‘May I offer you a glass of prosecco?’ Claudette Penze-Weedell said.
‘Well,’ Jason replied, hesitantly, as he sat beside Emily on a white velour sofa. He would have preferred a large gin and tonic, or a whisky, or just about anything else. But the ghastly woman was already advancing towards them, with two sparkly pink-tinted glasses with gold stems, filled to the brim with a bubbly substance.
‘It was an absolute bargain, this fizz,’ she said. ‘On special offer – not that Maurice and I would ever buy something on price. But this is so delicious.’ She gave them a knowing look. ‘Simply kicks any champagne into touch, don’t you agree?’
Jason sipped. It was particularly dry and tasteless. ‘Absolutely,’ he said.
Emily sipped and agreed, too. He could almost hear the sound of her gritted teeth.
The detritus of Christmas lay around. Balls of wrapping paper; the fake Christmas tree with just a couple of unclaimed gifts lying beneath it. The mantelpiece above the fake fire lined with cards, with more cards on shelves and on a string across the end wall.
‘Fill your boots!’ Maurice encouraged. ‘You don’t have far to drive home, do you, ha ha!’
‘So, did you have a nice day yesterday?’ Emily asked.
‘Oh we did, yes,’ Claudette replied. ‘Sixteen for Christmas lunch. Although I suppose you, with your catering business, Emily, would take that in your stride.’ She hurried out of the room.
Maurice leaned over towards them, conspiratorially. ‘High Command managed to burn the turkey. Left it in the oven too long. Burned to a crisp, the skin was. Bit of a disaster, actually. You had a good day, did you?’
‘We had the outlaws,’ Jason said.
‘Outlaws, ha ha! Had mine, too. They left a few minutes before we murdered them, ha ha.’ He looked at Emily. ‘I’ll bet you’re a wonderful cook.’
‘She is,’ Jason said.
‘I’ll bet she is!’
Emily was staring at something across the room and didn’t appear to hear either of them.
‘I’ll bet you another thing – that your turkey was perfect, eh?’ Maurice said. ‘Not cremated?’
Jason answered for her. ‘It was, thanks. But now she’s fretting because she’s got a wedding anniversary to cater for in a couple of days: eighty people. They want prawn cocktails for starters. Can you imagine making eighty prawn cocktails? The amazing thing is she never gets flustered!’
‘I could eat the lot!’ Maurice Penze-Weedell said. ‘Love prawn cocktails, I do. Know what they say about the perfect wife?’ he said to Jason.
‘I do. If I’m thinking what you’re about to say, don’t even go there.’
‘Maurice, don’t you dare!’ Claudette silenced him in his tracks, returning with a tray of plates stacked with sausage rolls, mince pies, cheese and pineapple sticks, and crisps. She set it down on the table.
Maurice reached out and stuffed a sausage roll in his mouth.
‘You’ll have to forgive my husband,’ she said, shoving an entire mince pie into her own mouth. Spraying flakes of pastry, she added, ‘He’s such a gannet.’
‘I wanted to ask you something,’ Maurice said, looking at their guests. ‘You’ve been here just on a fortnight, and we’ve been a few weeks longer. Have you noticed anything strange, at all? You know, anything out of the ordinary?’
‘Maurice!’ his wife said, sharply, again.
‘Strange?’ Jason queried.
‘A chap wandering down the street, outside, at night, smoking a cigar?’
‘This is utter rubbish!’ Claudette said, sitting down on the opposite, matching sofa, alongside her husband, and grabbing another mince pie, as if scared they would be gone. ‘This is a complete invention by my husband to explain why he comes home every night after his constitutional – which is meant to be his evening walk on his doctor’s orders – reeking of tobacco smoke.’
‘Utter rubbish, my love? Aren’t you forgetting something? Only a week ago you ran out of the house after thinking you saw someone upstairs – smoking a cigar!’ He looked at Jason and Emily. ‘She was out in the cold, freezing.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Claudette said. ‘Let’s talk about something more cheerful. What are you both doing on New Year’s Eve? Perhaps we could celebrate together?’
Jason shot a warning glance at Emily. ‘I’m afraid we are already committed.’
‘My love, I don’t think we should ignore the issue of something strange going on,’ Maurice said. He looked, quizzically, at Jason, then Emily.
‘The only thing I’ve noticed is some people, from time to time, in the house next door to you. Number thirty-four,’ Jason replied.
‘Oh, we’ve seen them too,’ Claudette said. ‘The sister and brother-in-law of the couple who were so tragically killed. Maurice and I have chatted with them, such a lovely family. They’re executors of the estate, sorting everything out.’
‘Ah, right,’ Jason said, feeling mightily relieved. ‘I’m afraid I’ve not seen Mr Cigar Man close up.’
‘Of course you haven’t.’ She turned and glared at her husband. ‘I’m afraid, my love, your little lie’s been caught out.’
‘He’s there every evening,’ her husband said, defensively.
‘Of course he is. How convenient, he’s there just so you can smoke your cigarette, and don’t tell me you don’t have any; I’ve checked your coat pocket every day, and every day there is one cigarette less in the packet.’
She turned, sweetly, to the Daneses. ‘Oh dear, your glasses look almost empty. Some more bubbles?’
Jason looked down and saw, to his surprise, that both his and Emily’s glasses were drained. Emily was still staring, distracted, at something on the far side of the room. Before they had a chance to refuse, they were topped up to the brim, and Claudette bustled out of the room to fetch another bottle.
‘He is there,’ Maurice said. ‘Every time I go out, I see him across the road, standing beneath a street light. But when I try to chat to him, he buggers off. Are you sure you haven’t seen him?’
Jason shook his head.
‘Claudette is convinced I’m making him up, but I’m not.’ He shrugged. ‘Damned queer fellow, that’s all I can say. Downright rude; I instantly thought he must be from one of those affordable houses somewhere else on the estate, but of course they haven’t been built yet.’
Jason raised his glass, awkwardly. ‘Well, cheers, Happy Christmas!’
‘Happy Christmas to our famous neighbours!’ Claudette said, coming back in with a freshly opened bottle. ‘I think we’re going to be really good friends. Maurice and I were only just saying how lucky we are to have such wonderful neighbours.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Jason said, politely, raising his glass, and realizing it was empty. As was Emily’s.
Once again, they were topped up.
Emily pointed across the room. ‘Such a lovely piece, that!’
Jason followed the direction of her hand, as did both their neighbours. She was pointing at a walnut display cabinet. Behind its glass windows were several Capodimonte figurines: a pair of dancers in Regency costumes, a cobbler in a vest mending a pair of shoes and a tramp in a floppy hat seated on a bench with a bottle in his hand. On a separate shelf, as if in pride of place, was a porcelain donkey wearing a straw sombrero, and with a quartz clock set in its belly.
‘Capodimonte!’ Claudette exclaimed. ‘Maurice and I collect it, you know,’ she said proudly.
‘So very tasteful,’ Emily said, with sarcasm so thinly veiled Jason wanted to kick her. She’d clearly drunk too much.
‘So glad you like them!’
‘I particularly love the donkey,’ she went on.
‘Do you know, Maurice and I were watching Antiques Roadshow recently, and there was one, almost identical to that, which was valued at twenty thousand pounds. Can you believe it?’
‘My love,’ her husband corrected her. ‘It was a Victorian racehorse, not a donkey, that was valued so highly.’
‘So? Your point is?’ she rounded on him.
‘They are somewhat different pieces.’
‘My point is, my love, that our donkey is in the same style, exactly.’
‘Perhaps,’ Maurice said, dubiously. ‘But I think if you consult any antiques guide, you will find that quartz clocks had not been invented in the Victorian era.’
‘Where did you get such a lovely piece?’ Emily asked.
‘You won’t believe it!’ Claudette said, proudly. ‘We bought it in a charity shop in Brighton. Quite a find, wouldn’t you say!’
‘Oh yes,’ Emily replied. ‘Quite a find. Clever you!’
‘Tell Maurice! I paid ten pounds for it and he chided me for wasting money. Can you believe it? It was one of my fiftieth birthday presents to myself.’
‘No,’ Emily said. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Your fiftieth birthday?’ Jason said, disguising his cynicism well. The woman looked closer to sixty. ‘No way are you fifty!’
‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’ Claudette said. ‘Maurice tells me I don’t look a day over thirty-five.’
‘You don’t!’ Jason said.
‘I’ll be fifty-five next birthday,’ Maurice boasted.
He looked closer to seventy, Jason thought. ‘I’d never have believed it!’
‘Everything in moderation!’ Maurice said. ‘That’s the secret!’
Two more refills later, Jason and Emily finally made their escape, walking tipsily across the road.
They said nothing to each other until they were back in their house and safely out of earshot.