“The police are coming,” Mum’s voice shrieked on the other end of the line.
Once again I’d spent a miserable night, only this time I was stiff from sleeping on the sofa. My neck was killing me.
“I told you you’re on your own on this one.”
“It’ll be Shawn. He likes you. You like him.”
And that was all the reason for me to stay away. He was the last person I wanted to see after my humiliation of the night before.
“Please,” Mum said. “I promise I won’t ask you to do anything like this ever again.”
“This makes me all the more suspicious, but alright. Put the kettle on and I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Can’t you get here sooner? Why twenty minutes?”
Of course I’d left my car at the gatehouse “It’s too complicated to explain,” I said. “Did you find out if Muriel is okay?”
But Mum had already hung up the phone.
I was about to pull on a pair of jeans when I remembered that Saturday mornings I usually rode out with Harry. I put on jodhpurs instead. They were quite a struggle to get into. I had to lie flat on the floor to get the zipper all the way up to the top. I really needed to go on a diet. Fortunately, the polo shirt was long, so I wore that tucked out rather than in. On an impulse, I put on mascara and a dab of lipstick, then brushed my hair. I slipped my slumber net into my pocket. Shawn and I might well be finished before we began, but I didn’t want him to think I was a complete slattern.
As I strode into the kitchen Mum gave me a knowing look. “Makeup for Shawn?”
“Pearls for Shawn?” She was wearing a smart Marks & Spencer dress that looked as if she were about to open the village fete. “Where’s Alfred?” I demanded.
“I told him to stay away.” Mum looked worried. “Why would the police want to talk to me?”
“Well, we’ll soon find out why, won’t we? I’m going to have some toast.”
“One piece, Katherine,” she said. “Judging by the state of your jodhpurs, I don’t think they could accommodate two.”
I busied myself in the kitchen and made some tea and toast—two pieces—whilst my mother paced about the room.
“And make a cup of tea for Shawn,” said Mum. “Give him the Duke of Edinburgh mug—the nice one. We need to soften him up.”
“Soften who up?” came the familiar voice of Detective Inspector Shawn Cropper.
Mum and I both gave a guilty start.
Shawn looked terrible. Dark rings sat beneath his eyes. He seemed exhausted. As he was wearing his trench coat over his uniform trousers, shirt and tie, this was clearly an official visit, and this official visit was marked by his trademark plastic shopping bag that always seemed to contain incriminating evidence.
He barely gave me a nod of acknowledgment. My stomach was in knots. It was most unlike me. It wasn’t as if anything had happened between Piers and myself apart from that electrifying kiss, but—judging by Shawn’s haggard appearance—it was obvious that something had happened between Shawn and his pretty young strawberry blonde.
“You left the door open, Iris,” said Shawn. “And you want to be careful. With the upcoming Skirmish there are a lot of strangers in the vicinity. Kat, I hope you have an alarm installed at the gatehouses.”
“They’re installing them next week,” I said.
“Working on a Saturday, Officer?” Mum beamed. “And all alone? Coffee? Tea? Me? That was a joke.” Mum laughed and showed too many teeth. “Alfred’s not here.”
“Why do you think I need to talk to Alfred?” said Shawn.
“D-d-don’t you?” Mum stammered. “I mean. I thought you might want to … talk to everyone who knows Muriel.”
“What about Muriel?”
Mum’s jaw dropped. “Well … I heard … I heard she had tried to commit suicide.”
“Suicide?” said Shawn sharply.
“What with losing her Fred,” Mum went on. “And the money for the re-enactment. I heard she was worried she was going to be evicted by his lordship.”
“Who told you that she had tried to commit suicide?” Shawn demanded.
Mum looked to me for help. I just shrugged.
“Violet Green,” Mum said wildly.
“Violet Green?” said Shawn.
“From the tearoom.” Mum nodded furiously. “That’s right. As you know, she lives next door to Muriel. I suppose she found her.”
“Mum, the ambulance—”
“Ambulance, you say?” Shawn whipped out his notepad and pencil.
“Ignore Katherine; she doesn’t know what she is talking about.”
“You were right, though,” said Shawn. “It was Violet Green who found Muriel.”
“Good.” Mum nodded.
Shawn gave her a look I couldn’t fathom. “There was another break-in last night.”
“Really? Wh-h-atever f-f-or?” Mum gave a hollow laugh. “What was taken this time?”
“Nothing was taken from the post office or the general store.”
“How odd,” Mum said.
“That’s what I thought until I found this.”
Shawn brandished his plastic shopping bag.
“Here we go,” Mum muttered under her breath.
Shawn donned disposable gloves and withdrew one of his much beloved Ziploc bags that contained a folded piece of paper covered in type. He smoothed it out on the kitchen table. “Does this look familiar, Iris?”
Even I could see the traces of jam smudged in the margin.
Mum looked to me in a panic.
Shawn pointed to the top of the paper where the name Storm/Ravished was typed in boldface. “I believe this belongs to you.”
“Why?” Mum whispered.
“Seriously, Iris?” Shawn rolled his eyes. “You want to play the ignorance card again? Just tell me the truth. Do you recognize this extract from your novel?”
“What page number is it?”
“Page fifty-nine.”
“Is that the scene where the squire takes the vicar’s daughter into the stables—?”
“Yes.” Shawn’s cheeks flushed a little, but he steadily met her gaze. “Judging by the contents of that one page, I would like to congratulate you on the title. It’s a good choice.”
“Thank you,” said Mum. “It was a toss between Conquered and Ravished, but I thought that Ravished had more pizzazz.”
“Oh, Iris, what am I going to do with you,” Shawn said with a weary sigh. “You know very well that I am aware of who you really are. I am also aware of your desire for utmost secrecy, and that is why I have come here alone. You can’t carry on like this.”
“I couldn’t agree more!” I exclaimed.
Mum looked miserable. “I don’t know who knows about me and who doesn’t anymore. I get so confused.”
“I can’t vouch for the officers at other Devon & Cornwall Constabulary stations, but I can assure you that our satellite office has kept quiet. And I’m confident that those at the Hall are far too terrified of the dowager countess to let the cat out of the bag. But the truth now—did Muriel Jarvis find out?”
Mum opened her mouth and shut it again.
Shawn frowned. “This page was found in Muriel’s sitting room under the sofa. I put it to you that you went back there to look for it. This is obviously a page from your manuscript and—given the typos and Wite-Out—I suggest it has not yet been published and is therefore of the utmost value to you.”
Again, Mum stayed silent. She had absolutely no defense whatsoever.
“Mum,” I said finally. “Please … can’t you be honest for once?”
My mother took a deep breath. “Oh alright. It’s true. Ravished is my latest novel and you are quite right, it has not been published—you’re such a clever detective.”
“And?” Shawn prompted.
“I have a horrible new editor who doesn’t like me very much. When she told me that the manuscript arrived with pages—a page actually—missing, I was very upset.”
Shawn picked up the sheet of paper and inspected it closely. “This was written on an old typewriter.”
“Yes. I always use my late husband’s Olivetti,” said Mum.
“Don’t you use a computer?”
“No.”
“So this page here—” Shawn flapped it at my mother. “Is the original? It’s not a carbon copy? Presumably there is a copy of the entire manuscript somewhere?”
“No, there isn’t,” I chimed in.
“Now don’t you nag me, too,” said Mum. “When I got a phone call telling me that the book never arrived, of course Katherine here—tell him, Kat—”
“I tracked the package,” I said. “It never left Little Dipperton post office. I asked Muriel. She swore she’d sent it. The next day the package arrived minus the pages.”
“Pages?” said Shawn sharply.
“Page!” Mum put in. “Page, Katherine. Page!”
Ignoring my mother’s eyebrow gymnastics that were clearly telling me to keep quiet about Alfred’s nighttime mission, I told Shawn what I could.
“So if this sheet of paper is missing in the manuscript, it would be a great loss to the story.”
“But it’s not missing,” said Mum brightly. “You found it!”
“Look, Iris, we know that Muriel had a habit of opening everybody’s post.”
“You knew?” Mum and I chorused.
“Everyone in the village knew that, but no one could ever prove it. No checks were ever reported stolen and the post might well be slow, but it always reached its destination in the end.”
“That’s disgusting!” Mum fumed. “I hope you’re going to press charges!”
“You have a lot to lose, Mrs. Stanford.” Shawn’s voice hardened. Whenever Shawn dropped the friendly “Iris” and substituted “Mrs. Stanford,” he meant business. “Did she ever attempt to blackmail you?”
Mum’s jaw dropped. “Blackmail!” I could practically hear the cogs in my mother’s brain turning.
“Where were you last night?” Shawn demanded.
“Alfred and I were home playing Snap,” said Mum.
Shawn’s eyes narrowed. “Alfred Bushman was with you?”
“Yes.”
“Now that is interesting,” said Shawn. “Because according to Lady Lavinia, Alfred spent the evening with her caring for a sick horse.”
“That’s right,” said Mum quickly. “And then he came over for a quick game of Snap, didn’t he, Katherine?”
“I don’t think your daughter will be able to help you, Mrs. Stanford,” Shawn said coldly. “She was otherwise engaged all night.”
“It wasn’t all night,” I protested. “It was just dinner.”
“Dinner with a certain Roger Matthews. Food critic of the Air France in-flight magazine?” Shawn’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.
My heart sank. Shawn had confirmed my worst fears. He knew everything.
Mum rounded on me. “Who is Roger Matthews?”
“I’ll explain later,” I said wearily.
“Did you go to the post office last night, Mrs. Stanford?” Shawn asked.
“No. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“I’m sorry, but what is really going on here?” I exclaimed. “I thought you said that Muriel was going to be okay.”
“I said nothing of the sort,” Shawn exclaimed. “I just said she didn’t commit suicide. Muriel Jarvis was murdered.”