Money Never Sleeps (9 page)

Jed could have sworn at him, silenced him in a completely unprofessional way. His clenched fist hurt, nails digging into flesh. He swallowed his anger. ‘Writers are ordinary, normal people with a longing to write, to create stories, to write
something
that other people will want to read. They don’t start fires.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘I do say so. Would you like some coffee?’ Jed tried to be civil.

‘No, thank you. I have to arrange for the wreck to be removed for forensic examination. It’s still a criminal offence.’

Fancy skipped the first workshop of the day, walked round the garden, talked to a few people, apologized to the writer whose manuscript had been burnt to cinders in a bucket.

‘You must let me pay for a fresh photocopy,’ said Fancy. The writer wore a white badge, was anxious, wide-eyed, starting out. You never knew, she might be the next J K Rowling or Ruth Rendell. Fancy fished for a card in her bag. ‘Send it to me at home and I promise to read it. Every word. And I’ll send a critique.’

‘That would be wonderful, Fancy. Thank you so much. I do hope you were not hurt in any way.’

‘Only my hands,’ said Fancy. She had thrown away the corrupt bandages and wrapped her hands in cling film. They were healing and looked pink and healthy. She had good, healthy genes.

The police were still interviewing and were going through the catering and management staff now. No one knew anything. How could they? They were busy cooking and caring for three hundred people. They didn’t have time to walk round the old lake in the dark.

Fancy’s third lecture flowed. She was not sure why. It might be because she had done her homework and the structure was firmly formed in her head. It might be because she knew her subject. It might be because she liked her group and wanted them to enjoy writing fiction, as she did.

‘So today, my friends, we are going to work. No more jokes. Down to serious work. Pen to paper. Mind in gear. Ideas at the ready. We are going to look for clues and invent red herrings. Has everyone got a pen?’

There was the usual clamour for one of her pink pens.

The hour fled by with hoots of laughter and more good ideas. Fancy thought, fleetingly, that she might pinch some of them. She could use them, slightly amended. She could see short stories, novels, non-fiction, her invisible world. But she sat flat on her greedy appetite and discussed with the delegates how to best use their ideas in their work. How could she have thought, even for a moment, of using their ideas?

Break time on the lawn was welcome. She drank two black coffees. The week was nearly over. She wanted to get back to her current writing; it was too long to be away from her book. It hadn’t gone cold on her but she felt a chilly distance. Whereas normally the story lived with her, every moment of the day, now there were whole hours when she did not give it a thought.

‘Guess who the car belonged to,’ Jed said, trying to balance a
coffee and a biscuit in one hand. She did not offer to help. She knew that much now.

‘Tonight’s speaker?’

‘No, Melody’s husband. He’s the farmer who’d driven up from Cornwall. Not exactly a good week for him. First Melody and now his car.’

‘Was he staying here?’ Fancy wondered why she had seen the silver car drive away from Northcote at two in the morning, before the fire. It didn’t make sense.

‘Yes, they’d given him a room in the main house. No one knew he was here. He wanted his presence to be kept quiet, so that the programme was not upset. It was what Melody would have wanted, he said.’

Fancy thought about her arrival and Melody’s warm greeting.

‘She was a lovely lady. She’d once been very beautiful – it’s easy to see that. I only met her on Saturday when I arrived, but she was very kind and helpful. I feel so sorry for her husband.’

‘Partner. A bit younger than Melody, I should think. Big
strapping
chap, typical farmer.’

‘A farmer is the perfect partner for a writer. He’s out all day, from the crack of dawn, doing farming type things. Hopefully the farm provides lots of good food so she need never go to Waitrose again. Oh dear, Melody need never go shopping again, of course. I’d forgotten.’

‘Are you looking for a farmer?’ Jed asked. He was disguising a twinkle in his eyes. Did he really want to know? ‘Would a farmer suit you?’

Fancy had to pause, think hard. ‘I’m not looking for anyone, not even a hard-working farmer,’ she said. ‘But if one came along, I would kiss the ground, like the Pope.’

‘That was the previous Pope who kissed the ground.’

‘I don’t count popes.’

‘I go to a lot of pub quizzes.’

‘Does any of this make sense to you?’ Fancy wanted to get off the subject. It made her feel vulnerable, a target. ‘Melody is drowned and then her husband’s car is set on fire in the middle of the night.’

‘Nothing about it makes any sense to me, Fancy. And you are a complete mystery.’ He sounded annoyed. ‘What are you scheduled to do now?’

‘Nothing. I’ve done my lecture. It went well. I think I’m free.’

‘Then we can walk around the new lake. Take in some fresh air. The old lake is still cordoned off, scene-of-crime.’

A uniformed member of the domestic staff was running across the lawn towards Fancy. She looked flushed and anxious. ‘Miss Jones,’ she said, breathing heavily. ‘Can I speak to you? Can I ask you something?’

Fancy paused, hoping it wouldn’t take long. She rather fancied a walk with Jed when she had nothing to do. And it was a long time since she had fancied anything with a man.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘One of our maids has collapsed. She’s been taken to hospital. Something respiratory. She was doing your room, room 425, and said something about sniffing your flowers and being bitten before she passed out.’

‘My flowers? What flowers?’

‘Yes, the bunch of flowers on the sill in your room. Do you know who gave them to you?’

Fancy had no idea. The flowers had just appeared from nowhere. A gift from someone. ‘No, I don’t know. I didn’t put them there.’

‘She was giving them some fresh water, rearranging them, when something bit her hand. She’s quite poorly.’

Jed took Fancy’s arm to steady her. Flowers in her room that could bite? She had heard of leaves that were toxic and
digitalis
, or foxgloves, were poisonous.

‘You have seriously upset someone,’ he said. ‘Now they’re trying to asphyxiate you.’

‘Surely flowers can’t kill you,’ said Fancy hopefully.

‘They can if a lethal spider is hiding among the leaves.’

‘That’s nonsense. I didn’t see any spider.’

He turned back to her. ‘Listen, Fancy. None of this is rubbish.
Someone has issues with you and it’s not funny,’ he said. ‘You are in serious danger.’

‘I’ll be going home soon.’

‘Want to bet on it? They haven’t finished what they came to do.’

F
ancy didn’t want to know anything about lethal spiders. She hated spiders, of any kind. She had trained herself to remove spiders from the bath with a tumbler and a sheet of paper but she had to wear sunglasses during the operation. It was not
something
to be proud of.

‘I hate spiders,’ she said.

‘Especially ones that bite,’ said Jed.

‘Is the girl going to be all right?’

‘They’ve taken her to hospital because she’s pregnant and they want to make sure.’

‘I’d like to send her some flowers,’ said Fancy without thinking.

‘Surely not flowers,’ said Jed quickly.

Fancy felt the colour warm in her face. Sometimes she was so stupid, so unthinking. It was a country from which she found it difficult to return. The words were not there. Maybe they were on paper, but not in her mind.

‘No, of course not flowers. A basket of fruit, perhaps? Good for a growing baby. I’ll order it online. Can you give me an address?’

‘She’d like that, especially you thinking of her. She reads your books, Miss Jones. Loves the Pink Pen Detective.’

‘Heavens,’ said Fancy, surprised. ‘I’ve never met anyone who’s read them.’

Jed guided her down the lawn towards the new lake. It looked raw and unnatural, set in smooth grass with a bank and fence round it. So unlike the old lake with its sweeping weeping willows and plants. No swans.

‘It takes time for a lake to merge with the countryside,’ said Jed.

‘It’s man-made, a false lake and looks so artificial.’

‘Someone has planted water lilies in it. They are trying. Give it a few years and it’ll look different. Let’s walk round. The fresh air will do us good.’

The path was new too, of even width and straight. The grass stretched in all directions, verdant green. It was the rich, damp earth of Derbyshire, a dry stone wall in the distance. It had its own untouched beauty. No one had died there. Yet.

‘I’d like to give them a tree, a willow, for the new lake. Do you think they’d let me?’ said Fancy, seeing a tree growing here, big and sweeping, long after she had withered and gone.

‘I’m sure they would like that,’ said Jed. He didn’t take her hand but he wanted to. Fancy always kept that distance. ‘They’d invite you to plant it. Put up an inscribed plaque.’

‘Not a plaque, please. Too much like a tombstone. Why did you say all that about the flowers in my room? I’ve never heard of flowers that can asphyxiate.’

‘Neither have I. It was a wild guess.’

‘Then why say it?’

They were going to have a row. Fancy could feel it gathering like storm clouds. She caught a quick glimpse of Jed’s mouth tightening. His step quickened. He was already a foot ahead of her, not looking back. Fancy clasped her hands behind her, straightening her back. Good for her posture.

‘Are you keeping something from me?’ she went on. ‘I’ve a feeling you’re not being straight with me. What are you not telling me?’

‘I’ve been straight with you all the time. You’re the one who is keeping things from me. What else haven’t you told me?’

There was a stinging silence. It hurt.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Fancy stormed. ‘Of course, I’ve told you everything about the incidents. What else do you want to know? All about my private life? Want to know the details? Time and place? Score rates?’

‘Don’t you trust me, Fancy?’ Jed avoided her questions with his own question. ‘Aren’t we a team? Haven’t I been helping you?’

‘Yes, of course, you have, Jed. You’ve been great and I’ve appreciated your support but I get this feeling that there’s
something
you haven’t told me. It all seems weird. All these things are happening to me and you’re always around when they do. It can’t be just a coincidence.’

Jed swung back, facing her. ‘Are you trying to say that I’m connected to all these unpleasant events? Do you think I’m behind them? Was I on the Underground station, on the bus, throwing concrete through your saints window? So I’ve had the opportunity, have I? Perhaps it is me, perhaps I’m some weirdo getting revenge because you plagiarized my novel, stole my plot.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ said Fancy, not knowing what she meant. She was confused, alarmed. She had become used to leaning on Jed. He had been there for her. But how had it happened? He had appeared, come to her of his own accord. He could have arranged it all. He’d had the time, the opportunity.

‘Is it about money? Money seems to be at the root of all evil.’

Jed didn’t answer.

They were completely alone, by the new lake. Sunlight winked on the water like diamonds, streaks of light reflecting back. There was no one in sight. Fancy was frightened. Jed was tall, strong, muscled, even with only one arm. He could easily put his good arm hard round her throat and drag her back into the hedge. He would know some deadly lock. She wouldn’t stand a chance, however hard she fought.

Fancy turned and ran. She kicked off her shoes, felt the grit from the path under her feet. She ran towards the house and the conference hall, towards the lawn outside the vinery to where there would be people. Lots of people. She was out of breath. She didn’t often run, not even for a train.

A few people looked at her, thought she was late for a talk.

And she found she was crying. She had trusted Jed. Now all
her warm feelings for him had gone. She was alone again. A
solitary
writer churning out thousands of words to pay the bills. She would stop publication of her magazine. She never wanted to see it again. It would not be missed. Save a few trees.

She could go home. She would pack her things, order a taxi, take any train from Derby back to London, back to her church lodge, get the window fixed. She had forgotten she had a vintage car parked on the higher level car park.

‘We’re so looking forward to your last lecture tomorrow,’ said a group of keen young writers, gathering round her like bees round a flower. ‘You’ve been such an inspiration. You are so enthusiastic about writing.’

Fancy didn’t feel enthusiastic or inspired. She felt enthusiastic about going home. She felt swallowed by their obvious
admiration
, sorry that she was going to let them down. She had to find Jessie or Fergus and tell them that she was leaving. The skin on her hands felt tight and burning. She could blame it on her hands. Delayed shock, sudden urgent phone call from her publishers, anything.

‘All it needs is your own enthusiasm,’ she said. ‘Each of you has got it in you to do it. Make it work for you.’

Fancy didn’t really know what she was saying. She was
shattered
by Jed’s sudden change, felt as if she was bleeding into the day. She couldn’t remember the time. Was it lunch time? She didn’t want any food. Breakfast seemed a hundred hours away. If only she could wake up and find the last minutes had been a horrid dream. Dream was the wrong word. She should have said nightmare.

‘I loved your last book,’ a fresh-faced young woman was saying. ‘It was such a clever ending. How do you think up such endings?’

Heavens, someone else who had read her book. ‘I don’t really know,’ said Fancy. ‘It just happens. Sometimes I don’t even know how it’s going to end. The books take over. They kind of write themselves.’

Everyone laughed, regrouped and let Fancy escape. Richard,
the Treasurer stopped her as she headed towards the bar. He was always carrying a file of papers or a clipboard. No change today.

‘Hey, Fancy, you’ve forgotten the pre-lunch drinks party,’ Richard said. ‘It’s the committee’s thank-you to everyone who has helped in some way. You are supposed to be there. I’m late too. We can just make it.’

Fancy had no idea what he was talking about but followed him meekly to the reception entrance of Lakeside. It was crowded with people getting their free drink and handful of crisps or nuts. A glass of white wine was put in her hand,
carefully
.

‘Still hurting?’

Fancy nodded, remembering the going-home role she was about to play. ‘Still hurting. More than I expected. Thank you.’

Fergus was going to make a speech. She slid sideways to lean against a wall, apart from people. Her strength was draining away. She might faint. The wine tasted of nothing. It could be mineral water. Perhaps it was mineral water.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ Fergus began, clearing his throat. He was getting conference-throat. ‘The committee and I want to thank you all for your support this year in making the conference the great success that it is. So many of you cheerfully help out in different ways and we want to thank you. The book room helpers, the stewards, the DJs, the raffle ticket sellers, the
microphone
experts, the first aiders ….’ He went on, listing everyone who helped in some way. It was an endless list.

Jed paused in the doorway with a face carved into stone. Fancy folded herself back against the curtain drapes, hoping he could not see her. She didn’t want to see him either. What was he doing here, anyway, at the thank-you party? Fergus went over to him with a glass of red wine so she supposed they counted frequent trips to Derby on committee business as worth a free glass of wine.

‘Don’t you like your wine?’ asked Jessie. ‘Is it too dry for you?’

‘A bit dry,’ said Fancy, hardly thinking.

‘I’ll get you something you will like. Come and meet tonight’s speaker. I expect you already know him.’

It was Simon Brett, who Fancy knew from the Crime Writers’ Association. He was a prolific writer and great entertainer. A sideline was writing parodies of famous books and then acting all the parts himself. She had never seen a performance but the grapevine said they were hilarious.

She wished she could stay to hear it. She would have enjoyed being on the shelf with her friends, cheering and clapping. It was rumoured to be Agatha Christie’s turn tonight. One of her famous mysteries.

But she was going home. She would be trying to warm up her kitchen and filling the washing machine. Supper would be baked beans on toast. Lunch would be baked beans on toast.

She found herself being drawn into a chattering group round Simon. He was an amiable man, easy-going, with an infectious laugh. She had second thoughts about going home, and then third thoughts. She could not face another baked bean. Not for a long time, however nutritious.

‘I think you’ll like this,’ said Jessie, returning with a brimming glass of red. ‘It’s a special bottle we keep under the table for special people.’

‘Is that allowed?’ whispered Fancy.

‘It’s a well-kept secret.’

Fancy was laughing at something, half turning, when she found Jed confronting her. He seemed to tower over her, taller than ever. He had drunk most of his wine, which might account for his face being a degree less stony.

‘You left your shoes behind,’ he said. They were tucked under his good arm.

‘Oh yes, thank you,’ she said.

‘You’d better put them on.’

It was an awkward movement trying to put on her shoes without spilling her wine. He didn’t offer to help her.

‘I suppose you thought I was going to harm you in some way.’

‘Yes,’ said Fancy firmly. She took a sip of wine. It was a good one, deliciously grapey. ‘And I wasn’t going to wait to find out.’

‘That’s not flattering.’

‘It’s not supposed to be. Flight or fight reflexes and I’ve only got a pale pink belt in karate.’

There was a strained silence between them, yet the room was full of noise. Laughter, chatting, clinking of glasses. Even
wallpaper
pop music belting out from a personal stereo.

Fancy felt that the world could swallow her and she would disappear. She wanted to disappear. The moment was too tense, too unsettling.

‘There really is a flower that can kill you,’ said Jed. ‘It’s called monkshood. Sort of mauve or purple. Sickness, nausea, passing out, coma, all sorts of horrid symptoms. It’s in books.’

He was trying not to look at her. Looking anywhere, over talking heads.

‘But don’t you have to eat it, not just sniff it?’ said Fancy, her natural interest wiping out the last wall of defence. ‘I’ll have to look it up on Google.’

‘Why were we fighting and arguing?’ Jed finished his wine in a gulp. ‘You and me? We’re not like that, Fancy. It wasn’t normal.’

‘I’ve no idea. It was as if some kind of demon took over. The demon of the new lake. We won’t walk round it again. It needs an exorcism.’

Demon of the Lake
. Was that a title?

‘Maybe the workmen digging out the new lake disturbed a plague pit. There were plague villages up here. Whole villages were wiped out in the seventeenth century. Eyam, for example, in 1665 and 1666, hardly anyone survived. People were buried in piles.’

Fancy sighed. ‘Poor souls. It gives me the shivers.’

Jed put down his glass on the nearest surface and curled his good arm round Fancy’s waist. She felt her breasts tighten as he pulled her close. The granite face had gone. He was looking at her with warmth and longing.

‘Would it be all right if I kissed you right now?’ he asked, his voice low and intense. ‘In front of everyone?’

‘No, thank you,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Kissing in public is not permitted.’

‘Is that a dare?’

‘There’s nothing romantic about a noisy room full of writers drinking free wine.’

‘It’s perfect, Fancy, because no one would notice. Everyone’s far too busy queuing up for refills.’

His lips were on hers before she could protest. They were warm and moist. The noise faded into a distant blanket. Fancy leaned against him, feeling the hardness of his chest, the firmness of his good arm, the smell of his aftershave. She clutched the arm that had no feeling, loving it as much as the one that worked. His mouth took hold of hers, drawing her closer. She could taste his wine. He’d been given the special bottle, too. He was special. She was not sure why, but he was.

‘Do you think anyone noticed?’ he whispered against her ear.

‘Well, we haven’t been thrown out for lewd behaviour at lunch-time.’

‘We must never, never quarrel again. I thought I would die when you ran away from me. I thought you were leaving me forever. And I need you, Fancy. God knows why, but I do.’