Page 25 of A Very Bookish Murder
‘Maybe.’ Callum shook his head. ‘Anyway, what I came to tell you is that Laura and Morwenna want to stay on at the Craigmonie for another week, but they want a room each and they’re happy to pay. Della can’t make up her mind at the moment but has promised to let me know by tomorrow.’
‘I’ve no idea what my lot plan to do,’ Ally said, ‘except for Brigitte. Her husband has arrived, and they want to stay on, as tourists, for another week too.’
Callum nodded. ‘Good. I understand that all seven of them have been told by the police that they are free to go home but that their local police stations would be alerted to the fact thatthey are murder suspects, so they’d have to check in there once a week and hand in their passports, just in case they decided to abscond.’
‘I don’t suppose they’d like that,’ Ally said.
‘What will the neighbours think?’ Callum joked in a falsetto voice. He grinned. ‘So don’t be surprised if your women decide to stay on.’
Ross was working in the surgery all that afternoon, and Ally decided to drive Flora and herself down to his house, to take Flora and Ebony for a walk around the grounds. Ally often stayed there overnight in the winter, but when the guests arrived, she obviously had to be at the malthouse.
Ebony was highly delighted to see both her and Flora, and they set off round Ross’s domain. Both his cottages were let out, so she gave them a wide berth, and headed towards the river and the loch. It was the same river that flowed through Locharran, the Altbeag, but closer to where it flowed into the sea loch and then into the Atlantic.
It was a beautiful day, and she stopped for a moment to listen to the blackbird singing above in one of the trees, enthralled as always by the deep, throaty, melodic tones. Every year she’d always waited for the blackbirds to commence singing, usually in March, and then she knew that spring had arrived. Sadly, by July he’d stop trying to attract the females and he’d fall silent for another year.
Ally moved towards the river, weaving a path through the wild garlic and avoiding nettles. And then she saw it: Owen Jones’s scruffy camper van. She walked slowly in that direction, wondering if he might be around. Perhaps she should ask about the funeral?
As luck would have it, she saw him coming out and crouching over what was plainly a camping stove. He must have heard her coming because he stood up and stared in her direction.
‘We meet again!’ Ally exclaimed, hoping she sounded hearty enough.
He scowled, as if trying to remember.
‘I’m Ally McKinley from The Auld Malthouse,’ she reminded him.
He nodded. ‘What do you want?’
‘I don’twantanything,’ Ally said sharply. ‘I just happen to be here walking on my friend’s land when I saw your van.’ She was conscious of the fact that he kept walking towards her while looking back anxiously at the van. Was he trying to hide something – or somebody? She could have sworn she saw some movement inside the limited space of the camper van.
Keen to stay on for a few minutes longer, Ally asked, ‘Have any arrangements been made for Jodi’s funeral?’
There was more movement inside the van, and he looked back nervously. What or who was he trying to hide?
‘A week on Sunday, in the morning, eleven o’clock,’ he said, ‘at the natural burial site. I’ve told the bloody police, so if you need any information, ask them.’ With that, he gave her a final glare before tracing his steps back towards the van.
Aware of being ‘dismissed’, Ally nodded, shouted at the dogs and moved away.
She was quite sure that there had been someone in that van. But who?
When they all arrived back in the evening, it was Joyce who approached Ally.
‘Ally,’ she asked hesitantly, ‘would it be OK if Penelope, Millie and myself stayed on for another week? The police have told usthat Jodi is to be buried somewhere around here next Sunday, and we all feel we should go.’ She hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘She’s being buried in afield!’
‘I think you mean a natural burial ground,’ Ally said with a wry smile. ‘Yes, of course you can stay. I gather that two of the ladies at the Craigmonie are staying on too. Is that why you’ve come to this decision?’
‘Well,’ said Joyce, looking surreptitiously over her shoulder, ‘there are several reasons. One is that we all get on well and enjoy each other’s company. Another is because we’re writers and so we’re naturally curious to know who killed poor Jodi, and what a plot that might provide for our next books!’ She paused for a moment. ‘And, Ally, we all love The Auld Malthouse – and you! Also, we’d like to see more of this part of the world and, because none of us are exactly on the breadline, we are fortunate enough to be able to afford to stay on for the extra week.’
Ally felt quite moved by her comments. ‘I’d love you to stay,’ she confirmed, wondering how much information she could elicit from the ladies in the week ahead.
When she went back into the kitchen, she made herself a coffee and sat down at the table. Another week. Callum was right, and the women did not appear to be in any hurry to go home for whatever reason. Could it just be because they wanted to stay for Jodi’s funeral? Was it because of the neighbours finding out that they were murder suspects? Or that six out of the seven were desperate to know who the killer was? Or was it just to give them ideas for their own plots? She recalled Desdemona’s remarks about the real motives for killing: love, hate, jealousy, revenge. Could it be possible that at least one of the women had come to the writing retreat solely to kill Jodi? But who? And why?
Ally had a week to try to help DI Kandahar – and Rigby, of course– on this one. Four of the women were right here, underher roof. She’d try to find time to chat to them individually because they might tell her things that they wouldn’t necessarily disclose to a man. She wondered how she could find a way to befriend the three down at the Craigmonie, not that Della had confirmed yet if she was staying or not.
She studied her still-life painting, but there was no point in removing it from the wall until she could narrow down the suspects.
Her thoughts returned to Rigby. Jodi Jones certainly appeared to be his sister, and the poor man needed to find out who had killed her. She felt rather guilty that she had done nothing yet to try to find out more about Jodi’s life, as she had promised Rigby she would do. She had every hope that she could do both though – find the killer and the details of Jodi’s personal life, which were so important to Bob Rigby.
ELEVEN
