Page 15 of A Very Bookish Murder
‘Yes, he is indeed,’ Ally agreed, trying to change the subject. ‘So, who had to talk about their lives today? I gather you’re doing life story sharing as part of the revised course?’
‘None other than Penelope herself!’ Joyce said. ‘She wittered on for a good hour about how brilliant she was with horses. Catching horses, riding horses, showing horses, horses jumping, horses racing, dressage – you name it! Horses, horses, bloody horses! How can you write a love story about a horse, for God’s sake?’
‘Perhaps it could be about a lady of the manor falling in love with a stable hand?’ Ally suggested.
Joyce appeared unimpressed. ‘Perhaps,’ she muttered. She looked at Brigitte. ‘She went on a bit, didn’t she?’
Brigitte nodded. ‘Very horsey lady,’ she agreed, then quickly pressed a finger to her lips as Penelope reappeared.
As the others made their way upstairs, Ally took Brigitte to one side.
‘Apparently Jodi’s husband is on his way and will be clearing out her effects,’ Ally said, ‘so the room will be free when he has done so. Unless, of course, the husband wants to move in.’
Brigitte nodded. ‘George will be happy to pay anything extra, I am sure.’
At seven o’clock in the evening, the women walked down to the Craigmonie for dinner. The sun was still shining, the earlier breeze had abated and Ally was pondering whether or not to do an hour’s gardening when Jodi’s husband arrived.
He was, in a word, shaggy. He had shaggy, shoulder-length greying hair, a long shaggy beard, and even his eyebrows were shaggy. He looked to be about seventy, and he was wielding a large canvas bag.
‘Mrs McKinley?’
‘Yes,’ Ally replied.
‘Owen Jones,’ he said, by way of introduction, in a strong Welsh accent. ‘Jodi’s husband. I’ve come for her things.’
‘Oh, Mr Jones, I am so, so sorry about your wife…’
‘Yes, well.’ He didn’t look particularly distressed. ‘We’ve been apart for years.’
‘Do come in,’ Ally said. ‘I’ll get the key and show you up to her room.’
‘Thank you.’ He stepped into the hallway and looked around.
Ally darted into the kitchen to fetch the key, and then closed the door to the hall so that Flora was shut in. She joined him a moment later, indicating that he should follow her up the stairs.
‘How did you get here?’ she asked.
‘I’ve had to come in my camper van, all the way from Wales to this godforsaken place!’ he said, looking morosely out of the window. The view was spectacular from the windows in this room, with its panorama of the village, the river and even the sea loch in the distance, but Locharran’s charms were plainly lost on him.
Ally bridled. She didn’t like the village being referred to in that way, and, so far anyway, she didn’t much like him either.
As she ushered him into the bedroom, she said, ‘This must be very distressing for you, and you will let me know if I can help in any way?’
He looked round the bedroom, sniffed loudly and said, ‘Don’t worry – I’ll manage.’
Ally took this as her cue to disappear. ‘OK, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll make some tea – or would you prefer coffee?’
‘I won’t be hanging around,’ he said as he opened the wardrobe door, grabbed a handful of clothes, still on their hangers, and shoved them into the canvas bag.
Ally, feeling deflated, left him to it.
The grieving widower he wasnot. And he was borderline rude. At least he wasn’t going to need accommodation if he had a camper van. She peered out of the window to see the vehicle in question and saw a rather old model, extremely dirty. Still, he had come all the way from Wales.
She wouldn’t have paired him up with Jodi in a million years. She hoped that he wasn’t going to ask if he could park his scruffy van in her little car park at the side of the malthouse.
Ten minutes later, she heard him tramping down the stairs, and went out to meet him in the hallway.
‘I’ve got it all,’ he said as he marched towards the door. ‘Any chance I can park my van out there?’ he asked, pointing vaguely at her little car park.
