The Scarlet Wench (4 page)

Chapter Six

“You took her by surprise.”

Ruth: Act
I
, Scene 1

2:55 PM

Simon left the hall to give Nora privacy with her call. She almost called him back as she clicked the button for line one, wondering how the lawyer had found out where she lived. Then she flashed on last autumn’s murder and realized a simple Google search would provide headlines with the details. She drew a breath. “Nora Tierney.”

  “Miss Tierney, this is Daniel Kemp. I’m the solicitor representing Muriel and Harvey Pembroke in the matter of settling the estate of their son, Paul.” The man’s cheerful voice bore none of the gloomy tenor she expected from an estate lawyer.

  Nora struggled to keep her voice calm. “I see.” She really didn’t but wanted to appear cooperative. “How can I help?” she asked, instead of shouting the line, “
What do you want from me
?” Her thoughts clutched on the term “estate.” Could Paul’s parents think she’d stolen from their son’s flat? They’d never lived together; the few things of hers that had landed there she’d taken home and nothing more.

  “The Pembrokes were named in Paul’s will as his executors. They’re anxious to settle things and sell his flat. There’s a matter I’ve been instructed to discuss with you. I understand you were engaged to the deceased at the time of his death?”

  “You could say that.” Nora realized Paul must have at least told his parents of their engagement. What difference could that make now?

  “I need to obtain your signature.” There was the sound of fingers tapping a keyboard. “I could travel north to Cumbria next Monday if that would be convenient?”

  “Next Monday? I suppose so.” Nora bit her lip. “Mr. Kemp, can you tell me what this is about?”

  “I prefer to discuss these matters in person, but I assure you I won’t take up much of your time. Are there rooms at Ramsey Lodge to let? It’s a long ride, and I owe Mrs. Kemp a break.”

  “I’m afraid we’re fully booked for the next week, but I can give you the number of the Belsfield Hotel.” Nora gave him the address of Ramsey Lodge and her mobile number while she looked through the list of the lodge’s competitors.

  “Thank you. I’ll see you Monday after lunch. Shall we say by
2
o’clock?”

  The solicitor rang off, leaving Nora looking at the phone in her hand. She slumped in the desk chair. This must be a release of sorts, to stop her from putting in any claim on Paul’s estate. Yet in an age of express mail, scans and faxes, she thought signing papers could be handled without a personal visit. Perhaps Kemp’s real reason for driving more than five hours was to give his wife a few days away.

  But that didn’t address the deeper issue. Even if the solicitor hadn’t hinted at the issue of a child, Nora couldn’t continue to avoid telling the Pembrokes they had a grandchild. She walked to the open door and looked across the road to her right. Handfuls of tourists walked along the quay at Bowness Bay. Bright, gauzy clouds were perfectly reflected in the deep blue of the water’s surface. The setting was serene, and she loved living here, even if it was temporary. Why couldn’t life be as simple as the placid lake?

  Then she remembered the October morning when she’d stumbled over a corpse on her morning walk at the water’s edge. Nothing was simple when you looked beneath the surface.

  “There you are.” Declan joined her at the door.

  She turned to look at him, and he took her face in his hands and brushed her lips with his. “You look very serious.”

  She didn’t answer and turned away as movement on the driveway took her focus. A large lorry with
FITZPATRICK’S RENTALS
painted on the side pulled up the drive. “I have to let Simon know the props are here.”

*

4:30 PM

Nora watched Declan help Simon and another man sort the props. She leaned against the doorway, taking a brief break. After Callie returned with a drowsy Sean, Nora put him in his cot to finish his nap, then answered lodge emails and matched the stack of checks Simon gave her with their appropriate bills, ready to be mailed out. She gathered brochures on the lodge and the general area into a packet to send to a choral group from Dorset wanting to book this June. If this play came off well, Simon may have hit on a grand marketing idea, having Ramsey Lodge host different performing groups.

  Nora watched the two men she cared for in different ways, a study in contrasts: Simon with his sandy hair and lanky build, Declan with his darker looks and broader frame. Then she took in the third man, who was older and reminded Nora of Mr. Rogers. Something about him looked familiar.

  “Just stack those cartons in a corner, Declan,” Simon instructed. “We need to leave this space clear for the risers that will form the stage.” He indicated a large area that took up more than half the room, from the windows to past the fireplace.

  Declan winked at Nora as he hoisted a carton marked “Linens/Lamp.” Simon and the other man carried a sofa between them to near the stacked folding chairs.

  “How you managing, Burt?”

  “We’re fine,” Burt answered.

  Nora was surprised by his words; she remembered Agnes had told her that Simon had hired local Burt Marsh to be stage manager but she thought Agnes had said he was a widower.

  “Burt’s done stage managing, and his late wife, Estelle, enjoyed acting for the community theatre after they retired,” Agnes had said. “Both teachers. Poor thing died a few months ago.”

  They’d been interrupted before Agnes could impart more details, but Nora decided the third man must be Burt. Declan followed Simon outside to continue emptying the truck, and Nora saw Burt attempt to measure the length of the large bow window that overlooked the patio and lake. She walked into the room and grabbed one end of the measuring tape.

  “Let me hold that for you,” she said. “I’m Nora, by the way.”

  Burt Marsh nodded. “Thanks.”

  Nora held the tape, and Burt walked with it to the far end, pulling it taut and noting the distance. It was only when he turned away from Nora to jot the number down on a slip of paper from his pocket that she saw the back of his head and realized why he’d looked familiar.

  Burt Marsh was the man grieving in St Martin’s graveyard.

Chapter Seven

“This is going to be a flop. I can tell you that here and now.”

Elvira: Act
III
, Scene 1

6:45 PM

Simon surveyed the dining room as Maeve straightened a tablecloth. The silver gleamed, and the candles would lend a lovely ambiance when lit, highlighting the clusters of daffodils and tulips Maeve had arranged on each round table.

  “Certain I can’t convince you to stay and eat with us?” Simon brushed his hair off his forehead. He didn’t want to beg.

  Maeve gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “I can’t miss my class, Si, but I promise to bring an overnight bag Wednesday, all right?”

  “I didn’t know learning French was so important to you.”

  “It’s like most things; practice makes perfect.” She raised an eyebrow.

  Simon started to pull her into an embrace.

  “This will never do at all!” Grayson Lange had crept into the room, and his booming voice startled them both.

  “Whatever’s wrong?” Maeve asked.

  “My dear, it’s these little tables.” The director shook his head. “My cast and crew must be seated together at the same table to take notes and promote the family feel that is the hallmark of my troupe.”

  “No problem at all, Mr. Lange.” Maeve fluttered her long lashes at him and drew Simon toward his rooms. “Just give us a sec.”

  “What are you thinking?” Simon followed her into his kitchen and watched her speedily move his fruit bowl onto the counter.

  “Move those, please,” Maeve said, pointing to a stack of sketches and pencils at one end of the table. “I’m thinking Grayson Lange is already a bloody pain in the arse and he hasn’t been here more than a tic.” She dumped an empty tea mug in the sink. “This table fit through that door?”

  Simon gauged the opening of his pocket door. “With a bit of maneuvering.”

  “Maneuver away. We switch the long table for two of the round ones and he’s satisfied.”

  “What do I do in the meantime for a table?”

  “You put the two rounds in here, one to eat at and one to work on when you’re not in your studio.” She gestured to one end of the table. “Now grab hold. Ramsey Lodge aims to please.”

  They scrambled to bring in the long table and switched it for the two rounds, moving dishes and flowers and candles, then rolled the rounds into Simon’s kitchen. Grayson lounged against the doorframe without offering help. Maeve found a pale green cloth that didn’t match the others but did fit the table. She placed her vases down the center and lit the candles while Simon reset the table.

  Thank goodness Maeve was on the ball. Simon thanked her as the first actors came into the room.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She slipped away.

  Satisfied with the new arrangement, Grayson created his pecking order by seating Gemma and Fiona on either side of him, with Poppy and Helen next on one side and the Dentons on the other. Burt was allowed the other end. Simon knew the stage manager didn’t plan to eat at the lodge every night.

  Grayson kissed Nora’s hand as she came into the room after putting Sean to sleep.

  “So lovely to see you again, my dear,” the director practically purred.

  Nora blushed and pulled her hand away before sitting down at the round table where she would eat with Simon and Declan. Simon noted Declan’s scowl at the director. Grayson opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by Helen.

  “I think we should all join hands and thank the spirits for bringing us together.” Shiny discs on the turban she wore glistened in the candlelight and bobbed with her movements, throwing blue streaks into the room.

  “I think you’re dotty.” Gemma raised her wine glass and knocked back half.

  “Helen, please—” Grayson warned. He took his place at the head of the large table, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind as to who was in charge.

*

8:30 PM

Simon moved among the guests seated along the long table, refilling teacups and wine glasses. Fiona Church picked at her food, but Gemma Hartwell ate with gusto, and Callie took mostly empty plates back to the kitchen after the main meal. Everyone seemed to enjoy the raspberry crumble they were eating for dessert; Agnes would be chuffed.

  At one of the remaining round tables in the corner, Nora and Declan lingered over the same dessert Simon had wolfed down. Simon poured tea for Poppy and listened to the conversation. Grayson Lange held court over his cast and minor crew while the Dentons made a stab at polite conversation.

  “I understand you live locally, Mr. Marsh?” Lydia asked.

  Burt looked up from his plate. “Burt.” Then, “Windermere.”

  “A man of few words,” Rupert chimed in. “I like that. We actors tend to be verbose, you’ll find, Burt.”

  “Tell me about it,” Poppy said, accepting more tea from Simon.

  “I, for one, hardly ever talk unless I have something important to shay—say,” Gemma declared, waving her wine glass.

  “Spit it out, Gemma,” Fiona said. “We’re all panting to hear your words of wisdom.”

  Simon saw Nora stifle a giggle at the exchange and watched Declan reach for her hand under the table. Maeve would have enjoyed these shenanigans.

  Gemma threw down her napkin. “You’re just ticked off you’re not Elvira!”

  Fiona leered across the table at her. “For someone used to playing maids, are you really up to being the star?”

  Grayson clapped his hands. “That’s enough, ladies, no bickering.”

  Simon paused to refill the Dentons’ tea.

  “Wonderful meal. I’ll gain a few stone if I’m not careful.” Lydia’s smile was infectious.

  Simon returned it. “I’ll pass your compliments on to our cook, Agnes.”

  “Mine, too,” Helen chimed in across the table. “I had a premonition this would be a wonderful home for us. Your cook must be very stable emotionally.”

  Simon didn’t feel compelled to answer, thinking of Agnes’ prolific swearing in her Scottish accent when things went awry.

  “I’ll have a refill.” Burt held out his cup.

  Simon leaned over to fill it.

  “Tell Agnes it was nice to have a proper dinner instead of a microwave ready-meal.” He lowered his voice. “What a crew, eh?”

  They looked down the table at the rest of the cast, who leaned toward their director, listening in varying degrees of rapt attention as he expounded on his start in theatre.

  “Decidedly different,” Simon agreed just as quietly. “But very talented, I’m sure.” These were, after all, his paying guests.

*

8:45 PM

Burt Marsh wasn’t certain these idiotic fools were so talented. If they were, they’d be acting at a real theatre in Covent Garden or Drury Lane instead of rolling around the countryside playing to small audiences in this kind of place. A string of constant holidays it looked like to him, all right for some. What a lark. Find a nice place to put on your play, then con the management into thinking they’d increase their business and spend your time lolling around. Two or three performances and you were on your way to the next stop down the road. Skiving off, every one of them on the fiddle.

  His Estelle had loved the theatre, the real stuff. When they had met, he had been twenty-eight and Estelle a twenty-four-year-old English teacher who had arrived at Windermere St Anne’s School with her trunk full of plays and classics for her classroom.

  By the time they’d retired nine years ago, it was simply Windermere School, and they’d spent thirty-six years there, riding to school together every day, their holidays the same, their lives entwined with school activities and its calendar. Estelle had directed the school plays, too, and that was when he’d become a dab hand at lights and props. They had been quite a team.

  He could still summon up his first sighting of the slim woman with long, fair hair falling into her eyes as she struggled to drag a huge trunk along the hallway. Burt had gallantly taken hold of the heavy burden and carried it into her classroom.

  “My hero.” Estelle had introduced herself. “Thank you for the rescue.” It was a mantra she had repeated often. He’d rescued her from her loneliness, from her singleness, from being a solitary woman from Newton Abbot at a posting in a rural area she hadn’t known but had grown to love.

  “What’s in here?” Burt had been puzzled as to why a teacher would think it necessary to carry her own tools. All he had needed for science were the textbooks and lab equipment the school had provided.

  “The whole world’s in here! Travel, history, culture, the ways of man.” She had thrown open the lid to show him books by Dickens, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, with plays by Chekhov, Miller and Williams. There had even been three from an American named Neil Simon. “My students will have access to all of these.”

  He’d fallen in love with her a little bit then, but they’d dated for almost two years before marrying. By that time, he hadn’t even blinked when she’d confided her idea of a perfect honeymoon: a week in London attending the theatre. Each day they’d stood in line at the box office of a different theatre, getting discounts for that night’s available seats. After a day touring the Tower of London or the British Museum, they’d rushed back to their tiny rented room to wash and change for their evening out.

  He could still conjure up Estelle’s face the night they’d scored tickets high in the balcony to see
Funny Girl
at the Prince of Wales Theatre, its glowing corner tower making them feel cosmopolitan and worldly. When that tiny woman with the big voice had opened her mouth to sing, Estelle’s eyes had opened wide.

  “If I didn’t love you, Burt Marsh, I could be in love with Barbra Streisand.”

  A loud guffaw from Grayson brought Burt back to dinner. His life was quiet now, too quiet. He wondered what his wife would have made of these whiners and pretenders. In his head, he carried on conversations with her, but he knew she was gone. A tremor ran through his body. He ached with loss for Estelle.