Arthur Latham stood on the doorstep, dressed in his gardening clothes, a pair of well-used secateurs clutched in his hand. He had telephoned earlier that morning to tell Beth he was coming to deadhead her roses. She had already boiled the kettle. “Cup of tea before you make a start?” she asked him brightly. Tea seemed to be their shared method of connection. Tea and gossip.
“That would be splendid,” he said, settling himself at the kitchen table.
“How’s Gwen?” Beth asked, as she dropped a tea bag into each of the mugs.
Latham frowned. “Not too good today actually. She has them, you know. Bad days. She sends her love though.”
“Well, tell her if there’s anything she needs…”
“You’re very kind,” Latham said. “I can’t tell you what a relief if is to have such a lovely neighbor.”
Beth smiled, and put a mug of tea down on the table in front of him.
“So you didn’t have such a friendly relationship with Dolores Franklin?”
Latham smiled ruefully. “Nothing like. I think I told you before.”
“But you still picked her up and took her to the station.”
Latham shrugged. “What can I say? I suppose the age of chivalry isn’t dead.”
“I think it’s because basically you’re a decent man.”
“I like to think so…at least, I try.”
“Did you actually see her onto the train?”
“Good God, no! A couple of tearaways were at the station. They appeared to be waiting for her, so I just dropped her off outside and drove away.”
“I see,” Beth said, and then, “Drink your tea, Arthur. It’s getting cold.”
Latham picked up the mug and put it to his lips, all the while staring at her over the rim. “Why do you ask?” he said after a while. “Those weren’t casual questions.”
Beth avoided his eyes. What she was about to say seemed preposterous now in the comfort of her kitchen. But she’d decided to level with Latham and she wasn’t going back on her decision. “Because…” she said. “…because I don’t think she caught a train.”
“But she said that was her intention.”
“And I’m sure she meant it when she said it. But I don’t think Dolores Franklin ever left the area. I think she came back to Stillwater…and I think she’s still here.”
Latham took a gulp of tea. “That’s pretty far-fetched, Beth. I never saw her again after I dropped her off. And I don’t think anyone in the village did either.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean she caught a train out of here,” Beth said.
“So what does it mean?”
“You dropped her at the station. She met with two of her young men. They persuaded her not to go, so she came back here.” Beth picked up her mug and drained the tea. Her mouth was dry. As she spoke it was as if the saliva was being sucked back into the glands. “I’m going to make another one,” she said, gesturing to her empty mug.
“I think I’ll join you,” Latham said.
There was an uneasy silence in the room, while Arthur Latham tried to digest what Beth was suggesting. As she finished pouring water into the mugs he said, “So what do you think happened to her once she came back here?”
Beth turned to look at him, meeting his eyes, letting him see the seriousness in hers. “I think she was killed.” She could see by his reaction that this rocked Latham, even though he had probably guessed where Beth might be going with this. “Killed? Who by?”
She ignored the question for a moment, but said, “I saw Jessica Franklin yesterday. She visited me when I was working in the office.”
Latham waited until she had made the tea, and then took the two mugs across to the table. Finally he said, “You realize that if it were anyone else telling me this, I’d be calling for the men in the white coats.”
She smiled. “Yes, I understand that. And if I were talking to anyone other than you I wouldn’t be mentioning it. It’s been hard enough wrapping my own head around it, never mind expecting you to. But it’s true. Jessica came calling, and she was as real to me as you are sitting there…well, almost. She seemed to be fading in and out.”
“What did she want?”
Beth inhaled deeply, and told Arthur Latham what had happened with Jessica yesterday, and what the girl had shown her.
By the time Latham picked up his mug, the tea was lukewarm. He drank it anyway.
“So? What do you think?” Beth said.
“I think I should get out there and deadhead those roses.”
“I didn’t imagine it,” Beth said, her temper flaring slightly.
Latham sighed. “I didn’t say you had.”
“But?”
“I don’t see where you can take your theory. You tell it to the police and, more likely than not, they’ll book you for wasting their time.”
“But Jessica showed me for a reason. She must feel there’s something I can do.”
“Then it’s a pity she didn’t tell you.”
She could tell he was being kind to her, but she still found his indifference infuriating.
She was about to snap at him, but reined in her feelings, and held them in check. It wasn’t Arthur’s fault if he was having difficulty swallowing her story. A week ago she would have reacted the same way. It was living here and experiencing what she had. She felt now that her senses were highly tuned, zinging, like overtightened piano strings.
“Okay,” she said. “I take your point. But you have to admit it’s a mystery.”
“Yes,” Latham conceded. “It is that. Why don’t you write about it? After all, it’s what you do.”
“I write fiction,” she said. “Besides, I’m a few chapters into the new novel. I don’t want to jinx it by starting something else. Especially something that has no conclusion. A book about a mystery can only succeed if the mystery can be resolved and, at the moment, there is no resolution. Not that I can see anyway.”
“Then put all this from your mind and go back to the novel you are working on.”
She suddenly thought of a dozen reasons why she couldn’t do that, but knew she’d be wasting her time telling Arthur Latham.
“Well, thanks for listening,” she said.
“I’ve always got time to listen to the outpourings of a creative mind,” he said. “Now, I must get to those roses.” He stood and walked to the back door. “As I said, go back to your novel. Gwen can’t wait to read it.”
Beth waited for him to close the door, drained the dregs of her tea from her mug, and picked up her cell phone.
“Falmer’s, James Bartlett speaking. How can I help?”
“James, it’s Beth. Could you come over? I could come to you but parking’s a bit of a pain.”
“Beth, great to hear from you.” There seemed to be genuine delight in his voice. “Is it a problem? Can I deal with it now, on the phone?”
“Are you too busy to come out?” she said. “I’d rather speak face-to-face.”
“That sounds ominous. Let me check the diary.” There was a short silence on the other end of the line. “I can be with you at three. Is that okay?”
“That’s great,” she said.
“And not a clue why you want to see me?”
“I’d rather discuss it face-to-face.”
“You know how to keep someone in suspense.”
“Sorry, James. It’s not earth-shattering. More of a chat really. See you at three.” She rang off, rolled herself across to the back door and looked out at the garden.
Arthur Latham was standing in the middle of the flowerbed, the stem of a rose in one hand, secateurs in the other. As she watched, he snipped off a wilted bloom, and dropped it in a plastic bowl at his feet, a look of complete contentment on his face.
When James arrived at the stroke of three, Arthur Latham had finished his pruning, filled Teddy’s empty grave, and taken himself off home to Gwen. He hadn’t mentioned Dolores Franklin again.
“You’re very punctual,” Beth said, as she let James into the house.
“Is that a problem?”
She shook her head. “Just rare these days.”
He walked through the house, and sat down on one of the sofas. He declined her offer of coffee, sitting on the edge of the chesterfield, as if readying himself for a quick getaway.
“Are you in a rush?” she asked.
“Not especially. What’s the problem?”
“I didn’t say I had one. I just said I needed to speak to you.”
“Right, you did.”
There was something about his manner she found unsettling. It was as if he was here under sufferance. When he glanced at his wristwatch it reinforced what she was thinking.
“Look, if this is inconvenient you only have to say.”
His cheeks flushed slightly and he looked away. “It’s no problem, honestly.”
“That’s not what your body language is telling me. You look as if you can’t wait to be out of here.”
“Really, sorry. That’s not how I feel. Ever since you phoned I’ve been watching the clock, waiting until I could get over here.”
She frowned as she drew her wheelchair up to face him. “You mean that, don’t you?”
He nodded. “I can’t pretend any more. This whole agent/client thing I’ve been playing is a sham. I’m just using it as an excuse to see you.”
Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.
“Ever since that first day I’ve found myself drawn to you. It’s unprofessional and probably you find it unwelcome, but I can’t help how I feel about you, and I can’t hide those feelings any longer. So, if you want me to go I will, but I had to tell you or I’d spend the rest of my life kicking myself.”
Beth remained silent, but her mind was reeling. She hadn’t been expecting this and after her vision of the other night—her reaction to his seduction—she suddenly felt scared.
The silence dragged on, and the tension crackled in the air between them.
Finally he said, “For Christ’s sake say something, even if it’s ‘get out’.”
What she said was simple. “Kiss me.”
He moved from the sofa, knelt down, and then he reached out and took her head in his hands, bringing his face down to meet her lips.