Alfie hadn’t slept well since the conversation with Edith. He was too angry. He was angry with the father he had never known. He was angry with the aunt he could barely remember. He was angry with his mother for keeping it secret. He was angry with Liz and Marge for not telling him. And he was angry with Edith for telling him.
After a breakfast of poached eggs on toast and strong coffee, he went for a walk, and found himself passing the old wooden bench beside Frank’s Bridge, Aunt Augusta’s favourite place, overlooking the river, where she had peacefully died in her sleep. There was a plaque on it now: Augusta “Gussie” Lytton, who loved this place.
Had she loved his father as well? Or was their … relationship something more tawdry? She certainly couldn’t have loved her sister if she was capable of breaking up her marriage.
He had been going to walk past the bench, but decided that he too was entitled to sit and enjoy the view. It wasn’t sacred to the memory of Gussie Lytton.
On a whim, he took out his mobile and rang Oscar. Oscar only ever answered calls on his landline, and Alfie had got into the habit of only ringing him on Aunt Augusta’s landline. But there was no good reason for that.
Oscar had taken to answering the phone in the person of “Lane the butler” in order to deter potential cold callers. But this morning, he merely groaned: “Oscar de Linnet.”
“Morning, Oscar. It’s me.”
Another groan. “Alfie, do you have any idea what time it is?”
Alfie glanced at his watch. “To the exact minute. Do you?”
“Stupid o’clock.”
“It’s ten a.m.”
“Honestly, Alfie, since you moved to the country, you’ve been keeping the most ridiculous hours. You’re living like a farmer, not a normal person. So how are things in Boring-on-the-Wold?”
“Scarcely boring. We’ve had another murder.”
There were sounds of shifting bedlinen and Alfie deduced that Oscar was now sitting up in bed, fully awake.
“Who?” Oscar asked.
“A local property owner who made a lot of enemies through her Rachmanite tendencies. I was there when her body was discovered.” Another reason for his lack of a good night’s sleep might be the memory of what he had seen.
“How dreadful!” Oscar was possibly trying to sound sympathetic, but sounded more excited than anything else. “So where did you find the lady? In an alleyway? In the river?”
“In a beauty salon,” said Alfie.
“My dear fellow, how on earth did you come to be in a beauty salon? Don’t tell me you’ve added a beautician to your harem.”
Oscar amused himself with his fantasy creation of Alfie’s harem, which at the last count included Liz and Marge, Edith, Betty and Emma. Alfie was about to make a joke about having to replace Betty given her absence, when he felt that was somehow inappropriate. He decided to tell the truth instead.
“I was actually trying to make an appointment for a pedicure.”
Oscar’s whoop forced him to hold the phone away from his ear.
“My dear boy, I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to know that you’re keeping up standards. But I dare say they do it differently down there – I suppose they dip your feet in the river and then dry them with some sheep’s wool they’ve retrieved from nearby barbed wire.”
“The beautician is more than competent. I’m sure she’ll bring her own towels to the riverbank,” said Alfie. “Although the logistics of my pedicure wasn’t really why I was ringing.”
Oscar was immediately alert. “Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?”
“You know about my father. Leaving before I was born.”
“Yes.”
Alfie didn’t miss London, but he missed Oscar. Oscar carefully cultivated the persona of a dilettante, but he was a steadfast and supportive friend.
“And you remember I was surprised to be left Windermere Cottage because I could scarcely remember my aunt?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now I know why Aunt Augusta felt she owed me. It turns out that she and my father were having an affair.”
“Oh, Alfie. I’m so very sorry.”
After Vivian’s death, Alfie had hated every minute he stayed in London. He couldn’t bear to be alone in all the places they had been together. He had been desperate to escape somewhere that had no memories of her. He had contemplated travelling again, but that would have meant returning to their London home.
It was like a miracle when he discovered he had inherited a cottage in the Cotswolds.
“Bunburry, Windermere Cottage, it all feels tainted now,” he said bitterly. “Aunt Augusta leaving me her old home doesn’t make up for what she did.”
“Alfie. You know I wish you were in London. But moving to Bunburry was the best thing you could have done. That’s what’s helped you recover from losing Vivian. Whatever your aunt’s motives, her bequest has been exactly what you needed.”
Alfie wasn’t in a mood to be soothed. “I asked Liz and Marge about my father. They deliberately didn’t tell me about the affair.”
“Sounds to me like the action of good friends. Now that you’ve found out, you’re hurt and you’re angry. Is it any surprise they didn’t tell you?”
“I’m hurt and angry precisely because they didn’t tell me,” Alfie snapped.
“I’m sure Liz and Marge acted in what they thought was your best interests. Bunburry’s been good for you, Alfie. Don’t do anything rash.”
“I already have,” said Alfie. “I kissed Betty.” Speaking to Oscar, the question of who-kissed-whom now seemed an irrelevant detail; the kiss had happened.
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
“Did you hear me?” Alfie asked.
“I did. I was considering how to reply.”
“So, you’re shocked?” said Alfie. “You’re disappointed in me?”
Another silence. Then: “You’re in a very bleak mood today, my friend. Neither of the above. I was going to say that kissing Betty sounded delightful and I was very happy for you. But I know it can’t stop you missing Vivian.”
How could he confess to Oscar that whole days could go by now without missing Vivian? He would sound utterly callous.
“Tell me more about the Green goddess,” said Oscar unexpectedly. “I know she’s American, and an eco-warrior, and she makes you yomp up hill and down dale, but paint a picture in words for me.”
Alfie hesitated. How best to describe Betty? “She’s intelligent,” he said. “She’s kind. She’s got a wicked sense of humour. She doesn’t boast about all the things she does – I found out quite by accident that she set up an animal shelter, with funding from Aunt Augusta.”
“Interesting,” said Oscar.
“The animal shelter?”
“No, the way you describe her. The divine Oscar supposedly said: ‘It’s beauty that captures your attention; personality which captures your heart.’ You’ve told me what she’s like, you haven’t told me what she looks like.”
Was that significant? Wildean aphorisms were always witty but Oscar seemed to give them more weight than they deserved.
“I can tell you what she looks like as well,” said Alfie. “She looks like her mother, Elisabeth Thorndike.”
“No!” Oscar’s delight was almost palpable, even at seventy miles’ distance.
“I’d never heard of Elisabeth Thorndike,” said Alfie. “I still have no idea who she is, apart from being told that she was a supermodel decades ago. So, she really is famous?”
“Alfie, Alfie, Alfie. Your horizons have been severely limited. Yes, Elisabeth Thorndike really is famous. You can’t have missed that famous photograph of her that you see everywhere.”
Alfie thought back to what Liz and Marge had described. “The one of her in profile, wearing a ballgown?”
“Thank goodness. You had me worried there for a moment – I honestly believed it when you said you didn’t know who she was.”
“I don’t, and I’ve never seen the photograph. But it seems to be well-known in Bunburry.”
“Alfie, it’s well-known across the globe. Elisabeth Thorndike was an absolute stunner. I’m looking forward to meeting this girl of yours.”
“You’d better not call her a girl,” said Alfie drily. “She’s a fully paid-up feminist.”
“Feminists love me,” said Oscar. “I impress them with a wide range of quotes from the divine Oscar, such as ‘A man’s face is his autobiography. A woman’s face is her work of fiction.’”
“I can see you and Betty are going to get along so well,” said Alfie. “Just as long as you never meet or talk to each other.”
There was an exclamation of alarm from Oscar. “Is that the time? I’ve got a lunch engagement in less than two hours – I must get up. But please do get in touch as soon as you know who the murderer is.” With that, he rang off.
Alfie got up from the wooden bench and stretched to get his blood circulating properly – the summer warmth had gone and he felt chilly after sitting so long. Marge told him he didn’t have enough fat on him to keep out the cold, and that he needed to eat more. But after Vivian’s death, he became indifferent to food, often missing meals, and rarely cooking anything more complicated than scrambled eggs.
Cooking had been one of his hobbies, and his enthusiasm was returning with the turn-about dinners with Liz and Marge. As he started to walk back to the village along the riverbank, he acknowledged that Oscar was right. They had his best interests at heart. When he asked them about his father, Liz had silenced Marge with a warning look and a shake of the head. She had acted out of kindness, nothing else.
Over the months he had been in Bunburry, he had gained huge respect for her good sense. And the more he thought about it, the more Liz’s theory became likely, that Debbie had manipulated the whole scene.
Who was the murderer? Why did he think Eve Mosby had been murdered? Because Debbie had said so. She’s dead – she’s been murdered.
Oscar had quoted Wilde’s remark that women’s faces were a work of fiction. Not if they were like Betty, enhancement-free. Alfie thought back to what Betty had said during their dinner: It’s crazy, the things women do because they’re scared of the ageing process.
If Debbie had staged the murder scene, then Emma was right - there had been no murder, simply a tragic accident.
The injection to stave off the effects of the passing years had gone horribly wrong, and Debbie had vandalised her own salon to make it look as though there had been a fight. Rakesh didn’t even need to be involved – there would be nothing surprising about Debbie’s fingerprints on anything in the salon.
Then she had gone out wandering the streets with Perro until she bumped into a suitable witness. Even though Alfie had been unwittingly drawn into her plan, he felt a pang of compassion for the young therapist. The salon was still closed because of the police activity, but the village gossip was that you took your life in your hands if you visited it.
It was possible that Debbie would avoid being prosecuted, but it would certainly be the end of her business. It looked as though he would have to abandon his dream of a pedicure.
Right on cue, his little toe began to protest. He wasn’t wearing his light, comfortable Italian shoes but the heavy walking boots Betty had insisted on him buying. But he had forgotten to put on the chunky woollen socks she had also insisted on. Instead, he was in his usual silk socks which meant his feet were slipping around in the boots, and his toe was getting uncomfortably rubbed.
The tea-room. That would be a welcome sit-down, and he looked forward to the promised chat with Theresa. They each understood what the other had gone through, losing the person closest to them in a sudden accident. He might even be able to talk to her about Vivian, and how guilty he felt about what had happened with Betty. He had a feeling she would be a sympathetic sounding-post.
But instead, he found two sounding-posts.