Blackthorn Winter (13 page)

"
Grandad!
" hissed Duncan, but the old man just shrugged. Duncan glanced at me in embarrassment.

Across the room I saw Celia Glendenning pouring out a cup of tea and carrying it over to where Oliver Pethering stood by the door. His head was down, but he looked up when she handed him the cup, and a little smile turned up the corner of his mouth.

An elderly lady, her snow-white hair worn in a bun at the nape of her neck, walked up to us and linked her hand through the crook of Mr. Cooper's arm. "Now, Dudley," she said. "Are you minding your manners with Duncan's new friend?"

"I was just saying what nice weather we're having," the old man lied gleefully.

But I was glad to talk about something besides death. "Yes," I said with a smile for the woman Duncan introduced as Hazel Cooper, his grandmother. "It's nice that spring has come early. The village seemed so gray when we first got here, but now the blossoms everywhere have totally changed that!"

Mrs. Cooper chuckled. "You think spring has sprung? Maybe in California, but not in England, my duck. No, this'll prove to be a blackthorn winter, mark my words."

"'Blackthorn winter?'" I asked. "What's that?"

Dudley Cooper spun me around and pointed to the windows. "Ah, the blackthorn! The leaves make a pleasing tea. The fruit is delicious. It even has medicinal properties,
my girl, and can cure you of all sorts of things—nosebleeds, constipation, whatever. But you see those blackthorn blossoms? Lovely to look at and a sure sign of spring, you think—right? Aha—think again! It's all a ruse. It's Mother Nature's trick, my girl. When the blackthorns bloom this early, and spring seems to be in the air—you can't trust it. In another couple of days those blossoms will all have fallen to the ground, and it'll look like snow everywhere, like winter. A blackthorn winter, that's what we call it. Cold winter weather will be back, in full force!"

"Oh," I said faintly, trying to take in this onslaught of information. "But, well, maybe
this
year there really
will
be an early spring." I truly hoped so; the sunshine and fresh blossoms lifted my spirits higher than they'd been since we'd come to England.

"Gotta love an optimist." Duncan grinned at me.

"A positive attitude is nice to see in a young girl," agreed Mr. Cooper. "Eh, Hazel?"

"Certainly—however misguided," the old woman agreed mildly. But then her pleasant expression changed. The blue eyes darkened. "But I always say that the blackthorn has messages for us. My old granny used to tell me that if you were traveling and came upon three blackthorn trees growing together, you should give them a wide berth. It's a sign that nothing good will happen to those who come near. And she told me the blackthorn winter came as a message to us: a reminder that you can't be too trusting, my duck. That what you think is true might actually be false. Take heed."

"Oh, Granny," Duncan rebuked her gently. "You sound like a prophet of doom."

"Do I? Well, my old granny certainly was! But look
here, lad, a woman has been reduced to ashes. Reduced to ashes before her time, just as your own mum was. And that's a gloomy thought if anything is, don't you agree? Our own lovely Nora! So I say it's very sad indeed about Liza Pethering, Lord rest her soul, even if she was a meddlesome and unpleasant sort who was responsible for your father's running off with that Argentinian woman—"

"Oh, Granny!" Duncan's cheeks were crimson. "Anyway," he mumbled, "Eliana is from Brazil."

"Well, wherever," said the feisty old lady. "The Lord—or Fate—makes certain that justice is done in the end, at least that's the way I see it."

"The justice is that Simon Jukes is in police custody, Granny. He'll pay for what he did to Liza and—"

"That remains to be seen," interrupted the old man. Then he took his wife's arm and the two of them moved off toward the food table. "Just you remember this blackthorn winter."

I stared after them, puzzled ... and felt again the nudge of memory.
Wake up, wake up!

The church hall was unusually warm on this winter day. Someone pushed the casement windows open, and the scent of the blackthorn blossoms was very strong. I thought about the beautiful talisman necklace made of those pressed flowers. Had Nora gathered them during a false spring like this one? If Liza had been wearing her own lucky necklace, the one Nora had made for her with the dangling seedpod, would she be alive now? In fact, if Nora had worn her own necklace with the pink quartz stone, would she be alive now, too?

I sucked in my breath, as a memory played around the edges of my unconscious. My heart seemed to beat faster....

See, see? I
told
you she wouldn't have gone away! I
knew
she wouldn't! Look, look ... here she is! Oh, wake up, wake up—please wake up...

A shiver prickled between my shoulder blades. The voices around me rose in a great wave of sound until they were a cacophony. The sympathetic smiles of the mourners who had gathered after the funeral seemed painted on. Across the room Celia Glendenning was staring openly at me. I stared back until she turned away. What was her problem, anyway?

A shout from the doorway jerked me out of my daze. Henry Jukes, Simon's younger brother, stood at the door with his hands on his hips. "You're all celebrating that my bruvver's locked in jail!" he shouted, his words slurred. "And it's wrong! It's all wrong!"

"Now, Henry," said the vicar gently, hurrying to him, "this is just a gathering after Mrs. Pethering's funeral service. It's nothing to do with Simon—"

Henry shook off the older man's comforting arm. He took a step and stumbled against the wall. "He didn't do it! He didn't do ... nuffink! You're always after him, you lot." Henry's face was red with fury.

"Go home and sleep it off," called someone from the crowd.

"One of you lot killed her and you're trying to blame it on me bruvver!" Henry shrieked at them. "I'll find you out, I will! You'll not get away with it!"

"Oh, do shut him up, somebody," ordered Celia Glendenning. She strode across the room toward Henry. "Come along, Henry, it's time for you to go home."

Several men, Quent Carrington and Oliver Pethering included, moved to the door to take Henry by the arms and
escort him outside. "Maybe it's that Yank what did it!" Henry shrugged out of the men's grasp and pointed across the room at my mom. "
She's
the newcomer, in't she?
She's
the one what comes to town, claiming to be an old friend, and look what happens! First murder in a hunnert years."

I saw Mom's expression grow pained. She turned away. I started over to comfort her, but both Thurbers got to her first. Jean Thurber put her arm around Mom's shoulders. I turned back to Henry as the men grabbed him again.

"And if it weren't that Yank, it were the Yank's daughter!" he howled, staring at me in fury. I stared back, shocked. His eyes were wide and pale. There was something childlike in his expression, something of a little boy as he strained against his captors. His shouts of protest grew fainter as the door closed behind them.

I made a sudden decision and slipped out the door after Henry.

The men left him slumped against the side of the building. "Leave him alone, missy," said Oliver Pethering.

"He's nobody to tangle with, Juliana," Quent affirmed.

"I won't—I just want some fresh air," I said, standing on the steps. "I'll be right in."

The men returned to the gathering, shutting the heavy wooden door. Cautiously I stepped down to the path and walked a little closer to Henry. I could hear him making weird snuffling noises, and then realized that he was crying.

"Henry?" I said.

He whirled around, wiping his sleeve across his face. I jumped back a few steps. He reminded me of a large, fair-haired bear. Wild and unpredictable. "You Yanks!" he yelled. "It had to be you! Nobody was killing nobody till you came here!"

"I didn't kill Liza, and my mother didn't, either," I said firmly. I glanced back at the steps leading to the door. I could run back inside fast if Henry came near me.

"Nor did Simon," he declared, glaring at me. "He's not a killer. He's a good bruvver, he is!"

The tension was broken as the big wooden door of the church hall opened and Duncan stepped outside. Slowly he came down the steps to stand beside me on the path. I was glad of his presence. "Your brother wanted revenge on Liza Pethering," I reminded Henry. "People heard him say so."

"We was at the Ship that night," he muttered, scowling at Duncan. "Then we went home, walking right over the Shreen. We didn't see nuffink, nowhere. Then later we heard that a body'd been found! So we went back, and Simon found them credit cards tossed right in the bushes. He's no fool, our Simon! We brung them straight home. Who wouldn't? But stealing don't amount to murder." He crossed his arms and leaned back against the stone building.

"You really didn't run into Liza that night?"

He shook his shaggy head, reminding me again of a bear. "I swear on me muvver's grave." His sad, pale eyes gleamed.

And—perhaps strangely, because I was still afraid of him—I found myself wanting to believe him. "Well, somebody ran into her," I said.

"Will you help?" he rasped out. "If you Yanks didn't do it, then find out who did and get me bruvver out!"

"Well, I—," I hesitated. "I don't know—"

"Oh, you're useless!" Savagely Henry kicked the stone wall and swore. "A whole pack of useless gits in this town, that's what you are. Artists and toffs, and now you Yanks. Yanks are the worst!" Snuffling again, he strode away from
us, around the side of the building and through the arched canopy of yew trees into the graveyard.

I almost ran after Henry, but stopped. I looked over at Duncan, helplessly. The mild springlike breeze fluttered the white blossoms on the blackthorn bushes by the door.

"He's a lout and a drunk," said Duncan, putting one hand on my shoulder, "and that's dead certain."

"But ... I wonder," I said softly. "I wonder."

He linked his arm with mine. "What do you wonder?" I was relieved that Henry was gone, and I liked that Duncan and I could be so casual, touching each other. I hadn't ever known another boy I felt so comfortable with so quickly. "I wonder if he's right. I think I believe Henry," I said. "I mean, I know he's ... strange, and a drunk, but I believe him. And if his brother is innocent, someone else killed Liza"

Duncan shrugged. "Who knows? I suppose it's possible. But not very likely." Then he smiled at me. "When I grow up to be a detective, I'll investigate this sort of thing."

I steered him back up the steps. "We were just kidding around the other night, about being detectives someday, I mean. But someone should look into this. Maybe we should."

"You mean you don't trust Britain's finest to ferret out the truth? I don't know. We could offer our services, maybe."

"Really? Duncan, I think we should." I was serious. But Duncan's next words let me know he was teasing me.

"It would be interesting. Ferreting out the truth." He twirled an imaginary mustache. "Uncovering the lies, the falsehoods ... we would be the superheroes of Blackthorn!" He opened the door and the two of us stepped
back into the church hall. The room was still buzzing with chatter as Liza's family and friends and acquaintances mingled. The food trays were nearly empty now.

There—again—I felt a nudge of memory.
Something was hidden. Someone had lied.
Then the feeling of being just about to remember something receded. "You know," I said slowly, "I'm serious about believing Henry. When I was talking to him I was getting a feeling ... a feeling that things aren't quite adding up. I mean, everybody's
acting
so sad about Liza—but a lot of them aren't sad, not really. And what your grandparents were just saying about the blackthorn blossoms, and a false spring, and well—Duncan, look around!"

"You mean the secret sighs of relief?" He shook his head. "Liza made a lot of people really mad. That doesn't mean any one of them killed her."

I frowned at him. "I read somewhere that when a woman is killed, her husband is usually the main suspect."

"
Prime
suspect, the police call it." Duncan looked down at me thoughtfully. "And in the murder mysteries I read, it's the person who finds the body who is usually considered a prime suspect by the police. They also look at who profits by a death. Who stands to inherit."

"Oliver Pethering fits those categories." I lowered my voice to a whisper because Oliver was walking past us toward the food table. "They didn't have children, so he'd get all her money. And don't forget—," I reminded Duncan darkly. "He was trained as a butcher."

"Liza was bashed over the head, though. Not chopped with a meat cleaver."

"Still." To Duncan it was a game, to me a serious consideration. The men who had taken Henry Jukes outside
were mingling with the crowd. They were smiling and chatting. People shook their heads and laughed about Henry Jukes. Covertly I watched Oliver Pethering help himself to another scone and bite into it with gusto.

 

T
HE NEXT MORNING
after Liza's funeral, Mom and I walked the Goops to the village school for their first day. The weather was still springlike, sunny and mild. The air was scented with the blackthorn blossoms. The Goops looked unusually sweet in their new school uniforms of dark gray pants for Edmund and dark gray skirt for Ivy, both topped with red sweatshirts with the school crest and the words Blackthorn First School. Duncan also was at school, but his was in the next village of Lower Dillingham. I saw him waiting with Kate Glendenning at the bus stop outside the newsagent's when we walked past with the Goops. The two of them were laughing together.

I had been so sure I didn't want to go to a new school in England that I had insisted my parents arrange a semester of home study for me. I would be doing assigned work on my own and sending it via e-mail attachments to my teachers when we got our new computer. That way I would still be on track for graduation and wouldn't have to change schools. Homeschool had seemed to me the only way moving to England would be tolerable. But after we waved good-bye to Ivy and Edmund, who had been welcomed warmly into the Year 5 classroom (
same as fourth grade,
Mom said) and had met their teacher, Mrs. Bundy, it felt strange and lonely to come home and sit at the kitchen table with my history textbook, and a mug of tea at my elbow. I almost wished I were at school in Lower Dillingham with Duncan and Kate. Almost—but not quite.