1 A Motive for Murder (5 page)

“Through all this horror my cat stalked unperturbed. Once I saw him monstrously perched atop a mountain of bones, and wondered at the secrets that might lie behind his yellow eyes.”

(H.P. Lovecraft, The Rats in the Walls)

Chapter 7
.

The High Wycombe cemetery was hilly. It had never occurred to me that cemeteries could be hilly. Back home, all the ones I had visited were on flat ground and certainly were void of scenic views. What's more, the High Wycombe cemetery was in the center of town, right around the corner from Aunt Beth's.

I was surprised at the lack of attendees. "Cassandra, there's just us. I mean, I know she had no relatives in the U.K., but didn't she have any friends?"

"She kept to herself, dear." Cassandra patted my hand then grabbed my elbow for support as the ground was quite uneven. "If the service had been later, people could have read a notice in the paper, but as it's so soon, no one else would know. Don't worry; I rarely saw anyone going into her house. She kept to herself."

I helped Cassandra down the railed stairway into the lower section of the grounds. There was a magnificent view of the faraway hills beyond rolling fields, and to the right was a cluster of the typical English houses in the direction of Aunt Beth's house.

I had a feeling I was being watched, but shook it off. Anyone would be spooked in a cemetery. The minister greeted us in the most perfunctory fashion; he was the stereotypical reserved Englishman that one typically sees in Hollywood films and also stereotypically was missing a chin.

The funeral director looked like a used car salesperson. After the standard platitudes, he extolled the virtues of pay-before-you-go funerals, and assured us that once someone has paid for their funeral, no family member will ever again have to pay a cent. He looked at Cassandra pointedly while speaking, and I noticed her face was growing redder.

"He must think I'm near my use-by date," Cassandra said to me in a stage whisper.

Undeterred, the funeral director continued to list the advantages of paying for a funeral in advance.

"Look, mate" - yes, Aussies do say mate - "we don't intend to die soon so please stop talking; we're not in the market."

Cassandra laughed out loud. The funeral director made no attempt to leave so I addressed him again. "When my aunt died, she was not attended by her regular doctor; in fact, he didn't even know she'd died. The doctor who did attend called you. How I would find out his name?"

"You'd have to ask at the office."

Two elderly ladies walked over and introduced themselves and told me that they lived in the same street. I thanked them for coming, but only had a sentence out before the funeral director cornered them with his sales pitch.

I looked around for Douglas, but there was no sign of him. I know he had said he wasn't coming, but I do live in hope where men are concerned.

The service was brief, and I was the only one to cry. Cassandra had told me that at her age, she was used to friends passing over, so she was holding up well.

I cried more when I thought of the people I had lost, and then I cried for my two dogs who had passed on in the last few years, my Rottweiler and my black and tan kelpie. As I was alone in England I cried some more. I started to cry from self pity, and then I cried even harder as I felt selfish for crying from self pity.

Lucky I had my sunglasses on, for I had been foolish enough to wear non-waterproof mascara.

"Are you all right?"

I turned around expecting to see Douglas, but there was another swoonworthy, tall Englishman in front of me. "Who are you?" I blurted rudely.

"Jamie Smith, Jamie. I was a friend of Beth's. I assume you're Misty? I'm so sorry I missed the service. I've just arrived back in the country and only just heard the news. I hurried here. I do apologize for being late." He handed me a bunch of yellow roses. The wrapping had a big label, "Pinks Florist."

I didn't know what to say. This guy looked somewhat like the man who had bowled me over two days ago. I mean, surely High Wycombe couldn't have three attractive men - the appearance of even one highly attractive man in the Australian town where I had lived for some time was a rarity and a major talking point.

"You have been out of the country?" I don't know why I asked; I suppose I felt I had to say something.

He answered immediately. "Yes, for some weeks. I called Beth this morning and when she didn't answer, I went around to the house and a neighbor told me the news, so I came straight here."

"Via Pinks Florist."

"Sorry? Oh yes, of course." He shifted his gaze when he said it, and looked out over the hills.

Something didn't ring true. I looked up and saw Cassandra staring at us. I raised an eyebrow at her but she looked away.

"How long are you staying?" His attention was back on me now, and his tone was eager.

"At the cemetery?"

"No, in the country." He spoke slowly with the slightest hint of amusement. "Beth said you were coming to write articles for your magazine."

"Oh." I felt foolish. "Yes, five weeks."

"Is there anything I can do?"

I was taken aback. I was more popular with men in a few days in England than I had been my whole life in Australia. Or perhaps he was just being polite, and if I thought of something he could do, he'd make an excuse as to why he wouldn't do it. I gave up thinking and spoke instead. "No thanks, another friend of Beth's is driving me around."

"You don't want to drive Beth's car?" He was clearly surprised.

"Apparently it hasn't been going for years."

Jamie Smith appeared taken aback. "To the contrary, Beth was driving it only last month. Who is this friend that has been driving you around?" The tone of his voice had changed to demanding, and he took a step closer to me.

I was tempted to say, "None of your business," and adding a very rude adjective or two in there as well, but merely said, "Douglas Brown."

Jamie Smith looked stricken. "Don't," he began, but then Cassandra appeared at my side and interrupted. "Misty, can we go? I don't feel well; I think the shock is setting in. I need to lie down." Without so much as a nod at Jamie Smith, she steered me back up the hill.

"Cassandra, does Aunt Beth's car go?"

"I doubt it. I never saw her in it; I drove her everywhere. Why?"

"That man I was speaking to said she was driving it last month."

Cassandra stopped at looked at me. "I really have no idea. What else did he say?"

I tried to recall. "He said he was a friend of Beth's. Did you ever see him around?"

Cassandra took off walking again, more steadily this time. "He was never there when I was visiting Beth. What did he want?"

"He just said he had just gotten back into the country and apologized for being late for the funeral."

Cassandra paused to get her breath, and turned to face me. "Misty, I don't trust him. My husband used to say I have women's intuition. I don't know if he was right, but sometimes I get feelings about people, and the feeling I got about that man was not good. He's probably a terrible womanizer. Don't date him." She fixed me with a steely look.

I laughed heartily. "Cassandra, he didn't ask me out. There's no chance of him dating me. I'm sure I'm quite safe." I could have added,
Worse luck
! Instead, I said, "Cassandra, would you mind if I called at the office before we leave?"

"Do you have the address?"

I waved a piece of paper at Cassandra by way of answer.

The office proved to be another dead end, pardon the pun. They informed me that the doctor who had called them was a Dr. Spence and they supplied his cell phone number. I called it but there was no tone, not even a voice message saying that the phone had been disconnected - nothing.

When we got back, I thanked Cassandra, and then hurried inside to the hallstand on which was a small porcelain bowl containing Aunt Beth's keys. Thankfully there weren't many to choose from, and even without my reading glasses I was able to see the one with a key ring marked, "Triumph."

I hurried back outside to the car. The door was easy to unlock but the car smelled stale inside as if it had not known fresh air for some time.

I turned the key in the lock expectantly - nothing. Not even a whirr. I opened the hood, expecting to see the battery leads unattached, but they were firmly on. The terminals didn't have any powdery substance on them, but I picked up a half brick which was perched on the edge of Aunt Beth's fence and hit both battery terminals. I tried the key again. Silence. Well, it may just be a very flat battery but there was no sign that the car had been driven recently.

Score One to Douglas; score Zero to Jamie Smith. Perhaps he was indeed the man who had knocked me over. He may have been just too embarrassed to admit it and made up a cover story, but I have no respect for lying men. I'd had enough of that with Steve. He may not have been lying about the car; that may have been a simple mistake.

I heard my ring tone and looked everywhere for my phone. Oh, I had shoved it in my bra when I was looking under the hood. I fished it out and saw to my dismay that it was Daisy, my editor.

"How are you going with the West Wycombe copy?" she barked.

No "hello," typical. "My aunt just died, Skinny, um, Daisy. The copy isn't due until next week."

"Oh yes, sorry to hear that." Her voice was rushed and held no hint that she was the slightest bit sorry. "I wanted to see some preliminary stuff about the Hellfire Club, but you've just noted that several exclusive clubs for high society rakes were called Hellfire Clubs in Britain and Ireland in the 18th century and that the Hellfire Club of Sir Francis Dashwood met irregularly from around 1749 to around 1760, and possibly up until 1766."

I was furious. "Look, can this wait? I can't remember what I emailed through and I've literally just come from my aunt's funeral."

"Sorry to hear. This is what you emailed through next. I'll read it to you.

Sir Francis Dashwood did not call his club a Hellfire Club, but instead it went by the names of 'The Knights of St. Francis of Wycombe,' 'The Monks of Medmenham,' and 'Order of the Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe.' Earlier in 1721 Royal Edict condemned, 'Young People who meet together, in the most impious and blasphemous manner, insult the most sacred principles of our holy religion, affront Almighty God himself, and corrupt the minds and morals of one another.'

John Wilkes described the group as 'A set of worthy, jolly fellows, happy disciples of Venus and Bacchus, got together to celebrate women in wine and to give more zest to the festive meeting, they plucked every luxurious idea from the ancients and enriched their own modern pleasures with the tradition of ancient luxury.'

The order's other members included Lord Sandwich, John Sales, and the Prince of Wales who was the son of current King of England, King George II. Benjamin Franklin was a close associate of the order and a good friend of Sir Francis Dashwood.

"That's not very well written and it's boring," she concluded in her usual strident, accusing voice.

"Skinny, um, Daisy, that is not the beginning of my story - I emailed that to Keith as he wanted some background information - it's hardly my story."

"Well, take it to the next level - were they devil worshipers?"

Typical. Daisy would be better off working for the sensationalist tabloids rather than a paranormal magazine. What a shame Murdoch's
News of the World
had shut down years ago. It would have suited her perfectly. "Most certainly not."

"I'm sure I heard somewhere that they were."

"Daisy, a lot of websites allege that Sir Francis was a Satanist but he was nothing of the sort."

"Well make sure of your facts before you send anything else and if you can tie it to Satanists, all the better. Take it to the next level. You'll have to stop submitting substandard work, Misty."

"Now look here." I was cut short as the call disconnected. Probably just as well, too. I needed my job; I had a mortgage and car payments, not to mention all the bills which always appeared just after I'd finally paid off the last ones.

I was so upset and frustrated after speaking to Daisy that I didn't distinguish the sound of a car pulling up outside Aunt Beth's from the noise of the cars driving up and down the street. I was half way back to the door when I was overcome by an uneasy feeling.

I turned around, only to see Jamie Smith getting out of his car, a silver Audi R8 Limited Edition. I almost drooled. Audis were my favorite car, not that I could afford one. I still had two years to pay off on my Ford and it needed two new tires, back brake pads, and the battery was on its way out.

Well one thing was settled, Jamie Smith was no petty thief if he could afford a car like that. I could barely take my eyes off the car but then Jamie blocked my view by walking up the path.

"Yes?" I asked uncharitably. I didn't have to like the man just because he had impeccable taste in cars.

"Misty, can I speak to you?"

"Isn't that what we're doing?" I regretted the words as soon as they were out. I'm not usually so rude, but the funeral coupled with the phone call from Daisy had put me on edge.