VALERIE

Sitting in Tregethlan Manor’s kitchen, a high-beamed room with a smell of something having recently burned in the Aga, Valerie Williams reflects on how she came to be here. Her delight earlier in the day at having found such an ideal place for her house hunt had turned to confusion when, after a pleasant afternoon at the fair, she found herself in an old farmhouse B&B with a hysterical woman speaking Dutch, and two dead bodies upstairs. Now, later in the evening, she is sitting in the neighbouring manor house, wrapped in her dressing gown, with no idea what is going on.

Valerie had left home early for the drive from Bristol to south Cornwall, intent on exploring the area around a village called Trevow. A country dweller at heart, she has lived in the city for much of her adult life. Now in her late forties, she longs to move west and swap the classroom for sea air and green fields, but first she has to convince her husband Derek and their two sons, who are away at university. The quest to find the right place, a village with some life to it and access to the coast, is her first step.

It should have been so simple. At around noon Valerie pulled into the side of a country lane jig-sawed by sunlight and shadows to gauge her surroundings on the map. She was on the outskirts of Trevow, sited on the banks of a wooded creek. She looked about her. A Bed and Breakfast sign at the roadside pointed up a narrow turning to her left which led across fields to a farmhouse. Beyond the farm and outbuildings stood the graceful outline of a manor house perched on high land above the village. Ahead of her the road wound down to the centre of the village.

Valerie drove slowly forward, taking in every detail. Large, detached houses on either side of the road gave way to more modest family homes and bungalows, their neat gardens bursting with exotic varieties. She stared in wonder at the boats parked in people’s front drives.

She drove past the entrance to a school extended with portacabins and drew the Volvo to a halt beside a Methodist Chapel. Opposite stood an old forge displaying a For Sale sign. Ahead of her Pascoe’s village shop, the Post Office, a hardware store and a hairdresser all stood in a row. Enough to keep us going when we can’t get into town, she thought. At the bottom of the hill was a pub, The Clipper, with gardens running beside the River Glas.

Valerie followed the road across an old stone bridge spanning the river, then up past the church. She smiled at a sign for Lovers Lane, a path leading up through woodland, lined with bluebells, primroses, wild garlic and campions. She could just see the glint of a stream. Beyond the Old Vicarage were what seemed to be some allotments after which the lane led down to a boatyard. Valerie stopped to check the map again, then turned back to explore the rest of the village.

She paused at crossroads. The village was quiet. There was no one at the bus stop. It was as if everyone was somewhere else. To her right the road led up past some houses to an imposing set of gates. Beyond them was a carriage sweep across parkland to the Manor. She turned down to the left, past a GP’s surgery and the gnarled trunk of an oak tree. She peered at a plaque embedded in its bark: ‘Planted to commemorate the Battle of Trafalgar.’ There was a bright modern building as well, with a sign that said ‘Trevow Community Hall’. A noticeboard advertised a sewing club, musical evenings, yoga, and a summer fair on today’s date. That sounds fun, thought Valerie.

The road led past more houses and back down to the water’s edge where she stopped once more, next to the remnant of an old lime kiln. Seagulls shrieked and swooped overhead like confetti and the high tide glinted azure blue. To her right was a small, shingle beach and across the estuary she glimpsed another sliver of beach accessible only from the water. A well-worn path led towards moorings where a variety of boats lay alongside an old quay, wading birds picking their way along the water’s edge.

Windows open, she sat breathing in the sea air: pure ozone. Valerie felt her shoulders relax. She just needed to find the perfect house.

That had all been earlier. The summer evening has faded and rain spatters at the kitchen windows. Valerie opens her mobile phone and texts her husband Derek.

• Hi sorry no contact earlier no signal.

He answers straight away: Was wondering why I hadn’t heard from you.

• It’s been awful I don’t even know where to start
• What’s happened???
• I’m fine. Found lovely B&B but owners are dead!!!
• What?

Valerie does not reply.

Derek tries again. – What d’you mean??

• Dead as in not alive anymore!! The owners were dead in their bedroom when I arrived.!!
• Why were you in their bedroom?
• I wasn’t on my own – well I was when I arrived – obviously — but a career was here with them.
• …
• CARER
• Not making sense love. Can you talk?
• no signal
• Great. Where are you? Are you on your own?
• I’m OK but the lady I’m with isn’t. She’s in a state. The emergency services are coming and now we’re in the big house x
• you mean they’ve only just died? Both of them? What on earths going on?
• Don’t know how long since they died- but yes they ARE BOTH DEAD.
• Christ! – You mean the bodies are there? Have they been murdered?
• YYES THE BIDIES WERE IN THE B&B!?!!!!
• I can be with you in 3 hours. Christ I can’t believe this. Let me know where you are!
• No it’s ok – don’t come – theresnothing you can do – speak later!?!x
• Ring me!!
• 👍 👍

Valerie breaks off. Anneke has appeared at the kitchen door as pale as a ghost and with eyes swollen from crying.

‘Mrs C wants her night tray,’ she says. She places a saucepan of milk on the Aga to warm, then lays a lace-edged place mat on an oval mahogany tray. Valerie ignores the bleeps from her phone as Derek texts again. She watches as Anneke spoons powdered chocolate into a china cup etched with gold leaf.

‘This is the most important thing,’ Anneke laughs without mirth, and reaches into the dresser for a bottle of Cognac. ‘For you too?’ she says, waving the bottle in Valerie’s direction. Before Valerie can respond, she pours generous measures into three cut glass brandy balloons and pushes one along the table in Valerie’s direction.

‘Good for shock,’ says Anneke, throwing back her head as she swallows the spirit. She gasps, grimaces, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She pours the hot milk into the cup, stirs the hot chocolate briskly and places a glass of brandy on the tray. Valerie wonders whether to help her as she opens the kitchen door with one hand while holding the tray in the other, but Anneke keeps her balance with fierce concentration. The teaspoon clinks in the saucer as she disappears away down the hallway.

Valerie’s phone bleeps yet again. She takes a long sip of brandy and picks up the

mobile. WhatsApp shows a string of her husband’s increasingly desperate texts.

• WHERE ARE YOU?!

Before she can answer, the backdoor is flung open, ricocheting with a crash against

the kitchen wall. Valerie’s glass hits the flag-stoned floor, splintering into tiny shards across the room. A rangy woman explodes into the room and stops dead on seeing her.

Valerie recognises the bat petition woman from the fair. She is dishevelled and her black walking boots trail mud into the room, her long cotton sun dress clinging damply to her legs. Valerie is unsure whether the boots are a fashion statement or flamboyant practicality. She notices a crumpled brown envelope clutched in the woman’s hand.

‘Mind the glass,’ cries Valerie, looking around for something with which to sweep it up. The woman stares at her. Valerie says, ‘If you are looking for Anneke…’

‘I suppose she is running around after Mother.’ The woman eyes the brandy bottle on the table. ‘She might at least have given her the evening off.’

‘They both seem very distressed,’ says Valerie. ‘Your mother – ‘

‘Guilt can do that,’ says the woman, hanging her shabby waxed jacket on the back of the kitchen door. ‘Who are you, and what are you doing in my mother’s kitchen drinking her cognac?’

She does not wait for an answer but leaves the room abruptly, slamming the door behind her. Valerie hears the boots stomping upstairs, a door being opened and slammed shut again, then indistinct raised voices. The phone bleeps again. Derek has not given up but before she can answer she hears the boots storming back down the stairs. The kitchen door is flung open and the tall woman, face like thunder, strides in. She is no longer holding the envelope.

‘Are you alright?’ asks Valerie.

The woman stands for a moment as if in a daze, then says: ‘Have we met?’

Valerie is about to explain that she signed the petition earlier that afternoon, but the woman yanks her jacket from the backdoor hook and leaves the way she came out into the rain.

Valerie texts Derek:

– Long story.

Chapter 4