Blackthorn Winter (23 page)

After breakfast, we walked through the village, the cold wind whipping the fallen blackthorn blossoms across the footpaths like swirls of snow. All signs of spring had disappeared. It was depressing. Despite the cold weather, the Goops begged to go down to the beach, and this gave Mom and me the perfect chance to slip away to the police station while Duncan, who offered to supervise, went to the water with them.

Because Mom was with me, the police were extra polite. Detective Inspector Link was in a meeting, we were told by the receptionist at the desk. But Constable Petersen was available, and he told us he would see that the detective was given the stone immediately. They said they didn't know of any particular anti-American sentiment in the village, but they would check around, and would contact us if they had any further questions. In the meantime we should just go on home and forget about it; probably the whole thing was an unpleasant joke.

"That's what I think myself," said Mom. "But we thought you should know."

"I think this means you've got to let Simon Jukes out of jail," I announced. "I think this has to do with Liza's murder."

Constable Petersen shook his head as he saw us out the door. "The rock could have been left by anyone," he replied. "I see no link to the Pethering case."

"I think there
is
a link," I said to Mom as we left the police station and headed back through the village. "I can't help it. Liza didn't like Simon, so why would she have gone with him to our cottage?"

"I can't figure why she would have gone with
anyone
to
our cottage," Mom said, frowning. "But perhaps Simon followed her, and tried to mug her." She veered left into a small alley, past a row of red telephone boxes, to a shop where a sign hanging over a doorway announced: blackthorn bakery. A bell rang when we opened the door, and a warm rush of delicious, sugary air enveloped us. "Good morning," said a stocky gray-haired woman. I recognized her as the woman Veronica Pimms had sat with at Liza's funeral.

"Good morning," we replied.

The woman nodded. "American accent on this one," she said (pointing at me), "yet not on this one"—pointing at Mom—"I deduce that you are the new people living in Quent Carrington's garden cottage. Am I right?"

"Yes, you're right," I told her. "And I deduce that you're Veronica Pimms's mother."

"That I am," she said with a smile. "For my sins."

"I saw you at the funeral," I told her.

"Ahh, yes. A sad business all around, though Mrs. Pethering was not very kind to my girl. She upset Ronnie something terrible, giving her the sack like that! So unfair! But it's still a sad thing when a person's life is cut short. Criminal."

Mom murmured agreement. Then Mom started chatting with Veronica's mother about the weather while I leaned over the glass counter, inspecting all the yummy offerings. There were cheese pastries and horn-shaped buns with apple filling, glazed donuts, and sugar-dusted cakes.

The bell rang again, and a rush of cold air hit my back. I looked over my shoulder, and stiffened at the sight of Henry Jukes, Simon's younger brother. He wore a thick, grimy, once-white sweater with frayed cuffs. He looked even
worse than he had after the funeral; his longish hair looked greasy and unkempt, as if he hadn't been able to find his comb and brush for weeks. He strode into the shop, saw me looking at him, and pointed a finger at me. "You lookin' at me, girl?"

Hastily, I turned back to Mom. She was paying for a box of pastries.

"You Yanks," snarled Henry. "You the ones come to town and started all the trouble!"

"Now, Henry," began Veronica's mother. "You just calm down, and tell me what I can get for you this morning. Another of those apple buns?"

He ignored Mrs. Pimms, looming over Mom and me. "You the Yanks what got Simon locked up." He glared at Mom and me. "I'd say the coppers ought ter be lookin' at
you
lot, not at me bruvver. It's people like you what ought ter be doing' time. People like you oughtn't to be here, anyway. Go back to yer own country!"

"I'm sure if your brother is innocent, he'll soon be set free—," began Mom.

But Henry, towering over us, raised his hand threateningly and slapped it down hard on the glass countertop. "You Yanks better watch your backs, is all," he growled. Then he fixed his eye on me. Behind his sullen expression I caught a glimpse of something else—something that looked like despair. "You're the kid what said you'd help. Fat lot of help you've been!" Then he spun around and strode out of the shop.

I hesitated, torn between wanting to follow him and tell him I was trying—and with wanting to keep far away.

"Oh dear. Now the poor lad's gone without buying his breakfast," sighed Mrs. Pimms.

"'Poor lad?'" Mom asked, incredulously. "He just threatened us, didn't you hear him? And he seems to have something against Americans. Maybe he's the one who left an unpleasant message on our doorstep."

"Oh, dear, did he?" Mrs. Pimms blinked. "Well, he's just that worried about his brother. He's a bit slow, is our Henry. Always has been. You mustn't mind a thing he says. He looks to his big brother for guidance, he does—even when he'd do better to keep his nose clean and out of trouble. Without Simon at home, poor Henry is lost. He's in here twice a day to buy a pork pie or a bun. The rest of the time he haunts the police station, waiting to talk to Simon."

"I'll take two of those pork pies you just mentioned," said Mom brightly. I had a feeling she was just trying to change the subject, but it worked. We said good-bye to Veronica's mother and left the shop.

"Henry gives me the creeps," I said. "The total creeps. But I don't think
he
left that rock. He wants to know who killed Liza, because then his brother will get out of jail. Whoever left it wants me to
stop
asking questions."

Mom sighed and shook her head. She reached into the plastic sack and pulled out an apple pastry. She broke it in half and handed one piece to me. "Have some comfort food, Jule."

We headed for the beach. "Look, there's Kate." I pointed up ahead where Kate Glendenning was coming up the steps at the seawall. She didn't have a camera slung around her neck for a change. "Hi, Kate!"

She did not seem to hear my call. Without looking, she turned and walked up the road quickly, in the opposite direction from our approach. I winced. Mom looked over at me briefly but didn't say anything.

We stopped at the seawall and looked down at the beach. Duncan and the Goops were at the water's edge, throwing rocks. The tide was coming in and only a sliver of beach remained. Far out on the horizon a tanker was silhouetted against the sky. The wind was piercingly cold, and my hair whipped around my face. I had not taken time this morning to wind it into my usual single braid. Gathering it tightly with two hands, I stuffed it into my hood.

"Ivy!" shouted Mom. "Edmund!" She waved both arms to beckon them. "Time to go home. It's cold out here!"

The Goops paid her no notice. Even Duncan did not turn around from the ocean. The sound of the wind and breaking waves mixed with the screeches of seabirds. "They can't hear you. I'll go get them," I offered, and hurried down the steps to the rocky beach. Fine mist sprayed off the sea. The stones were slick underfoot. Had someone come here last night and chosen one of these stones to leave at our door? The chill in my bones was not only from the wind.

"It's time to get back!" I called, reaching out to touch the sleeve of Duncan's jacket. "Hot soup and hot tea—that's what we need."

My brother and sister ignored me, continuing to lob rocks out to sea.

You have to know how to deal with Goops; I used the ace up my sleeve. "Mom stopped at the bakery on our way here—so there will be donuts and pastries and yummy things for people who cooperate and come
right now.
"

"Hooray—cakes!" shouted Ivy, pivoting instantly and hurtling toward Mom.

"Cinnamon buns!" yelled Edmund, racing after her.

"
Bakery
is one of the magic words," I told Duncan confidingly. My hood fell back and my long hair flew out, whipping against his jacket. I struggled against the wind to bundle it back again.

He turned to me but didn't smile. "So you went to the police?"

"Yes. They said they'd look into it. They said it was probably just a joke."

"Predictable, really," he said. The salt spray from a large wave blew into our faces. We turned and started walking together back to the seawall.

"Kate was here," he said.

"Yes, Mom and I saw her, but she didn't see us. Or acted like she didn't."

"Hmmm," he said. "I invited her to the meal at my grandparents' house tonight—but she turned me down."

"Doesn't trust your shepherd's pie?" I teased.

He didn't laugh. When I looked up at him, his expression was stern. "No, that wasn't it. She said she wouldn't come because
you
were going to be there. And she's not speaking to you."

"Ah," I said. "Because she thinks I suspect her mother of killing Liza."

"And you do?"

"I don't know, Duncan. There's just something really weird about that woman. And she's got something going on with Oliver Pethering, I'm almost positive. And she's rude and—I don't know. Something else. She's always staring at me."

"Suspecting people of murder isn't going to win you many friends, you know." His voice was cool. "This isn't some sort of Hollywood film. Why don't you just trust the police to do their jobs?"

Well, what was I supposed to do? Just forget any of this happened? We'd reached the road now, and started trailing home after Mom and the Goops. Ivy and Edmund were already arguing over how to split the goodies in the bakery bag. "Listen, I'm not trying to cause trouble between you and Kate. It's probably better if I don't come for dinner tonight. Then
she
can."

"So now
you're
the one who doesn't trust my shepherd's pie?" This time when I glanced up at him, the smile was back in his eyes.

"I do! But—"

"Please don't cancel. I want you to come."

We turned onto Water Street and walked along to the red door in the stone wall. Someone had smeared something brown all over the door.

"Dog poop! Eww, gross!" screeched the Goops. I groaned.

Mom leaned over to sniff. "No—it's just mud," she said reassuringly. "Probably just a kids' prank. Let's not worry about it."

"Henry Jukes," I muttered under my breath. Mom unlocked the door and ushered the Goops inside. I lingered for a moment with Duncan. "It's another warning, don't you think?"

"Well, Henry has always been a slow-witted troublemaker. He might smear mud on the door, but he wouldn't leave you painted messages on rocks."

"Why not?"

"Can't spell," Duncan said simply. "Writes his own name like a three-year-old, from what I remember of him at school. He'd be more likely to lob the rock through your
window to get his message across. Now, stop suspecting everybody!"

Yeah, right.
Easy enough for
him
to bark out orders like that since he wasn't the one being threatened. But I invited Duncan to stay for lunch, anyway. I didn't want to be fighting with him. He thanked me, said he had a project for school to work on, and we agreed to meet again at six o'clock to walk together over to his grandparents' house for dinner. I hoped he really did have homework, and wasn't just saying that because he was annoyed with me for upsetting Kate.

Mom opened tins of chicken barley soup and sliced apples and divided the pastries, and we ate lunch. Then the phone rang, and it was two new friends that Ivy and Edmund had met at school, a brother and sister from their class, asking if they could play together up on Castle Hill.

"It's lovely that you're finding chums so quickly," Mom said, adding that they could play on the hill if I went with them.

Why not?
I thought. It wasn't as if
my
new "chums" were eager for my company. I might as well hang out with nine-year-olds.

It did me good to be outside again in the brisk, cold air. The site of Blackthorn's ancient castle was a couple of hundred feet high, rising up behind Castle Hill Lane. Edmund and Ivy and their new pals, dark-haired Sophie and Charlie-Tom (who the Goops informed me were
also
twins), raced up the switchback path to the top of Castle Hill. I climbed at a slower pace. Finally we reached the top, a flattened, windswept space. It wasn't hard to believe a castle had once been here. At the far side of the clearing
were ancient stone foundations. We climbed on them, and I read aloud from the wooden sign on a post that explained how the castle had been erected between 1237 and 1250 by the Alnwick family. The castle began crumbling a hundred years later. The Alnwick family fortune had dwindled and there were no funds for repairs, so the family left. The castle was pulled down by villagers who then used the stones to build their own homes at the base of the hill. Much of Blackthorn had been built from the ancient castle stone.

Edmund snorted. "Other castles are still standing after zillions of years, but this old thing crumbled after only a hundred!"

"Crumbling Castle! That's what we'll call it," Ivy decided.

"That's a good name," said Sophie. "And let's pretend there's a ghost."

"I suppose they used ghostly mortar to hold it all together," sneered Charlie-Tom. "That's why it tumbled down!"

Edmund laughed.

The girls were climbing on the foundation stones. Their voices carried back to me. "I'll be the queen and you be the servant," instructed Ivy, typically.

"Right-o," agreed Sophie. Obviously she was going to be the perfect new pal for my sister.

I brushed fallen white blossoms off one of the wooden benches at the edge of the hill and settled myself gingerly onto the damp seat. The view was amazing, with the fields and woods on one side and the sea on the other, framing the whole of the village. I stared out at the panorama of Blackthorn below us, searching for the Old Mill House and our cottage. The features of Blackthorn were becoming familiar to me now. I located the Glendennings' house, Ivy
and Edmund's school, the church, the village cemetery, Liza's studio, and the Pethering home in The Mews. I could see people down there, looking like beetles, making their way through the village on errands or whatever. Most were probably very friendly people I would like to meet, or had already met. One was the person who had left the rock on our doorstep.