Smile and be a Villain (28 page)

‘Well, we can have breakfast, anyway,' said Alan.

Small comfort.

We went down at eight to find our usual places set. Our waitress smiled when we came in. ‘I knew you wouldn't be going in this fog. So shall I cook you something lovely?'

‘Porridge for me,' I said. ‘It's that kind of a day.'

She nodded. ‘Disgusting for holidaymakers, isn't it? It's good for the gardens, though. It's been far too dry. And, Mr Nesbitt, you'll have …?'

He opted for porridge, too, and when our meals came we ate them very slowly. I was trying, with no success at all, to think of something, anything, to occupy an indefinite amount of time.

‘Would it be a good idea to turn in the car here in town? We can get a cab to the airport, and we certainly won't need it for anything else today.'

‘The trouble is, we don't know how much notice we'll have of the flight. It would be sickening to be told the flight was ready and not be able to get there on time.'

‘True.' I asked for another cup of coffee.

We managed to kill an hour over that fifteen-minute breakfast, and then went glumly back up to our room, where we sat and looked at each other.

‘We could go to the museum,' I said listlessly. ‘Or the library.'

‘Neither of them opens till ten.'

‘How about the charity shop? I wanted to browse in there.'

‘I don't know when they open. And we've packed. I don't think we have room for any purchases.'

‘We could unpack the bourbon and sit here and get ourselves quietly pickled.'

‘Now there's a truly productive idea.'

At least it made us laugh for a moment.

I looked at the clock on the bedside table. 9.17.

I stood. ‘Alan, this is absurd. We'll go stark staring crazy if we just sit here and look at each other. We can at least walk to the shops and see if any of them are open yet. If we buy anything we can post it home, from the airport if necessary.'

‘Dorothy, consider the size of the Alderney airport. I seriously doubt they have facilities to post anything, much less a parcel.'

‘Then we'll give it to someone to post for us. This is Alderney, remember? Where people are kind and friendly. Anyway, I have to do something or I'll start to scream.'

‘We'd best stick together, then, in case we get a call and have to move fast.'

I looked out the window. ‘I don't think anything is going to be moving at any speed for quite some time.'

We had packed our rain gear, and it took a little doing to free our jackets from their tight confines. ‘I'd almost rather get wet,' I muttered as a button caught on something and wrenched itself off.

The fog was thick and penetrating. My hair had frizzed up into untidy ringlets before we'd been out five minutes.

‘Is this like the pea soup London used to have?'

‘Heavens, no, thank God! That stuff was lethal, quite literally. It was half fog and half smoke from the millions of coal fires, and people died in the thousands from breathing it. I got caught in it once, the notorious Great Smog. I was a boy, up with my parents for the day, and it was one of the worst experiences of my life. I was terrified! I couldn't see, and I could scarcely breathe, and I knew if I lost sight of my parents I might not find them again. It wasn't too long afterward that they banned coal fires in London, and not before time. This fog is cold and raw and you can't see a lot, but you can breathe it.'

‘If it weren't for the mess it's making of our travel plans, I'd actually sort of like it. I've always had a secret love for fog. It's mysterious.'

Alan sneezed. ‘And extremely wet. Here's the charity shop, and it does seem to be open. Let's get in out of this.'

We were the only customers. The volunteers were busy folding and pricing, tidying and sorting, and of course chatting. I recognized Sylvia Whiting, looking efficient, and sweet little Martha Duckett. Oh, dear. We were in a nest of Abercrombie supporters.

Or at least they had been. Had the events of the weekend made any difference to them, or would we find ourselves more comfortable back out in the fog?

They looked up and saw us. Little Martha turned pink and went back, with trembling hands, to pairing socks. Sylvia was made of sterner stuff. She put down a fluffy child's sweater that she was pricing and came up to us.

‘So you were right and we were wrong. I suppose you're satisfied, now that you've made fools of us all.'

And then sweet, gentle little Martha came to our defence. ‘Oh, no, Sylvia, it wasn't they who did that. They simply showed us what we had been too foolish to see. We mustn't kill the messengers.'

If one of the socks on the counter had sprung up and bit her, Sylvia couldn't have looked more surprised.

I had to bite back a nervous giggle. ‘Martha, we both feel very sorry about the people who are feeling betrayed right now, especially for you, because – I hope you don't mind my saying so – you're such a sweet person.'

She turned pink again. ‘Too trusting,' she said sadly. ‘My dear sister always told me so. But it's better to know the truth.'

‘So nothing would do but that it had to be blurted out in front of the whole island,' said Sylvia, still belligerent, and I suddenly knew what her problem was.

‘I'm sure you could have thought of a much better way to do it, Sylvia. You're so good at organizing. But there simply wasn't time. We were leaving the island. We had meant to go by the first plane this morning, but …' I gestured out the window. ‘I'm very glad we ran into you, though, because I lost your phone number and I wanted to talk to you. Do you think it would be a good idea for small groups of people, mostly parishioners I suppose, to meet and talk out the situation? I'm not sure whether it would work or not, and you know all these people so well …' I let it trail off.

Actually, I thought it was a terrible idea. Much better to leave it alone, let time do its work and the hurts start to heal, but it had popped into my head as a way to make Sylvia feel important again. The only hurt she had sustained, I thought, was to her ego.

Alan, at the back of the shop pretending to look at a rack of shirts, seemed to be in some bronchial distress. He had to keep coughing into his handkerchief.

Sylvia cocked her head to one side. ‘It's worth some thought. I think it would be better for the groups to have some other purpose, clothes and food for the refugees, perhaps. Yes. We could meet in people's homes, and Barbara could donate anything we can't use here, and many of the women sew … I'll ask her about it right now.'

She bustled off, and I thought I could detect a hint of a smile on Martha's face.

‘I think you are a very clever woman,' she whispered.

After that we had to buy something, so Alan chose a shirt that wasn't too bad and I found a book that would fit into my purse. We paid and left before Sylvia could come back.

The fog was no better, and there was no wind that might drive it away. ‘What are you going to do with that shirt?'

‘It'll do nicely for when I paint the shed.'

‘It looks too big.'

‘It is. That's why it'll make a good painting smock. My dear, you might warn me the next time you plan an act like that. I thought I was going to do myself some serious harm, trying not to laugh.'

‘I didn't plan it. It just came out. I was tired of being browbeaten.' I looked around me. ‘What now? It doesn't look as if this stuff is ever going to go away.'

‘Here. The general store is open. Let's pop in, and I'll see what sort of forecast I can pull up on the mobile.'

We were entering the shop as he spoke, and the man behind the counter heard him. ‘You'll not find anything good, if you're trying to fly. Where were you making for?'

‘Southampton.'

He shook his head. ‘Doubtful you'll get there at all today. Even if it clears here, the whole south coast is fogged in.'

I sagged back against the door. ‘Alan, maybe you'd better call Aurigny.'

‘They said they'd call me.' His phone rang. ‘Right. Yes.' He turned to me. ‘All flights to Southampton cancelled for the rest of the day. They'll put us on the first flight in the morning, but they don't know when that will be. Even with a small airline flying from a small airport, delays cause major problems. We'd better go back to Belle Isle and book one more night.'

‘And I'll call Jane.'

‘I gather,' came a voice from behind a shelf, ‘that you are stranded here for one more day.'

Robin.

It seemed we were to spend the day being haunted by people with whom we had crossed swords. At least Robin had been anti-Abercrombie. But also anti-us, at least with regard to our hunt for a possible murderer.

Alan recovered before I did. ‘Yes, so it seems. At least one more day. Apparently the pattern of fogs in these parts is rather unpredictable.'

‘Yes.'

There was an awkward pause. Robin cleared his throat. ‘Since the weather isn't conducive to outdoor activities, I wonder if you'd care to come to tea this afternoon.'

I opened my mouth and closed it again, and finally managed to say, ‘Thank you, we'd enjoy that. Very much.'

‘Around four, then? You remember where I live?'

‘More or less, but you'd better give us directions.'

I almost volunteered to bring something, but I wasn't sure how formal this man would be. Better not.

I
bought a few magazines to while away a long day, and then we picked up some groceries, enough to last us through the day and into the morning, in case that proved necessary. When we had stowed everything in our room, we found they hadn't changed the sheets and towels.

‘When there's a fog like this, we know no one's leaving, and no new guests are coming,' the chambermaid explained. ‘Of course we'll give you fresh linens if you wish.'

‘Of course not. They were changed just yesterday, or at most the day before. At home it's once a week. No need to make extra work for yourselves.'

When we had unpacked what we needed for the day and phoned Jane, it was after ten. ‘Library or museum?' asked Alan.

‘Library, I suppose. These magazines don't look terribly interesting. There's sure to be something better to read there. And you can surf the Net if you want.'

We walked. It wasn't all that far, and now we'd unpacked all our wet-weather gear it wasn't too unpleasant, though the cobblestones were slippery and a bit treacherous.

The town looked strange. In two weeks we'd learned our way around fairly well, with the help of familiar landmarks, but those landmarks appeared now only when we got very near, and all the colour was faded. It was slightly eerie.

‘I used to have the feeling, when I was a child, that things might disappear entirely in a fog. Or maybe that other things would be there, other houses and trees and even people.'

‘I expect you liked
Brigadoon
.'

‘I loved it.' And for the rest of the way we hummed the theme song from the old musical, a haunting tune.

The library was warm, bright and quiet, a haven from the raw weather. There were several other patrons, but no one was using the public computer, so Alan settled down to see if he could find something interesting, while I searched the mystery shelves until I found one of my favourite Dorothy Sayers novels,
The Nine Tailors
. I'd read it many times, but it didn't matter. I immersed myself in the wintry world of Fenchurch St Paul, a perfect escape from the foggy and slightly hostile world of Alderney.

‘Excuse me.' A whisper at my elbow brought me back. I had reached the story about the stolen emeralds and couldn't, for a moment, remember where I was and who was speaking to me. ‘I'm sorry to disturb you, but might we go outside for just a moment, you and your husband?'

It was Mr Lewison. I couldn't imagine what he wanted with us, but I was getting stiff with sitting, anyway. He had already spoken to Alan, and the three of us stepped outside the door to shiver in the forecourt, where the fog looked as though it might have settled in for all eternity.

‘As you see,' Mr Lewison began, ‘I am also marooned here until the fog lifts. I had intended to go home yesterday, but there was a good deal I needed to discuss with Mr Venables. Now that none of us can go anywhere, I wondered if I could treat the two of you to morning coffee, and we could have a little chat. I brought my car,' he added. ‘It's a bit of a walk down to Jack's in this weather.'

‘That,' said Alan, ‘sounds utterly delightful. Let me get our coats.'

Hot coffee and a pastry were precisely what I wanted, along with the company of someone who wasn't going to berate us for anything concerning the late unlamented William Abercrombie.

‘Was this your first visit to Alderney?' the priest asked when we'd had our first sips of wonderful coffee.

We nodded.

‘What a pity it turned out the way it did! I'm sure you'll be very glad to get away.'

‘Yes and no,' I said, considering. ‘Yes, there was a good deal of unpleasantness. And to be honest, my refusal to stay out of it made things worse.'

‘For both of you, I'm sure it did. For the islanders, I think your intervention was a good and necessary thing. You opened a good many cupboards and let out a good many secrets, secrets of the kind that needed to be aired. Never blame yourselves for that.'

‘We made a lot of people unhappy.'

‘No, Mrs Martin. William Abercrombie made a lot of people unhappy, indeed miserable. You can't take the troubles of the world on your shoulders, though I suspect you constantly try.' His smile robbed his remark of most of its sting, but it was nevertheless a reprimand, and one I deserved. I shrugged, exchanged glances with Alan, and drank more coffee.

‘I wonder: did the two of you ever come to any conclusion about whether the “accident” was really that?'