned to her? Oh, wait, that doesn’t work. The dagger was in his chest.”

  “And wasn’t he found at the bottom of the hidden staircase?”

 
; “Maybe he was trying to get away from her, he turned around, and boom! She plunged the dagger into his heart.”

  Garrick sat back, his dark eyebrows arched. “You’re just speculating, right? You don’t honestly think that’s what happened? That Cherise is a killer? Or even McVeigh?”

  Sighing, Araminta shook her head. “I was married to a police detective for eight years. I became used to him talking about dead bodies and murderers. But it’s different this time. I may be speculating, but someone did stab Joel Taylor to death, and that person is still at large. Might even be sitting in this very room.” She glanced around the pub, taking in the familiar faces. “Might very well be someone you and I know.”

  6. Prickles

  IT WAS ALMOST NINE o’clock when Araminta and Garrick left the pub. Outside, dusk was falling, cloaking the countryside in indigo blue and purple. Around them, lights from the surrounding houses bloomed in the twilight.

  Araminta tied the belt of her jacket. “Well, I suppose I should toddle off home.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Garrick offered.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him there was no need, that her house was just an eight-minute walk away, but she tamped down the words. She liked Garrick. Besides, a man had been murdered just a few hours ago, and his killer was still on the loose.

  They ambled off. In the past Araminta had loved strolling about at this hour when the sun had set and the houses were lit, allowing her to peek into windows before curtains were drawn. Seeing her fellow villagers going about their evening routines—cooking, drinking, chatting, reading, watching television—had given her a warm, cosy feeling. But that was before she’d lost her husband, when she’d had her own warm and cosy home to return to. Now, the same cottage still waited for her—neat and snug as always—but home wasn’t the same without Ian. Nothing was. She wrapped her arms more tightly around herself, doubly glad of Garrick’s company.

  “I suppose all the tours at Missenden Hall have been cancelled?” Garrick asked.

  “Yes. Everything’s on hold. I’m not even sure if the tours will ever happen again.”

  “Oh. That’s a shame.”

  Garrick looked so put out that she asked him teasingly, “Why? Did you have your heart set on doing the tour?”

  “Hmm, I suppose it would’ve been interesting.”

  “I can still show you around. Later, of course, when everything’s been resolved.”

  He gave her a quizzical, sidelong glance. “And you? Will you stay on if the tours are permanently cancelled? Or go back to Italy?”

  “It’s too soon to say,” she replied. “I liked running the hotel in Lake Como. It made me realise...”

  “Realise what?”

  “I don’t want to be idle. I need to be doing something where I feel I’m making a difference.”

  He grunted. “It wouldn’t be much of a challenge, but you could come and work at Good Nosh. Shield me from all my pesky customers.”

  Araminta smiled and shook her head. “Why did you ever open the shop if you detest your customers? They’re the reason you’re in business.”

  “But I only opened the shop because I couldn’t get the yummy food I like without a big trek,” Garrick protested. “I never thought it would be so popular. Sometimes it’s like Harrod’s at Christmas time. Totally ghastly.”

  She laughed. “Are you happy here in Cranley?”

  He took his time answering. “I am,” he said eventually. “I do like some people.”

  “That’s a relief. I like it here, too.”

  “It must be hard for you. Without your husband. I mean.”

  Araminta didn’t reply. They walked on in silence, their feet crunching on the verge of the country lane. Trees rustled softly in the cooling air. An owl flitted noiselessly across an open field.

  As Araminta’s cottage came into sight, Garrick spoke again, his voice gruff. “Sorry about that. I’m an ill-bred mongrel, as my nan used to say. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

  “You weren’t,” she said. “Direct, yes, but not insensitive.” And why would his grandmother call him an ill-bred mongrel? But that was a question for another day.

  She nudged the wooden gate with her hip while jiggling the catch at the same time until it squealed open, hanging crookedly from its post. The gate had been like that since she and Ian had first moved in. For years Ian had promised to fix it but had never gotten round to it. Now, each time she opened the gate, she was reminded of him, which was both good and bad.

  Garrick remained standing outside the gate, his arms hanging awkwardly by his side. He had no reason to feel bad. In fact, she appreciated his bluntness. He was the first person to have mentioned her husband directly in months. Most people skirted around the subject. After all, Ian had died more than two years ago; she was supposed to simply get on with life.

  She beckoned to Garrick. “Here, come with me. If we’re lucky, I’ll show you something sweet.”

  She led him round the side of the cottage to the back garden. Then she held up a finger against her lips, indicating to him to stay quiet, before creeping forwards.

  “Over there,” she whispered. “See, by the steps.”

  She pointed to the back porch. At the bottom of the steps, a fat hedgehog was snuffling at a small bowl, his front paws gripping the edge, his quills almost quivering with excitement.

  “I call him Prickles,” Araminta said. “He lives under my shed. I put out some ham for him tonight.”

  “He seems to like it,” Garrick murmured, hunkering down beside her. “Is that what you feed hedgehogs? Ham?”

  “I’ve heard they eat dogfood, but I don’t have a dog, and ham seemed like the next best thing. It’s Serrano ham from your shop, so it must be good.”

  “Ah, a hedgehog with a discerning palate.”

  Araminta chuckled. They watched Prickles gobble up the ham until finally it was all gone, and the animal waddled off in search of other delicacies.

  “I must restrain myself from feeding him too much,” Araminta said as she rose to her feet. “He can’t become too reliant on me. I’m afraid a stray dog or cat might get hold of him.”

  “Wouldn’t his spines protect him?”

  “Not always. Well, I’ll turn in now.” She stepped towards the back door of her house, rummaging in her handbag for her key. She’d forgotten to leave on any lights, and the house was deep in shadow. “Goodnight, Garrick,” she said as she unlocked the door.

  “Toodle pip, then.”

  She flicked a switch, and light bloomed in her kitchen, spilling out over them. Garrick lifted a hand in salute, then turned and walked off into the darkness.

  She locked the back door and meandered through the house. It sighed and creaked, as if in welcome, but tonight the quietness felt too thick, too intense. Then, she heard the familiar squeak and clang of the front gate. That must be Garrick leaving. The sound comforted her. Hugging herself, she went upstairs to bed.

  AFTER THE TUMULTUOUS day, Araminta expected a sleepless night, but she awoke the following morning feeling surprisingly well rested. She lay in bed for a while, listening to the song of the birds outside. It occurred to her that she hadn’t woken with that momentary illusion that Ian was still alive, only to be crushed by reality a split second later. After his death, she’d had to endure that cruel little mind trick for many mornings, but in the past year it had been happening less and less.

  His face was still beside her, gazing from the silver-framed photo on her bedside table. She blew him a kiss before throwing back the covers and padding to the bathroom. After a quick shower, she pulled on a pair of green wide-legged cotton pants, a loose white raw silk shirt, and white espadrilles. Large silver hooped earrings and a leather belt completed the outfit.

  She was applying a little makeup when she heard a knock on the front door. When she answered it, her eyebrows lifted in surprise at the sight of DS Kumar.

  “Paul!” The presence of the detective sergeant instantly put her
on alert. “Has something happened?”

  “No, nothing to be alarmed about.” He lifted a hand, smiling faintly. “I just thought I’d pop round. See how you’re going.”

  Paul lived miles away, and her cottage was not on his route to the police headquarters in Farrington, so she knew this was no spur of the moment ‘popping round.’ Still, it was good to see him.

  “Come on in.” She ushered him inside. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Hope I’m not interrupting you.” He tilted his head at the mascara stick still in her hands.

  “Not at all.” She set the mascara on the hall table. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll make us a pot of tea.”

  He followed her down the hallway. The clunking of his boots reminded her of the countless times he’d come here when Ian was alive. Most times he and she would merely exchange a few quick pleasantries while he waited for Ian to get ready. Other times, he’d stay for a meal, and he and Ian would sit around the kitchen table, discussing some details of a case they were working on. Technically, with her present, it was against regulations, but they knew she’d never gossip.

  In the kitchen, she busied herself with the kettle and making tea.

  “Take a seat,” she said when she saw Paul standing awkwardly in the corner.

  “Ta.” He sat at the oak refectory table, still cautious, and looked around him.

  The kitchen faced south-east to catch the morning sunshine. With buttery walls and wonky slate floor, vintage furniture plus a few family heirlooms like her grandmother’s 18th century Welsh dresser, it was a warm, inviting place without being too chintzy.

  “Still looks the same, doesn’t it?” she said lightly.

  He nodded. “I still expect to hear him coming downstairs—” He broke off, his throat working.

  “Oh, Paul.”

  After Ian had died, she’d brushed aside all offers of help and support, not just from Paul but from everyone else. She’d done her grieving in her own style, and the people who knew her had let her get on with it.