The Distant Dead, Lesley Thomson [simple e reader .TXT] 📗

jacket, he hadn’t so much as dropped his trousers. She’d never seen him in the altogether.

‘Have sense, Maple.’ Aleck flipped up his braces. ‘I couldn’t raise the flag in a dead man’s bed.’

‘I bet you could.’ Pressing a dampened finger to the silk, Maple made a fruitless attempt to close the nick. ‘Mum’s gone to town with baking.’ She made it up as she went along, then, seeing her coat in a heap, felt annoyed that Aleck had treated it badly; not caring meant his present to her was worth nothing to him.

Aleck didn’t help her into it as he had in the Palais. Watching him tighten his tie, her fingers rummaged restlessly in her coat pockets as, tottering on one high heel she trod into the other shoe. To fend off the feeling of being dirty and wrong, she persisted. ‘What time on Sunday? Will three do?’

‘Let’s not rush it, Maple.’ He smoothed back his hair.

‘It’s been three months. By rights you should have asked Dad about marrying me.’ Maple probed at something – not in the pocket, it was caught in the pocket lining.

‘I didn’t mean it, silly girl. We men promise anything in the heat of the moment.’

Maple knew that. The hod-carrier had promised her a diamond ring. Aleck was meant to be quite different. She worried at a tiny tear in the lining and hooked out a bit of paper. Smoothing it, she showed it to the lamplight.

‘Who’s Julia?’

In the street the all-clear sounded.

‘What?’ Aleck mashed his cigarette in the ashtray.

‘This is a mending ticket, for Julia Northcote, I think it says?’

‘My sister.’

‘You said you were an only child.’ Maple might be an optimist, but she was no fool. When not blinded by dreams, she could tell when a man was lying.

‘My wife.’ Aleck looked angry. ‘Good God, who else would it be?’

‘You’re married.’ Cold as ice, Maple rivalled Tallulah Bankhead. ‘You’re a liar. My dad will have your guts. All the time you, you—’ Maple shoved the paper back in her pocket and strode to the door. She turned, incandescent. ‘You think you can palm me off with her cast-offs. We’ll see about that.’

Maple never reached the herring-bone tiled hall. Aleck caught up with her and whipping off his tie, slipped it over her head. He yanked her close.

Several Londoners, creeping back to their homes after the raid, heard the scream. One woman told the detective she assumed the lady had seen a mouse; the caretaker at nearby flats said it wasn’t his business what went on behind closed doors.

Chapter Four

December 2019

Stella

Stella hesitated at the door to the Abbey Gardens teashop. Through the steamed-up window, a group clustered at the servery: a man, and two women. Another woman, tall with a mass of curly black hair, was handing out teas and coffees from behind the counter. She looked faintly familiar, but Stella knew no one in Tewkesbury. The smaller tea tables had been pushed to the wall, leaving the large circular table in the centre of the parquet floor which, as cleaner for the teashop, Stella would be mopping at 6 a.m. tomorrow.

Not too late to change her mind and leave. But after the scary incident on the lane, Stella was in no hurry to return to the empty flat and spend the evening alone. Choice was taken from her when the door opened and a man greeted her.

‘I’m a bit late.’ Stella saw it was three minutes past six.

‘Dust is the enemy of time, it clogs the cogs. Come inside, my dear, punctuality is a concept. ’Fraid there’s no booze.’ His bass tone was surprising for such a tall reedy frame. Stella caught the aroma of coffee and could see a fire burning in the grate.

‘I didn’t expect alcohol.’ Stella planned to keep a clear head. ‘Are you in charge?’

‘Good God no. Mademoiselle Felicitations is running the show. The Amazon lady doling out weak tea and no sympathy over there. Come, come, you’re letting in the cold air.’ Doffing an imaginary cap he scooted Stella inside. ‘Clive Burgess at your service, ma’am.’

‘Stella.’ The man smelled of something which, after a moment, Stella identified as Horolene, the cleaning fluid for clocks she knew from a museum she’d cleaned in London.

‘And I bet you are.’ Clive Burgess shook her hand and perhaps seeing her quizzical expression said, ‘Stella. Star.’

‘Oh, right.’ Stella looked around for a means of escape. The tearoom had been transformed. The table, draped with a dark mauve tablecloth shaded by a lamp, put her in mind of a séance. An impression not lessened by the sugar-dusted Victoria sponge perched on one of the teashop’s pottery cake-stands. Stella kept Stanley on a short lead; it would be disastrous if he snatched the cake.

‘Tread carefully, it’s her first bash at this Death Café malarkey, she’s a bit windy about it. Upset her and death might come to all of us quicker than we’d like.’ Hands resting on the back of the chair the man laughed wheezily. Looking at him properly, Stella saw he was even older than his jaunty energy suggested, perhaps eighty. Seeing Stanley, he said, ‘I say, are dogs are allowed?’

‘I didn’t ask. I’ll leave.’ Stella grasped the legitimate escape route.

‘Don’t you dare.’ The man stretched his arms across the door, barring Stella’s exit. ‘We’ll sink in this ship together.’

‘I’m sure it will be fine.’ Stella hadn’t anticipated small talk. The notice in the tearoom described the Death Café as an opportunity to explore the meaning of death. Stella had promised to come so would not bail out. She slung her anorak over a chair at the séance table and approached the servery.

‘Are dogs allowed?’ Nervous, Stella repeated Clive’s question and forgot to say hello.

‘I don’t see why not, as long as he behaves himself.’ Up close Stella realized she did know the woman, who had signed her email Felicity Branscombe. Or not so much know her as had seen her before. She had conducted the choir in the abbey