'Come on.' He stood up quickly, making the listless landlord jump. 'I don't know about you, but I don't want to be spending the best part of my day off with the likes of Ned Filkins.'
'Me neither.' Maureen gathered herself together. 'But I thought you and Ned were mates. Don't you want to ask him what he's doing? I mean, it's all a bit James Bond, isn't it?'
Shepherding Maureen back out into the car park with very little of the earlier gallantry, Vincent muttered about Ned probably canvassing Matt about getting a reference for a new job or something similar.
'Get away,' Maureen puffed as she fastened her seat belt. 'They wouldn't need to come out to the back of beyond for that. They could be doing that in Milton St John. And no one within a peacock's shout of the village would give bloody Ned Filkins the time of day, let alone a job. And why wasn't they in the bar? Why was they sneaking around the back? And why – good God!'
The car rocketed forward, the G-force leaving Maureen pinned back against her seat.
'Sorry.' Vincent looked sheepish. 'A bit heavy on the old pedal there. All right?'
The beehive nodded dubiously. Vincent, praying that neither Matt nor Ned had recognised his car, switched on Melody radio and hoped a swirl of A1 Martino would seduce Maureen's mind away from Ned Filkins. As it happened she had a very pretty voice, and he was tapping his accompaniment to 'Spanish Eyes' on the steering wheel long before they'd left the avenue of sinister evergreens.
He'd have to see Ned at the earliest opportunity, of course. If the game had shifted up a gear he wanted to know about it. But what exactly was Matt doing? He hardly needed to sell information to Ned, did he? Surely Matt was loaded. And he was dead loyal to Kath Seaward; everyone in the village knew just how much Lancing Grange wanted to win the National.
'Excuse me, duck,' Maureen's voice broke in rather weakly over the top of 'Mona Lisa', 'but do you know you're doing nearly a hundred?'
Good God. Vincent immediately took his foot from the accelerator and tried not to flinch as the hedgerows whistled past with vertigo-making speed. It took some moments to reach a respectable forty-five, by which time Maureen and A1 were duetting to 'I Left My Heart in San Francisco'. Maureen seemed to get to the high notes a tad sooner.
Okay, then ... Maybe it was Charlie that Matt was selling information about. Him and Charlie were mates, after all. That must be it. Ned had recruited Matt to be in on their scam, too. Not to give information about his own horse – but to suss out the opposition.
This deduction pleased Vincent. It might not be exactly honest, but at least it was more acceptable than the alternative. He'd hate to think that Jemima was going out with a cheat.
'Fancy a cup of tea and an iced fancy in Wantage before we do the pictures?' He felt quite jaunty now. 'I reckon we could squeeze a snack in, don't you?'
'Absolutely, duck.' Maureen leaned forward and applied a slash of orange lipstick in the vanity mirror. A lot of it missed. 'My stomach's fair rumbling.'
It wasn't until they were halfway through the latest Bruce Willis, snuggled in the cosy warmth of the cinema and sharing a bucket of popcorn – sugared not salted – that Vincent felt suddenly deflated. With his arm resting along the back of Maureen's seat, the beehive lolling a bit scratchily but companionably against his cheek, and Bruce just in the act of blowing up Los Angeles in glorious Technicolor, he should have been on top of the world. And he had been. It was only when he thought back to Ned and Matt and the poky pub that he realised his Charlie Somerset theory wouldn't hold water.
'Bugger.'
"s okay.' Maureen snuggled a bit closer. 'The kiddie gets saved in the end.'
'Oh, right. Good.' Vincent squeezed a fistful of lurex.
He stared at the violence unfolding before him, and knew that if Matt was giving Ned information about Charlie, or Bonnie Nuts, or Peapods generally, then it could have been done quite openly in the Cat and Fiddle. They were, as Maureen had said, often seen together in there. No one would make anything of it. There was no reason at all for them to be sneaking about in the middle of nowhere unless they were meeting someone else – which would mean Matt Garside was definitely on the take.
Vincent sighed heavily. Maureen eased the lurex even closer. 'You old softie. Don't get so worried. Here, have some more popcorn.'
But it had been enough to take the shine off the evening. Well, almost. Sitting in the cinema's flickering darkness, Vincent had done a bit of quick self-analysis. Prying into the deepest recesses of his moral standards, he came to the conclusion that the only sticking point in Matt and Ned being together was Jemima.
He mulled this over during the tear-jerking bit where Bruce was rescuing the kiddie – and its very attractive mother who appeared to have had all her clothes ripped to pieces in a rather designer way – from the post-nuclear holocaust. The kiddie's mother, who was extremely grateful, hadn't even chipped her nail varnish. Anyway, thinking through the whole thing, it was just Jemima's connection that he was worried about. If Jemima hadn't been walking out with Matt Garside, then having one of the country's top jump jockeys on your side in a bit of a betting coup, could only be to the good. Vincent sighed again. Now he'd developed a bloody conscience, for God's sake. And it was all Jemima's fault.
By the time he and Maureen got back to the Cat and Fiddle and had secured the only vacant table – the one by the juke-box, always the least popular – Vincent had decided that there was no way he was going to mention anything to Jemima. He'd speak to Ned first. There still might be some reasonable and absolutely innocent explanation.
'Sorry?' He looked up at Maureen who was hovering by the table clutching her purse. 'Oh, yes, thanks. I'll go for a vodka – or two. I can always leave the car in the car park and walk back to Peapods, can't I?'
Maureen smiled coquettishly. 'You could. Or, on the other hand, the pub's car park is right handy for the Munchy Bar. Even less of a distance to walk ...'
Vincent watched Maureen power her way glitteringly towards the bar with his mouth open. Was that what he thought it was? Had he just been propositioned? He grinned in delight. Bugger Mr Maureen with his adenoids and his forty-foot lorry-
'I don't know what you're smirking about –' A strident voice crashed in on his fantasy. 'But this will wipe the smile from your face.'
Bathsheba Cox loomed over the table waving one of the green-and-gold bookshop bags beneath his nose. Behind her, Lucinda pulling agonised faces and shaking her head, was mouthing at him.
'You've lost me straight away,' Vincent said. He liked Lucinda. Nice kid. The old woman was a battle-axe, though. 'Anyway, the bookshop is nothing to do with me. If you want a refund you'll have to wait until Jemima opens up in the morning.'
'Jemima? Jezebel!'
'Here, hold up.' Vincent was instantly on the defensive. 'What the devil are you talking about?'
'This!' Bathsheba shook the bag open, allowing a bright pink-and-black book to tumble on to the table. 'This filth! I found this in my daughter's bedroom! My little Lucinda is being corrupted by your daughter's pornography!'
Spanky Panky
by Bella-Donna Stockings. Christ. Vincent blinked. It probably wasn't the best moment to say that he doubted if the book – however raunchy – could teach Lucinda anything that Charlie Somerset hadn't. 'I don't know anything about any books. And I'm damned sure that Jemima wouldn't stock anything iffy. Why don't you ask her?'
'I've tried. Believe me.' Bathsheba was turning a sort of mottled purple. 'The Vicarage is empty. I'm quite prepared to wait outside all night if necessary. The Vicar must be told what sort of harpy he's harbouring! And that – that – den of vice must be closed down.'
'Don't be so bloody stupid.' Vincent was defensive. 'Jemima's a proper bookseller. Trained. With certificates. She wouldn't stock no under-the-counter stuff. Look, I think you might have got the wrong end of the stick, my love.'
'Don't you "my love" me! I know exactly which end of the stick I'm holding, Mr Carlisle. And, should you see your daughter before I do, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell her that I'll not rest until her shop is closed. Milton St John is a pillar of moral rectitude. We will not be desecrated by outsiders!'
'Stone me.' Maureen eased herself and two double vodkas between Bathsheba and Lucinda. 'What's going on here then?'
Vincent, aided and abetted by Bathsheba, filled Maureen in on the salient points.
Maureen picked up the book from the table and laughed so much that the lurex sparkled off in all directions. 'This isn't pornography, you silly woman. This is Fishnets. I've got 'em all – and darn good reads they are, too. My mum loves them an' she's well into her eighties.'
'Does Jemima stock them, then?' Vincent was a bit at sea here. 'I can't say I've noticed them.'
'Well, they're hardly your thing, duck, are they?' Maureen sat down accompanied by that tempting rustle of silk underwear. 'Of course she stocks them. And,' she glared at Bathsheba, 'they sells like my hot lardys. You'll have a battle royal on your hands if you try and ban them.'
'If that's what it takes.' Bathsheba's lips quivered. 'I shall be calling my ladies together first thing. Come on, Lucinda, let's go and start making plans.'
Hell's teeth, Vincent thought, watching as Bathsheba shepherded the still-silent Lucinda through the Cat and Fiddle's throng. And just when things were going so well for Jemima and the bookshop, too. Poor kid – not only was her boyfriend not all he seemed, but now she'd got the Ladies' League of Light up in arms, too. She'd need a bit of parental support from her old dad now, and no mistake. The thought pleased him. It was far too long since he'd been able to help Jemima.
'Sad old cow. She won't do nothing.' Maureen, knocked back her vodka. Her eyes twinkled. 'I've got a copy of that book back home. So drink up duck, I think you could do with a bit of a reading lesson – if you catch my drift.'
Vincent caught it. No double vodka had ever been consumed faster. He couldn't remember a better August bank holiday. With his arm round Maureen's cushioned shoulders, he walked jauntily out of the Cat and Fiddle.
Outside, Maureen gave a shuddering sigh. 'Oh, shit and corruption!'
'What? What's up?'
'That.' Maureen's sigh was like a dozen deflated air balloons. 'Look! Bloody look!'
Vincent looked. Brian's, Mr Maureen's, forty-foot articulated lorry was just pulling to a halt outside the Munchy Bar.
Drew didn't want to open the door. So far the day had been good. Well, as good as a wet bank holiday Monday could be. And certainly better than most of his days recently. At least Bonne Nuit's trip to Fontwell had been successful. How the rest of the evening would go was anyone's guess.
He stood in the no-man's-land room between the kitchen garden path and the flight of uneven stone steps leading to Peapods' back door. He'd always thought of it as an outhouse, but Maddy had insisted that he had delusions of grandeur and that it was simply an overgrown porch. In the two years that they'd been together it had acquired a personality of its own, becoming filled with odd bits of riding gear, Wellington boots, old coats, dogs' leads, things that might come in handy if they ever remembered what they were for, and the larger of Poppy's toys. In the six months that his wife – no, ex-wife, now – Caroline, had been in charge of the house, the room had been cold, clutter-free, and empty. Just like his life.
Maddy had changed everything for him and Peapods. And now she was going to take it all away. He was sure she was. Despite all his efforts since the Newmarket sales, the barrier was still there. He'd tried talking to her, asking her what he'd done, telling her how he felt, but she kept saying there was nothing wrong. Maddy, who he knew better than he knew himself, was telling him there was nothing wrong! He had even resorted, on Charlie's advice, to wining and dining and sending flowers. She'd been pleased but it hadn't melted the pain in her eyes.
He took a deep breath and pushed the door. It wouldn't budge. Locked? He jiggled the handle. Definitely locked. Still, Maddy quite often put the catch on if she was alone. Drew knew she still hadn't got quite used to living in the echoing vastness of Peapods. It didn't necessarily have sinister connotations. Should he knock? On his own door? Get real. Maybe he should just trail round to the front of the house and let himself in the main door. Or through the office, or the conservatory. It wasn't
that
unusual to find the back door locked, after all.
Bending down, he peered through the keyhole. He could see into the kitchen. The key wasn't there. Maddy must have locked it from the outside. He felt along the dusty ledge above the lintel and found the key. Maybe she'd taken the dogs out for their last run. If Poppy didn't want to sleep, Maddy would take her out in her buggy with the dogs trotting alongside. That was bound to be what had happened. She'd probably left him a note.
He opened the door. He had to talk to Maddy tonight. Cards on the table. It couldn't be put off any longer. They'd shilly-shallied round it for long enough. If she was going to leave him he had to know. The decree absolute was through – at least it had been posted in both the court in Jersey and in Newbury. Caroline had telephoned happily to relay the news even before his solicitor did, and to say that the vital piece of paper would probably arrive in about two weeks' time and could she be invited to the wedding? He'd assumed she'd been joking. He hadn't been sure. He wasn't sure about anything any more.
The kitchen was as chaotic as usual. He loved what Maddy had done to this room. She was everywhere. All her cooking paraphernalia jostled for space with books and magazines, more of Poppy's toys, and things that got put down on the way through to somewhere else and stayed put. He and Maddy had always gravitated there at the end of each day. It was lovely on winter nights to come in from the yard, sit in front of the fire, ease off his boots, eat one of Maddy's dream meals and talk to her above the background hum of the radio. Or on summer evenings, when the windows were thrown open to the scents of the garden and the air was soft, they'd sit at the table in the dusk and drink wine and eat cold new potatoes in mayonnaise and laugh about getting fat together.