White Lies Read online

  She stood, pulling the hood of her parka tight over her curls and stamped her feet against the wet earth to get the circulation going. Christianity was becoming more attractive by the minute. She stretched her fingers and made fists several times before packing up her supplies in her voluminous bag, taking the umbrella off the stand and dismantling the tripod. The little fire had gone out ages ago, a victim of the sudden downpour at two in the morning. She folded the blanket and slung it over the top of her bag. She’d give it a wash and sell it on as a genuine prayer blanket. Couldn’t get much more genuine than an all-night vigil for the Holly King.

  She stumped down the hill past the waterfall known as Lover’s Leap. People really had jumped into the foaming depths but it was rare for any of them to survive. There had been a warning sign here, once, but the enamel had chipped off and all it notified passersby of now was “Gazza” in yellow spray paint.

  The path dipped steeply, as if it was racing the river to the bottom of the hill, leaving Meinwen grateful for the flint and tree roots that made natural steps every few yards and the occasional handrail that served to curtail the gradual increase in speed the slope encouraged. Without them she’d have been running pell-mell down the slope and come to a sticky end in the river at the bottom.

  Meinwen was just passing the plunge pool, where the waterfall crashed and roared into depths it had cut from the rock over the course of the centuries when she slipped on a patch of slick, wet mud, falling on her ample posterior and releasing her hold on her bag. The contents scattered across the path but the tripod, weighing more than anything else in the bag, seemed to make a willful beeline for the water’s edge.

  Its suicidal plunge was stopped by the leather-clad foot of Mr. Jasfoup, one of the gentlemen from Laverstone Manor on the other side of the river. He leaned to pick it up, then held out a hand to Meinwen. “Are you quite all right, Ms. Jones? That was quite a tumble you took. Alas that I was powerless to prevent it.”

  Meinwen accepted the hand and hauled herself upright, looking down at her mud-encrusted form in dismay. By contrast, Jasfoup looked immaculate in his gray suit with hardly a speck of mud on his soft leather shoes. He looked to be out for a stroll on a sunny afternoon in Provence rather than tramping through wet fields in Wiltshire. “Thanks. I got all the way down without so much as a slip and go head over heels on the last part.”

  “The last bit is always the hardest.” He handed her the tripod and stooped to gather the rest of her belongings. “What have you been up to? Making sure the sun comes up?” This last said with a smile, his tone mocking but a twinkle in his eye suggesting a tease.

  “What if I didn’t keep a vigil and it didn’t come up? What would you have to say then?”

  “I’d apologize from the bottom of my heart and offer you a candle to light the darkness.” He offered her a short bow. “Then I’d pull all my investments out of solar energy.” He smiled. “I need you to keep the sun rising, Ms. Jones. It makes me a goodly sum in dividends.”

  “Perhaps you should give me a proportion then.” Meinwen couldn’t help smiling back.

  “Ha! Very good. May I think about it?” He stooped again to pick up her thermos. His face fell as he rose and he shook it experimentally. “I’m afraid your flask has warmed its last. I hope no tea was wasted?”

  “No. I’d finished it.” Meinwen took it from him and stowed it in her bag. “It was nettle coffee, anyway.”

  “Marvelous. Two of my least favorite things in the world combined into one disgusting concoction.” He shuddered. “Chances are the flask committed seppuku rather than risk carrying such a dreadful brew again.” He looked her up and down. “Oh, dear. You are exceptionally muddy, you know. Would you like to come back to the house to wash up? Perhaps Julie could do something about the dirt. She’s a marvel with Marigolds and a wet sponge.”

  “No, that’s fine, thanks. I’ll scoot home.” Meinwen pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at what she could see. “I’d rather just get out of these wet things and into the shower.” She looked up, momentarily unnerved he was still watching her. “What brings you out here?”

  “Me? I was walking the dog.” He looked about and whistled, then shrugged apologetically. “She’s probably found a rabbit trail and hared off.”

  “Ha-ha” Meinwen forced a smile. “Thanks for the help, Mr. Jasfoup.”

  “My pleasure. Can I give you a hand with your bag at all?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.” Meinwen gave him a final nod and walked on, soon passing the little bridge marked Private that led to Laverstone Manor. The dog Jasfoup had referred to, a breed that looked more wolf than dog, lay on the bridge, rain pelting down onto its fur as it worried at a bone between its paws.

  Meinwen swallowed and hurried past. The bone looked fresh enough to be a kill and large enough to be human. She could feel the animal watching her as she headed between the sheltering oaks.

  The path took her to a point where she could turn left to come out on Oxford Road or right to enter the park. She took the latter fork without pausing, for beyond the park stood the spire of St. Pity’s and just past the church was home. The spire wasn’t much more than a shadow against the dull gray of the mist and the clouds beyond.

  The park was quite busy for a wet Thursday morning, mostly with mothers leading children to Pity’s infant’s school, dog walkers and people hurrying to jobs in town. Margaret Holdstock was just opening the Museum Café as Meinwen walked past and she waved a greeting.

  “You’re out early.” Margaret stood in the shelter of the porch, her arms folded and clasped against the chill. “You been out researching?”

  “Something like that.” Meinwen shifted her bag to the other side and rubbed her shoulder. “I’ve been at the Leat stone all night.”

  “All night?” Margaret shook her head. “You’ll catch your death looking for goblins and pixies all the time. Do you want a cuppa? I’ve got the kettle on.”

  Meinwen sucked air through her teeth, grinned and shook her head. “I can’t say I’m not tempted but I’ll get off home. What I really want is a hot shower followed by poached eggs on toast and a pot of tea, then about six hours sleep.”

  Margaret uncrossed her arms, obviously relieved by the answer. “As you will then, pet. See you later.” She gave Meinwen a final nod and withdrew to the warmth of the café’s well-appointed kitchen. There was already a gaggle of young mothers approaching the door.

  Meinwen plodded on, passing the school just as the bell went, forcing her to battle against a minor tide of young mothers and grannies as they swept away from the school gates. She recognized most but acknowledged only those who said hello first. Many people didn’t want it spread about that they frequented the witch’s shop on Knifesmith’s Gate.

  It wasn’t until she’d actually pushed open the entrance to her cottage and marched halfway up the long path that she noticed the man lurking at her door. Her step never faltered despite the thrill of fear. If he meant her harm, he wouldn’t skulk about in full sight of the street, surely? Besides, he was quite attractive, in an action-hero kind of way. He had a classic inverted triangle body shape, broad shoulders topping a narrow waist. She was willing the bet he was well muscled under the shabby shirt and jacket. Big hands, too. Big hands generally indicated a big cock. She took a breath to get her thoughts in order. “Can I help you?”

  He took a couple of steps forward. “Meinwen Jones?”

  She nodded affirmation. “If you’re here about the electric, I paid it the day after tomorrow. If you’re selling anything except religion. I’m not interested and if you’re selling religion, I’m definitely not interested. I’ve nothing worth stealing and the house is rented so I shan’t be buying any guttering or windows and besides, I have some already.”

  “I’m not looking to sell you anything. I need your help.”

  “Oh?” She ducked out of her bag and fished her keys out of her pocket. “Charms and potions I can do, spells and the like by discussion.”
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br />   His face creased as if she’d asked him to explain Euclidean geometry. “Spells? I don’t want any spells, love. Peters sent me.”

  “Peter? Peter who?”

  “Sergeant Peters at the police station? They say my brother killed himself and I don’t believe a word of it. They won’t reopen the case on my word so he sent me to you. Says you’re a sort of private investigator.”

  “Am I indeed?” Meinwen jiggled the key until the door clicked open. It had become troublesome when the latest batch of wet weather had made the door swell, but come the sun and it would shrink again. Until then it was a nuisance she could live with. “And did he happen to mention how much I charge for these private investigations?”

  The man grinned. “Truth be told, he said you’d probably do it for nowt.”

  “Nothing?” Meinwen sighed. “Not exactly nothing, though I charge less than most. You’d better come in Mister?”

  “Fenstone. James Fenstone, though people generally call me Jimmy.”

  Chapter 3

  “Fenstone?” Meinwen opened the door and pulled her keys out of the lock. “So your brother would be John Fenstone, then? Ashgate Road?” She paused on the doorstep to look at him. He sported a short back and sides she hadn’t seen since her days in Aberdovey Methodist church and several crude tattoos on his hands and wrist. “What were you in prison for?”

  Jimmy looked at the ground, scratching the back of his head. “I ran an import-export business for a while.” He looked up again, flashing her a grin. “It was a bit one-sided. Too much export and not enough import. The police took a sudden interest in where the antiques I was shipping came from. They pulled a manifest and matched it to a series of burglaries in Hull.”

  “Ah. I can see that might be a problem. Of course, you had no idea.”

  “All too much. They matched my dabs to a bottle opener in one of the houses, then my DNA to the bottle of beer I’d filched while the lads were shifting the heavier stuff.” He shrugged. “They got me bang to rights.”

  “Burglary? You’re not a violent sort, then?”

  “No. You’re quite safe with me.” Jimmy’s smile was lopsided, reminiscent of a boy she fancied at school. One of his incisors was chipped.

  “Good to hear. Come along in then.” She pushed the door wider with her bag and barged through, pulling off her walking boots at the threshold and dropping them onto a sheet of newspaper already laid for the purpose. Her bag she carried through to the kitchen, heaving it onto the draining board and dropping her blanket on the floor next to the washing machine. “Pass the kettle, then, let’s have a cup of tea.”

  Jimmy glanced around the kitchen and pulled a large brass kettle off the stove. “Have you no electric?”

  “Electric, yes. Electric kettle, no. I could never be sure what electricity does to water. I suspect it ionizes it and makes it less palatable, hence my use of the brass.”

  “Doesn’t the brass propel dangerous copper oxides into the water instead?”

  “Not”–Meinwen took the kettle from him and filled it at the sink–“in this house.”

  She plonked the kettle on the hob and switched it on, oblivious to the electric hob invalidating her earlier argument. She shrugged out of her muddy coat, letting it drop to the tiles then turned and picked it up. She passed it to Jimmy. “Go and hang that on the coat hook by the door, would you? I’ll brush off the mud when it’s dry.”

  She began emptying the contents of the bag into the sink. Sandwich box, umbrella, tripod, camera, three shaggy ink caps which were a serendipitous find on the way to her vigil the previous night, a small pot of blackberries she’d picked from the clearing in front of the stone, plastic bag for sitting on, a compass which she wiped with a cloth and put to one side, half a box of candles and matches. The broken thermos she dropped into the largest of three bins.

  Jimmy returned to stand in the doorway and she gave him an upward nod as she cleaned the mud from the tripod. “Take your coat off and sit awhile. What is it you think I can do that the police haven’t?”

  “Find out what really happened.” Jimmy draped his anorak over the back of a chair and pulled it out, wincing at the shriek of protest it made against the tiles. He sat. “John wasn’t the sort to kill himself. He was a contented man. Nothing ever flustered him.”

  “How well did you know him?” Meinwen glanced across as she extended the tripod to maximum height. “No offense, but you’ve been away a long time.”

  “Is it that obvious?” Jimmy smiled thinly. “Ten years, bar a couple of months, but John used to write to me every week, until last week. I thought that was just because I was about to get out and he was saving the postage. He was good like that. Frugal. He used to save the string from parcels.”

  “My mother still does. Or would, if parcels still had string.” Meinwen checked the camera but all it needed was a quick wipe of its case. “When did you last hear from him then?”

  “A week last Tuesday.”

  “The eleventh?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say? Did he seem in good spirits?”

  “Pretty much, yes. He was full of this new love in his life. Though he wouldn’t tell me who it was. Didn’t want to jinx it, he said. Then he went on about work. That was going well. He’d sold two houses and made a pot of commission. He was going to start doing the house up at long last.”

  “The house? Ashgate Road, you mean?”

  “Yeah. We inherited it when our mam died. I was already in the nick then but they let me come out for the funeral. John was brilliant. Did all the arrangements himself. Didn’t blame me or nothing.”

  “Why would he blame you? Was it your fault she died?”

  “It was the shock of me going to prison. That’s what people said. It fair broke her heart.”

  “Nobody ever died of a broken heart, Jimmy. What was the actual cause of death?”

  “She cut her wrists after Faye died. She was depressed already, but with me in prison it was the final straw. It says death by misadventure on her death certificate. That’ll be at the house.”

  “Faye?”

  “Our little sister. She was run over.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “It was years ago. Water under the bridge.”

  “So John was deemed a suicide? Like mother like son? I’m sorry if the question is upsetting but ‘no stone unturned’ as the Oracle of Delphi said.”

  Jimmy frowned. “It wasn’t suicide. I’m certain.”

  The kettle began to boil, filling the area around the stove with a cloud of stem. Meinwen grabbed a tea towel and lifted it to one side. It gave her a moment to think. Was Jimmy telling the truth? Probably. Was he keeping something from her? Certainly. Everyone kept their secrets but she always found them out. “Tea or coffee?”

  “Er...tea, please. I went off coffee after the stuff they used to give us inside.”

  “Rough, was it?”

  “Tasted like dog’s piss.” He grinned. “Not that I’ve ever drunk dog’s piss to make the comparison, but you get the general idea.”

  “I do.” Meinwen picked up the teapot. “Bramble leaf tea or apple?”

  “What?”

  “What tea would you like?”

  “Haven’t you got any Tetley? Or PG even?”

  “I might have a box of Red Label in here somewhere.” Meinwen put the pot down and opened a cupboard. “I generally keep some in for the odd occasion when an inspector calls. He won’t touch herbal tea. He calls it ‘dirt in a cup’ but then he can be a tad brusque.” She pulled out a battered cardboard box and gave it an experimental sniff. “Here we are. It doesn’t smell too musty.” She dropped a couple of bags in the pot and filled it with boiling water. “Would you get cups out? They’re in the cupboard behind you.”

  “Aye, sure.” Jimmy stood, turning to gain access. “These ones with the roses on?”

  “That’s right.” Meinwen watched the muscles in his torso shift as he re
ached for her best china. She took a deep breath and looked away, letting it out slowly as she filled a milk jug and put it on the table. “Do you take sugar?”

  “Er...no. I’m fine.”

  He certainly was, if you ignored the blue-ink prison tattoos. “Splendid. Sugar’s something else I only keep for the inspector and I think there are insects in the bag. Some people object to that. I expect I could pick them out if you wanted some.”

  “No. You’re all right, thanks.”

  “As you wish.” Meinwen set the pot of tea on a trivet and sat. “Now, if you grew up around here, why have you got such a disparate accent? Is it from prison?”

  “Not entirely. I left Laverstone when I was eighteen and went to live in Huddersfield with a bird.” He shrugged. “Didn’t last, o’ course. By they time she jacked me in for a richer model I’d landed a decent job on the removals lorries.”

  “Which gave you the inside knowledge for the burglaries?”

  “Too right. See, we’d do jobs for all sorts of customers then every so often we’d move someone with a decent bucketful of antiques. We’d mark the boxes with ultraviolet ink while they were in the van and nip back the following night. In like shadows through a door or window we’d left open while we were moving the stuff in and out again with the goods. The stuff was on a container ship bound for Amsterdam or Düsseldorf before the punters woke up.”

  “Until someone connected the dots. Recent house moves correlating with burglaries.”

  “Yeah. We kept it to a minimum but every job was another nail in the coffin. We should have stopped while we were ahead.”

  Meinwen picked up the teapot. “It might have been prudent.” She began to pour, the color of the tea matching the colors of the leaves around the edge of the china. “Milk?”

  “Please.” Jimmy took the jug and tipped a little in, watching the pattern as the milk sank below the surface and returned, bringing a flush of lighter color with it.