A Move to Murder: A Bride's Bay Mystery Page 8

  Monday afternoon. Tea and Chat was going well and the presence of Carol, who was very well liked, prevented any gossip about the latest “common denominator”. She was circulating, smiling and chatting as though everything in her life was rosy. Gina and Beth, watching from the kitchen serving hatch, marvelled.

  “I’m glad she’s here though, better than staying indoors worrying.” Gina, elegant as usual in a pair of slim fitting navy trousers with a navy and white striped boat neck top, topped up the teapot from the urn.

  “Hmmm. Definitely. How was she yesterday after church?”

  Gina shrugged. “Same as now, chatting, smiling. We asked her and Ken if they wanted to come out with us in the afternoon but she said Naomi was calling over.”

  Beth raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

  “Tom and I were just going over to the nature reserve for some lunch and a walk.”

  “Aah.”

  “There is no aah! He just mentioned the other day he wanted to visit and as it was dry and sunny yesterday, we decided after church to go.”

  Gina turned away to stack some crockery in the dishwasher and Beth gazed at her back. If Gina and Tom formed a friendship, then how nice. And if it developed into something more? Her friend had been on her own a long time; it would be lovely for her to meet someone special. And it wouldn’t make any difference to their friendship, would it? Why then did the thought of it make her feel so low?

  The next day Beth called into the gallery to buy some birthday cards. Julian was perched on his stool, as usual, and Melissa was leaning against the counter, in a short red linen skirt and white clinging jersey top, the top of her perfect breasts showing above the tight fabric, her long legs tanned and bare with brown sandals showing red tipped toes. Her chestnut waves shone with health and her lips were full and glossy red.

  “Beth, hi. I missed you on Sunday.” A wide smile showed perfect white teeth and high cheek bones. Of course.

  “I was at my niece’s, in Winchester.” Beth explained.

  “Winchester. Now that’s somewhere I’ve never been, but I hear it’s beautiful.”

  “It is” agreed Julian. “I have an artist there; I’m due to visit him if you want to come along?”

  “Lovely. Just tell me when.” Melissa eased herself away from the counter and picked up her bag. “Well, duty calls. Back to the paintbrush. Thanks for the coffee, Julian, bye Beth.” She walked to the door, back straight, hips swaying, the short skirt taut across her shapely bottom, glossy waves hanging over her shoulders.

  Beth smiled her goodbye and turned to Julian to explain she needed some cards, and her heart sank at the blatant admiration in his eyes as he gazed after Melissa. His brown hair curled around his face, falling over his collar; his deep brown eyes, as rich and sultry as Melissa’s, were liquid, shining. He looked like a man in love. Or lust. Whichever, it was Melissa who was the cause of his expression.

  Ali of course soon discovered Julian was visiting his artist in Winchester. He needed Ali to cover the shop and announced he would be taking Melissa with him as she was keen to see the artist’s work. Ali’s narrow shoulders hunched and her throat felt tight, ached with tears. How could she compete with Melissa? What woman could compete with Melissa? She certainly couldn’t, knew she lacked the other woman’s confidence, charisma, sex appeal. She knew she had been attractive once; her ethereal looks attracting boys, especially the artistic, sensitive ones who saw her as a Lizzie Siddal, a pre Raphaelite angel with a delicate, sensitive beauty. Her personality had reflected her looks; she had been quiet, sensitive, shy. Maybe it was true that opposites attracted. Certainly her fair looks, her shy personality and lack of confidence had been the opposite of Julian’s sultry dark good looks, his charismatic, extrovert personality. But they had been madly in love once. He had treated her like a fragile doll, loving her helplessness, her delicacy, and she had loved being looked after, cherished. So what had changed? And when? When did he stop seeing her as a fragile beauty to love and protect and start seeing her as a weak, characterless, helpless female? When had he started to despise her? But she had never stopped loving him, never stopped seeing him as her strong, passionate, caring partner for life. She had quietly supported him, keeping their home warm and clean and comfortable, cooking, shopping, making sure he had everything he needed. Or had she? Maybe what he had needed was a vibrant, passionate, confident partner, not the shy, boring, colourless person she actually was, no more than a cleaner or housekeeper. Maybe if they had had children…. how she had yearned for them, praying and hoping every month it would happen. But it never did. And Julian had said he was happy as they were, just the two of them. But she had felt even more useless, even more colourless and weak and invisible. She had never found it easy to talk to anyone, not even Julian. She had few friends in the town, even though they had lived there for nearly twenty years. Everyone was friendly; Maggie, Carol, Barbara, they all chatted to her, but the only person she really spoke to was Frances, recognising the same loneliness and diffidence in the other woman. And she couldn’t talk to Julian now, she thought with an ache in her chest. If she tried to explain to Julian how she felt about Melissa he would laugh, say she was imagining things, he was married to her, wasn’t he? But he had been married to her before, when a bubbly young blonde had appeared, another artist who had found Julian attentive, attractive, ignored the fact he should have been unavailable. It hadn’t stopped him then and it wouldn’t now. Last time she had sat tight, pretended she didn’t know what was happening, hoped and prayed it would fizzle out. And it had. She would do the same again, be patient and supportive and maybe, just maybe, it would all go away and Julian would settle down again.

  Ali wasn’t the only one disturbed by Melissa. In the vicarage, Maggie sat at the kitchen table picking at a bowl of pasta. Mark was at a deanery meeting and wouldn’t be home until late. He could microwave his dinner or it could be frozen if he had already eaten. Maggie put down her fork and put her head in her hands, running her fingers through her soft, wispy brown hair. The house was so quiet and empty these days. Rachel and James were both at university and how she missed their noise, and mess, and company. She was pleased they were so happy at university, of course she was, but Mark was so busy and always seemed to be needed. Well, she needed him too. But by the time he had finished his duties for the day, he was tired and drained, content to eat his meal and watch some mindless television before turning in for the night and starting all over again. Yet for other people he was a rock, emotionally and practically. That Melissa, for example. She had turned up for the family service on Sunday and had cornered him after, talking quietly and seriously. Then she had turned up again at the vicarage on Monday and he had been closeted in his study with her for over an hour; just poking his head in the kitchen to ask if Maggie could possibly make them some coffee. Maggie felt miserable. Who supported her? When did anyone ask her if she was alright? But would she be feeling like this if Melissa was old, and faded and grey? No, she wouldn’t. Yet she trusted Mark completely, so why was she so unsettled? Mark just saw people in need; the effect Melissa had on people, especially men, would have passed him by completely. His blue eyes would be puzzled and disconcerted if she mentioned any of this to him. Yet they had always discussed everything; why was she now feeling this constraint? Was she just feeling inadequate, compared to beautiful, vibrant Melissa? She caught her reflection in the mirror on the dresser, feeling a jolt that the face looking back at her looked old, tired, grey. She had never been a beauty, was just ordinary looking, average height, average size, brown hair, not thick and not thin, brown eyes, an ordinary dull brown, close together, not wide and rich and sultry like Melissa’s. She wasn’t plain, she wasn’t pretty, she was just…ordinary. But it had always been enough for her and enough for Mark too, or so she had always thought. He never told her she was lovely, attractive, the love of his life. But he had always seemed happy with her. Had she given too much time and energy to bringing up the twins? Should she have made
more of an effort, been more of a lover than just a partner, a mother, worn nicer clothes, make up, had her hair dyed? But she doubted that Mark would have noticed; he didn’t notice when she had her hair cut, hadn’t even noticed the time she had radically changed the style after Rachel had encouraged her to try something new. To him she was just Maggie. And he was never home anyway. What difference would it have made if she had done more for herself, rather than building her whole life around the twins, the house, the parish? But just as she felt low, lonely and empty without the twins, Mark didn’t even seem to have noticed they had gone. He was livelier, more cheerful, more enthusiastic. His appearance was the same, his hair was showing more grey, his face more wrinkles. But he was happy. Happier than her. Was it Melissa making him happy? She felt sick. Her head throbbed and her chest felt heavy. A whine at her feet brought her back to the present and she looked down at Pippin, his soft faded brown eyes gazing up at her as he struggled to put a paw on her knee. Poor old boy. They had got him when the twins were four and he was showing his age. She leaned forward to stroke his wiry grey hair. “What a misery I am, I have nothing to be fed up about really, yet here I am feeling sorry for myself. Come on, this won’t do, let’s go for a walk.”

  Pippin whined agreement and followed her out of the room, but his slow, stiff movements echoed those of his mistress.

  Chapter 6

  The week was passing quietly. Police investigations were continuing but there had been no more burglaries and thoughts began to turn to the summer and the holiday season. Not that Bride’s Bay was a popular destination for holidaymakers; most preferring to bypass Bride’s Bay as quickly as possible and continue west in search of sandy beaches and amusements. The shingle beach deterred tourists, as well as the lack of funfairs, water parks and celebrity restaurants. There were no campsites, no caravan parks, not even a hotel. The little town boasted two bed and breakfasts’ but even they only had two and three guest rooms, respectively. There were plenty of places to visit nearby; the island, the New Forest, Chichester, Winchester as well as the sights and museums of Southampton and Portsmouth, but most people preferred to stay elsewhere. The little seaside town was popular, however, with day trippers who drove from inland towns and villages for a day at the seaside when the weather was good. It was also a popular place to sail, windsurf and jet ski and weekends in particular saw the sea full of colour and activity as people came out to play. And the visitors and water sports enthusiasts needed places to eat, drink, spend their money. Several local shops and cafes would gear up for an increase in trade; in particular Julian’s gallery, Maisie’s Gifts and Bryn Cards and Gifts, the ebullient Welsh owner extending his shop out onto the pavement to provide visitors with buckets and spades, beach balls, postcards, sunscreen, sunhats, rock and all the paraphernalia required for a day on the beach. The tea and coffee shops also spruced up for the visitors, employing extra staff for the season. The influx of day trippers provoked mixed feelings amongst the population of the small town. Beth herself enjoyed the extra life brought to the town; the excited children and indulgent grandparents. But many locals complained at the longer queues in the shops, the litter, the difficulty parking and the inconvenience. But it was a fact of life and no one complained at the increased revenue the little town received. As well as the businesses preparing for the visitors, the school’s plans for the summer fete gained momentum with the Friends of Bride’s Bay Primary School busily planning the stalls they would have, the displays the children would put on, the refreshments that would be provided and, most importantly, persuading parents to help on the day. The PCC continued with the arrangements for an auction of promises to raise funds and Mark was delighted to report to Maggie that they had been promised meals at local pubs and restaurants, a helicopter ride, haircuts, cleaning and gardening services, tickets for theme parks, theatres and cinemas, a sports car for the day, a weekend at a hotel on the island and, most bizarrely, a tattoo of choice at a local tattoo parlour. The burglaries were forgotten by most and life returned to normal.

  Beth found herself providing Tom with a history lesson during one of their evening dog walks. Tom had been looking for a weekly cleaner and had been recommended one in Milton Avenue, querying the literary connection of the avenue and the surrounding roads. He counted them on his fingers.

  “There’s Milton Avenue, Chaucer Avenue, Wordsworth Court, Byron Road…” he frowned.

  “Keats Road” added Beth.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’m impressed! You’ve only been here a few weeks and already you know the roads so well. Are you doing the knowledge?”

  He looked blank.

  “You know, the training course taxi drivers have to do to get licensed.”

  His face cleared. “Of course. But where you a cab driver in a previous life? You sound so ….I’d say knowledgeable if that wasn’t such an awful pun!”

  Beth laughed, looking at him, her eyes clear and sparkling in her suntanned face. “No! But I grew up in north London. And there were loads of taxi drivers in our neighbourhood! I woke up to the sound of diesel engines warming up rather than an alarm clock.”

  She fell silent, the smile fading. Tom looked at her curiously. Her pink, curved lips of just a few moments ago were set in a tense line and her eyes bleak. He wanted to ask why but hesitated, sensing the barrier she had erected. Better to change the subject.

  “So go on then. Why all the poets’ names? Was someone a fan of 19th century poetry?”

  Beth shook herself back to the present.

  “Not a fan. But there is a connection with them” she explained. “Percy Shelley. His nephew bought the land behind the sea front in 1885. He was a landowner in north Hampshire but spent a lot of time on the Isle of Wight. His father, Percy Shelley’s brother, was a keen sailor and William Shelley, the son, also sailed. The family had a house over in Cowes. So he knew this area and when he married, he decided to build a house here for his new bride. It’s the Island View Hotel now, the oldest building here. But he also thought he could make the area into a seaside town to rival Brighton and Cowes, combining seaside attractions and sailing. So houses were built for the gentry behind the sea front, and the church, and some shops and a school, that’s the library now in School Road? Then cottages for the workers on the east side of the town, like mine. A pier was built and apparently there were plans for a railway but that never happened. But he lived here with his wife until they died.”

  “Hence the name Bride’s Bay? And I assume the town developed gradually, judging by the mix of housing?”

  Beth nodded. “More houses were built in the late 1800’s, early 1900’s, including yours, then a few in the 1920’s and 30’s; the art deco ones in Bentley Road and the flats on the sea front. The two blocks just down from you? Some of the shops as well. Then it was quiet until housing was needed after the second world war and the council houses, sorry, social housing now, were built behind me, on the Innings Estate then the Poet’s Estate was built, all the 1950’s bungalows. Some town planner had the idea to name the roads after Shelley the poet and his cohorts, even though Shelley had died before our William Shelley was even born! The latest of course is the Grove Road estate, all the big executive houses. That estate caused a stir when it was built, taking open space but not providing any affordable housing. Though it’s all settled down now. People never like change, do they? Or green space built on.”

  “So youngsters and young families need to live further out in Fareham or Gosport?”

  “Or even further, Portchester, Whitely. It’s a shame when they have to leave, but hasn’t that always been the way? I grew up in London but couldn’t have afforded to buy there, not that I wanted to.”

  “I grew up in Oxford but my first flat, that I bought, I mean, was in Croydon, when I got my first lecturing post in London. A bit different from here.”

  “Did you like living and working in London?” Beth asked curiously.

  Tom thought. “At first I did. The buzz
and the novelty of being able to go out and shop at three in the morning for halloumi or sushi.”

  “And did you often do that?” she teased. The shadows had gone from her face and Tom was relieved to see her relaxed and smiling again.

  “Never!” with a laugh “but I liked the fact there were loads of coffee shops and restaurants…..and pubs! And public transport was good, I never used my car. Then of course the theatres and concert halls, museums…you’re spoilt for choice there. I went to loads of exhibitions, concerts, it was good. I liked the job, I was doing what I had studied for and it was nice to have some money at last, after being a poor student for years.”

  He gazed at the view ahead of them; the sun still sparkling on the sea, turning it pinkish gold, patches of colour from boat sails, the buildings in the distance on the island, surrounded by hazy green.

  “But it soon lost its novelty. The noise, the dirt, the crowds. My flat was nice but the area wasn’t great. And commuting was a pain. I missed the countryside too, there are no seasons really in London, well, summer and winter obviously, but no spring or autumn, at least not many signs of them in central London.” He turned to Beth. “But you grew up in north London you said? Which part?”

  “Mill Hill. Well, between Edgware and Mill Hill. We did have seasons there; it was quite leafy and green. You know, daffodils in the parks and autumn leaves on the trees. But we went into Central London a lot, our nearest shops; big shops anyway, were in Oxford Street, until they built Brent Cross at least. But I was almost grown up then.”

  She was silent, thinking back to the years growing up. She tried not to think about her childhood home, the modest semidetached in a quiet tree lined street.