The forum was full of speculation about what had happened to Lennie, some vague and obvious: “He came to a bad end.” Some specific, but inaccurate: “He was chopped up into tiny pieces and thrown to the fishes.” The replies to that one pointed out that a) he was found in one piece; b) so far, only Mary Bishop had mentioned foul play; and c) the plural of “fish” is “fish.” Then the original poster said that, actually, “fishes” is correct if it’s more than one type and the thread descended into a row about which fish—or fishes—could be found in the river here.
It got back on track soon after, though, with an allegation that Lennie was a drug kingpin and James was his minion. It was an interesting idea, but judging by Lennie’s house, in comparison to James’s, unlikely.
They should track down where his phone went, an anonymous poster wrote and my heart started racing. Did they know something, or was that just the only intelligent comment we’d seen?No one goes anywhere without their phone these days.
We scrolled for a few minutes longer, until Emma announced she had to get going and thank you for the tea, she’d see herself out. A few minutes later, there was a new member on the forum, AllEars. I put away the plain digestives we’d palmed off on Emma and brought outthe Jaffa Cakes. Now that Mrs. B was back to her normal hours, I’d reinstated the decent biscuits—or cakes, in this case.
“I think she liked you,” Mrs. Billings said, helping herself to a couple. “It’ll be interesting to see her article.”
“Won’t it just?” I set up an alert on my phone forThe Western Bugle Online.
Then, we put the radio on and listened to an interview about the much-longed-for Little Beadington bypass, followed by Duran Duran, then Lady Gaga, then the national news headlines, followed by the local news, in which the local corpses, once more, were the hot topic.
This time they were talking to some kind of river specialist who was saying he could work out exactly where they had gone into the water. That would be very interesting to see, but I hoped he was wrong.
“It would be a good idea if the police set up a stall at the craft fair, asking for information,” Mrs. B said. “They could put it next to the partisan beer tent; people tell the truth when they’ve had a few.” I think she meant the artisan beer tent.
We finished our Jaffa Cakes and Mrs. Billings rose to begin her work. Between Emma and the river specialist, it had been quite a difficult morning and I was feeling a bit shaky; as I took the mugs to the sink, I knocked mine against the worktop and it broke.
“Oh,” I said. My niceMidsomer Murdersmug, with “What would Barnaby do?” written on it.
Mrs. Billings looked around. “Accidents happen with you, don’t they,” she said, and she shuffled off toward the hall. I was left wondering what was meant by that. Was it a warning? A threat? Or just a comment? I hoped, once more, that Mrs. B wasn’t going to become another loose end I had to tidy up. Not that she didn’t deserve it after her performance with Emma.
Chapter Sixteen
The police eventually finished poking around in the graveyard and the archaeology resumed. It warmed my cockles to see Arty making his way across the garden, kettle in hand. When he arrived at the backdoor, I was ready with a couple of T-shirts I’d made during the hiatus. Yet, I was nervous as I saw him approach. I didn’t know if he’d feel differently about things now that the world was abuzz with gossip about what had or hadn’t gone on here in regard to Lennie. I didn’t know if he was coming in friendship or because he had no choice if he wanted to boil the kettle. He was wearing an ordinary T-shirt—was that a sign he wanted to disassociate himself from me? I shoved the new T-shirts I’d made for him into the microwave.
I took a deep breath as I answered the door. He jumped slightly, his hand raised to knock.
“Hi,” I said. “Kettle?”
“Yes, please,” he said and I stepped back to let him in. We stoodin an awkward silence as he filled it with water and plugged it in.
“Getting on alright down there?” I asked.
“Getting back into our stride,” he said. “After the”—he paused—“break.”
It was quiet for a moment, then, “Did you see me on TV?” he asked. “I’ve never been interviewed by a journalist before. Luckily, I had one of those cravats you made, so I could dress for the occasion.”
“That was lucky.” I searched for something to say and found myself staring at his T-shirt, wondering again if there was a message in there.
He looked down, then back at me. “Everything else is in the wash,” he said. “I should buy some more clothes. Or do the washing more often.”
I took my chance. “Would this help?” I pinged open the microwave and held out the new tops. He took them off me and inspected them.
“For me? Wow! Yes, thanks.”
“It kept me busy while we were all waiting for the police to finish.”
“Yeah, did they find what they wanted?”
“I don’t know what they wanted,” I said, telling myself it wasn’t a total lie. I only had a general idea.
“Well, they’ve gone now, so hey ho, we can all go back to normal. I wouldn’t take any notice of the gossips: There’s two sides to every story.”
Which left me wondering what the gossips were saying and if Mrs. Billings could enlighten me. She probably could, but it’s often best not to ask questions you won’t like the answers to.
“Anyway, better get back to it. Will I see you down at the site soon?”
