She frowned. “No smoke without fire.” And she returned to her tears.
I dared another question. “But who said it?”
“Mary Bishop,” Mrs. B said.
And I breathed again. Mary Bishop, the ancient matriarch of the amateur dramatics society, so old it was believed she did her training in the theaters of ancient Greece, was as sticky a beak as you could find in this village, and an absolute fantasist to boot. The claim was probably baseless.
“Did you know Lennie Green, Mrs. Billings?” I asked next.
She shook her head. “Not as such, but when you’ve grown up with someone on the TV and the radio, you feel like you know them. And with him being local. I met him one time. He came over to The Two Ts teashop and he signed a napkin for me. ‘To Brenda,’ he wrote…” and she trailed off there.
“He’ll be a big loss,” I said, wondering how I’d come so far in life only having the vaguest idea who he was.
“He will. It will never be the same.” She clutched her kitchen roll and gazed into the distance. “To think, he’ll never be on another Christmas special.”
“Never, but they’ll have repeats.”
“That would be too sad. I couldn’t watch him back in happier days.”
I stared at the table top. We sat in a silence I wanted to break. I wanted to move, to put the kettle on and go back to normal, but I didn’t dare to. I also wanted to ask what they were saying about Mr. Newman, but I was wary of drawing attention to the matter. I wondered if we were observing an unofficial two minutes silence and if it would be broken soon and we would go back to our lives.
And to my relief, that was exactly what happened. Mrs. B sniffed, stood, threw the kitchen roll in the bin, washed her hands, and put the kettle on.
“Did I tell you,” she said, putting our drinks on the table, “the book club has a stall in the village hall now, selling off all their old books, but one of them was a library book. Mrs. Harris went spare when she saw it.” Mrs. Harris ran the mobile library and I was fond of her because once, when I was a young girl, she gave me copies ofThe History of Langley HallandThe Ghosts of Langley Hall. They were old copies the library was discarding and selling for a pound, but she gave them to me for free. That is why I am such an expert on the matter, although James and I had added one, or possibly two, ghosts to the house since it was published.
Mrs. Harris was less generous with the book club. “She took the book back and took all the money they’d made as a fine,” Mrs. B said. “Now the book club is trying to find out who brought it, and they’re going to be booted out. Bringing their club into disrepute.”
“How exciting!” Never let it be said that village life was dull. It almost took my mind off Lennie, Mr. N, and the activity in our graveyard, until Mrs. B ate a final biscuit, rose from her seat saying, “Anyway, Lady Langley, love, better show willing,” and shuffled herway out toward our living quarters. I was left with my thoughts and my worries.
I waited, so as not to embarrass us both by overtaking her on the stairs and being sat watchingMonkwhen she arrived, gasping for breath. After enough time had elapsed, I washed the mugs in the sink and headed for the stairs, but as I reached the entrance hall, there was a knock on the door.
I froze. Apart from Mrs. Billings, there were no cleaners in that day. There were no deliveries expected. It was rare, although not unheard of, to get door-to-door traders. But there was one cohort of visitors I wouldn’t be surprised to see. My fingers fumbling the catch, I answered the door.
It was two detectives. The man introduced himself as DC Parker. He was slightly chubby, with pale skin, blue eyes, and the most amazing red hair that stood up straight from his head, as if he’d had an electric shock. A woman in a suit stood next to him. She was introduced to me as DS Khan. She didn’t smile; in the weeks ahead I’d wonder if she could smile or if her unnaturally thin lips precluded it in some way. She had a dark complexion, long, straight hair, very deep-set eyes, and a beaky nose.
“Daisy Dixon,” DC Parker said, “we’d like you to accompany us to the station.”
“Why?” I asked.
“We’ll discuss that with you when we get there.”
I felt panic rising and I dug my heels in. “Why can’t you tell me now?”
“Are you refusing? We could arrest you.”
That was the phrase that changed my mind. “Can I let my cleaning lady know where I’m going?” I asked. “She’ll be worried.” Theyrolled their eyes but let me speak to her, following me upstairs as I made my way.
“Better get a solicitor,” Mrs. Billings advised as I whispered the news to her. She looked grimly over my shoulder at them.
“But won’t that make me look guilty?” I said, remembering to add: “I haven’t done anything. And I haven’t been arrested.” Yet.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Always get a solicitor.”
I stood up straight and pulled my shoulders back. “I’d like a solicitor, please,” I said to the detectives.
DS Khan spoke for the first time. “We’ll sort that out at the station.” They really were keen to get there; it must’ve been nearly time for their break.
When we arrived, I phoned James about the solicitor. Then I sat for hours in a cold, uncomfortable cell that smelled of bleach overlaying something I chose not to think about, while I waited for the solicitor James appointed to finish with all his more important clients.
