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- Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
Miss Marple meets Oscar Wilde in this new series of cosy mysteries set in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry. Here, fudge-making and quaffing real ale in the local pub are matched by an undercurrent of passion, jealousy, hatred and murder - laced with a welcome dose of humour.
This compilation contains episodes 13-15.
LOST AND FOUND
Life is looking up for amateur sleuth Alfie McAlister. He has found relatives he never knew he had, and at long last, he has replaced the avocado suite in his bathroom. But he is shocked to get a plea for help from his niece Ruby. He offers her sanctuary in Bunburry - but his invitation brings danger to the village...
WHEN NIGHT FALLS
Bunburry has been rocked by a series of burglaries, and a discovery at the scene of the crime in the home of Bunburry’s favourite senior citizens, Liz and Marge, leads amateur sleuth Alfie to fear the worst. He decides that this time, the matter should be left to the proper authorities. But some of the villagers have other ideas...
FOUL PLAY
While Alfie is exploring the private library of a Victorian mansion, he discovers that it contains a century-old secret linked to the writer Oscar Wilde. But when a murder occurs, the only thing to do is call the police...
Helena Marchmont is a pseudonym of Olga Wojtas, who was born and brought up in Edinburgh. She was encouraged to write by an inspirational English teacher, Iona M. Cameron. Olga won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2015 and recently published her forth book in the Miss Blaine mystery series.
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Seitenzahl: 473
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Digital original edition - compilation
beTHRILLED is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG
Copyright © 2025 by
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Reproductions of this work for text and data mining are reserved.
ISBN 978-3-7517-6466-7
About the Author
Helena Marchmont is a pseudonym of Olga Wojtas, who was born and brought up in Edinburgh. She was encouraged to write by an inspirational English teacher, Iona M. Cameron. Olga won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2015, has had more than 30 short stories published in magazines and anthologies and recently published her first mystery Miss Blaine’s Prefect and the Golden Samovar.
About the Book
Miss Marple meets Oscar Wilde in this new series of cosy mysteries set in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry. Here, fudge-making and quaffing real ale in the local pub are matched by an undercurrent of passion, jealousy, hatred and murder - laced with a welcome dose of humour.
This compilation contains episodes 13-15.
LOST AND FOUND
Life is looking up for amateur sleuth Alfie McAlister. He has found relatives he never knew he had, and at long last, he has replaced the avocado suite in his bathroom. But he is shocked to get a plea for help from his niece Ruby. He offers her sanctuary in Bunburry - but his invitation brings danger to the village...
WHEN NIGHT FALLS
Bunburry has been rocked by a series of burglaries, and a discovery at the scene of the crime in the home of Bunburry’s favourite senior citizens, Liz and Marge, leads amateur sleuth Alfie to fear the worst. He decides that this time, the matter should be left to the proper authorities. But some of the villagers have other ideas...
FOUL PLAY
While Alfie is exploring the private library of a Victorian mansion, he discovers that it contains a century-old secret linked to the writer Oscar Wilde. But when a murder occurs, the only thing to do is call the police...
Helena Marchmont is a pseudonym of Olga Wojtas, who was born and brought up in Edinburgh. She was encouraged to write by an inspirational English teacher, Iona M. Cameron. Olga won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2015 and recently published her forth book in the Miss Blaine mystery series.
Bunburry - Episode 13-15
Cover
Title
Copyright
About the Author
About the book
Contents
Bunburry – Lost and Found
Cover
Cast
Title
Prologue
1. An Encounter
2. Anne McAlister
3. Back in Bunburry
4. The Visitors
5. Getting To Know You
6. Oxford
7. Ruby’s Flat
8. Saturday Morning
9. Saturday Evening
10. Saturday Night
11. Emergency
12. Taxi Journeys
13. The Culprit
Next episode
Copyright
Bunburry – When Night falls
Cover
Cast
Title
1. Laura Hollis
2. An Explanation
3. Stolen Goods
4. The Investigation Begins
5. Gwendolyn
6. A Worrying Discovery
7. The Night Before and the Morning After
8. The Horse
9. Confrontation
10. Off to Oxford
11. Mead, Monks and Misunderstandings
12. Epilogue
Next episode
Copyright
Bunburry - Foul Play
Cover
Cast
Title
Prologue
1. A Scottish Holiday
2. Sudden Death
3. Hallwood and Bunburry
4. The Hallwood Library
5. A Discovery
6. A Dinner Date
7. A Second Dinner Date
8. Sudden Death
9. The Investigation
10. The Interrogation
11. A Confession
12. A Second Confession
13. Oscar at Hallwood
Epilogue
Next episode
Copyright
Guide
Start Reading
Contents
Cast
Alfie McAlister flees the hustle and bustle of London for the peace and quiet of the Cotswolds. Unfortunately, the “heart of England” turns out to be deadlier than expected …
Margaret “Marge” Redwood and Clarissa “Liz” Hopkins have lived in Bunburry their entire lives, where they are famous for their exceptional fudge-making skills. Between Afternoon Tea and Gin o’clock they relish a bit of sleuthing …
Emma Hollis loves her job as policewoman, the only thing she is tired of are her aunt Liz’s constant attempts at matchmaking.
Betty Thorndike is a fighter. Mostly for animal rights. She’s the sole member of Bunburry’s Green Party.
Oscar de Linnet lives in London and is Alfie’s best friend. He tries luring Alfie back to the City because: “anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there.”
Augusta Lytton is Alfie’s aunt. She’s dead. But still full of surprises …
Harold Wilson loves a pint (or two) more than his job as local police sergeant.
BUNBURRY is a picturesque Cotswolds village, where sinister secrets lurk beneath the perfect façade …
HELENA MARCHMONT
Lost and Found
“Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older, they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.”
Oscar Wilde
Prologue
The man stood concealed in the doorway of a shop that had closed for the night.
Where was she? He had watched all her colleagues leave. She usually took work home with her rather than staying in the office.
Ah, here she was now, carrying a laden briefcase. But she was going in the opposite direction to the bus stop. The man frowned. He had expected her to go straight home, and that was why he had deliberately parked near the bus stop.
He didn’t like this. She could be meeting someone. A man she had met on the dating app. She shouldn’t be using that app. He didn’t like it.
When she was a safe distance away, he emerged from the doorway and followed her, staying on the opposite side of the road. He was getting good at this. She had no idea he was there. At some point, he would make his presence felt. But not yet, not today.
She was going down a side street now. Stopping at a wine bar. Going in.
Quickly, he followed. He was in luck. The frontage was a series of large plate-glass windows, and it was easy to see inside. Who was she meeting? He watched intently as she made her way between the tables.
It was all right. Not a man. A couple of girlfriends. They were hugging, already chattering away to one another as she took her seat. He watched her order a glass of wine: a small one, he noted with satisfaction. Or was it going to be the first of many?
He was in luck again. When she finished her drink, she got up, and after giving her friends a farewell, emerged from the wine bar with her briefcase.
He followed at a discreet distance as she retraced her steps. She was getting the bus home – she must have a lot of work to do. He got into the small grey car parked nearby, and when the bus came, he followed it, careful not to overtake.
When she got off the bus, he drove past her. He knew the way. By the time she reached the entrance to the flats, he had been able to turn round and stop a short way. She never even noticed him.
He gave her time to get in, then sent a text. Looking good, beautiful. I like you in that green blouse. You should wear a shorter skirt, let me see more of your lovely legs.
One day soon, he would tell her these things in person. He took the newly cut keys out of his pocket. One day soon.
1. An Encounter
Alfie McAlister turned up his coat collar against the chill of the air. Despite being November, it was a bright, sunny day, but Aberdeen, five hundred miles north of Bunburry, was considerably colder than the Cotswolds village.
He hadn’t known what to expect of this distant Scottish city, an east-coast seaport that was a hub of the offshore oil industry. But he was already completely charmed by the silver granite buildings sparkling in the sunshine, the elegant main street only a stone’s throw from the quays, the squawking seagulls.
It would be a perfect place for a holiday. Except he wasn’t here for a holiday. He had only made the decision to come north because he was exiled from Windermere Cottage, while an army of tradespeople renovated the home he had inherited from Aunt Augusta. At first, he took one of the rooms in The Drunken Horse Inn. Its luxurious en-suite bathroom was the model for what he would have in the cottage, at last replacing the avocado suite with comfort and style.
But the problem with The Horse was the cooking, or rather, the cooks. There was ferocious rivalry between Edith, mother of the inn’s owner, and Carlotta, the owner’s wife. Edith specialised in traditional English fare, while Carlotta not only preferred recipes from her native Italy, but had recently turned vegan. While he was staying there, Alfie spent as many evenings as possible with his friends, Liz and Marge, and sometimes escaped to the local Indian restaurant, From Bombay to Bunburry .
There was no escape at breakfast time, however. He loved Edith’s full English breakfast: bacon, eggs, sausages, grilled tomatoes, home cooked baked beans and sauté potatoes, accompanied by wholemeal toast with farm butter and thick-cut marmalade. But in order to keep the peace, every second morning he had Carlotta’s vegan breakfast, which could be chive waffles with mushrooms, or tofu pancakes with blackcurrant compote, or porridge made with hemp milk, blueberries and kiwi fruit, washed down with an exotic smoothie. It might not be his first choice, but it was always delicious, and Alfie would have been happy to ring the changes. But every morning, the two women hovered near him as he ate, jealously watching for signs that he was enjoying one breakfast more than another.
After a week, Alfie had feared he would have either indigestion or an ulcer if he stayed much longer. And so he decided to flee back to his London flat where he could eat whatever he wanted unobserved.
He had barely unpacked when his phone rang.
“My name’s Oscar de Linnet,” came an upper-class drawl. “I’m looking for a fellow called Alfie McAlister, newly arrived from the country. I thought I should introduce him to a spot of culture.”
“Oscar, I came up to London last month for the Beethoven at the Royal Festival Hall,” said Alfie drily.
“And tonight you’re going to hear Don Giovanni at the Royal Opera House. Remember to change out of your wellingtons and dungarees – the place has certain standards.”
Alfie glanced down at his Savile Row trousers and fine Italian leather shoes. “I’ll try not to embarrass you.”
His friendship with Oscar still surprised him sometimes, given their very different backgrounds. Oscar was an Eton-educated aristocrat who had no doubt been taken to the Royal Opera House when he was still in short trousers. Alfie had been brought up in Hackney by a single mother, and had become a self-made man who found himself a multi-millionaire through the sale of his start-up. He might be able to match Oscar for bespoke tailoring and hand-made shoes, but he never took them for granted. He acknowledged that he liked having expensive, stylish clothes, but that was because when he was growing up, everything he wore came from market stalls or charity shops.
As always, Oscar had got the best seats for the opera, and the performance was magnificent. But afterwards, as they walked towards Soho for a late supper, Alfie found himself recoiling from the throngs of people, his eardrums blasted by the noise of the traffic, the blaring of horns, the sirens of emergency vehicles. As a boy in the East End, he’d thought it was an adventure to go “up west” and see the lights and the crowds. But now, after three years in the country, he had lost his tolerance for the ceaseless bustle, and it was a relief to reach the restaurant.
“And you claim you’re only here for a fortnight?” said Oscar once they were seated in the Cantonese restaurant, a pot of Oolong tea in front of them. “You do know that builders never finish when they say they will? You’ll still be here by Christmas, if not Easter.”
“I have an excellent local architect supervising a local workforce, and it’s all completely under control,” said Alfie.
“I don’t like the sound of this garden you’re getting,” said Oscar. “You’ll start growing kale and keeping goats.”
“Of course I won’t,” said Alfie. “I’m modelling it on the gardens at Versailles.”
Oscar leaned forward eagerly. “Really?”
“No,” said Alfie, refraining from adding “you dolt,” even though this was what Oscar frequently said to him. “It’ll be like Versailles insofar as it will have flowers and grass, but there the resemblance will end.”
Aunt Augusta had left the garden to grow wild, but not prettily. This was mainly because although it was at the back of Windermere Cottage, there was no direct access to it, and any gardening involved walking to the end of Love Lane and clambering over a fence. It was simply an overgrown piece of land belonging to the cottage.
But now Alfie was getting a back door which would lead directly into a newly landscaped garden. As well as flowers and grass, there would be a patio where he could sit with his morning coffee. The thought made him even more wistful for Bunburry, but first he had to endure two weeks in London.
He was cheered by the arrival of the food. Oscar had chosen well: king prawns with black bean sauce, Taiwanese stewed chicken, stir-fried beef with ginger and spring onions, and egg-fried rice.
“The major work is the back door and the bathroom,” he said, pouring more tea as Oscar set about the serving dishes. “For the rest of the cottage, it’s just a matter of painting and decorating.”
Oscar stopped spooning rice into his bowl.
“Alfie, you wouldn’t,” he managed to say.
“Wouldn’t what?” asked Alfie innocently.
“The parlour – the wallpaper-”
“The wallpaper with those ghastly migraine-inducing psychedelic swirls? First thing to go,” said Alfie, pulling the dish of prawns towards him.
“No!” said Oscar urgently. “You mustn’t! It’s magnificent. A masterpiece of Seventies style. I forbid you to touch it.”
Alfie’s brow furrowed. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “When I said first thing to go, I didn’t mean it would be the first thing to go, I meant it had already gone. Every last square inch ripped from the walls.”
Oscar stared at him in horror. “Barbarian!” he whispered. “Vandal! How could you do such a thing?”
“Easily,” said Alfie. “Once I had sourced the identical vintage wallpaper to replace it with. The parlour will be an even more mind-bending agglomeration of purple, pink, black and white, since the stuff on the walls was getting a bit tired after fifty years.”
“Alfie,” breathed Oscar reverently, “how much did that cost?”
“More than you might imagine,” Alfie admitted. “But I economised with the guest bedroom. It’s going to be painted in restful neutral colours. No more melting brown and orange rhombuses. I can only cope with one lot of Seventies wallpaper.”
“Oh,” said Oscar slightly regretfully. “But you’re keeping the lava lamp?”
“I’m moving it to the parlour. I think it’ll be happier there.” As he reached for a king prawn, he could see Oscar’s brow furrow. In case there was going to be an instruction to leave the lava lamp where it was, he said quickly: “What did you think of tonight’s conductor?”
Oscar always had firm views on every performance he saw, and it was an easy way to distract him from the topic of Windermere Cottage.
But it continued to preoccupy Alfie. Windermere Cottage had been a godsend. He had been half-mad with grief in London after his Vivian died, at times unable to believe that she had gone, at times not wanting to live without her.
It had been impossible for him to imagine he could ever look forward to anything again. But now, three years on, at last putting his own stamp on Windermere Cottage, he had a sense of anticipation, that his life might be taking a new turn.
He hadn’t yet told Oscar about the unexpected link with Aberdeen. Nor had he decided what to do about it.
Then, after his first week in London, a frenetic round of meeting friends, and going to concerts, plays and exhibitions, he got a phone call.
It was the architect. “I’m afraid you’ll have to delay your return,” she said. “Builders never finish when they say they will. But I’m fairly confident an extra week should do it.”
Alfie was trying to reconcile himself to a third week in London when it struck him that he didn’t have to. He could go up to Aberdeen instead. It was a long way, but he could make it a leisurely drive, stopping off at other interesting places en route.
When he sold his start-up, he had begun travelling the world, but he knew virtually nothing of Britain. This would be the perfect opportunity.
Now, surrounded by Aberdeen’s sparkling granite, the brightness of the day making up for the chill in the air, he knew he had made the right choice. There was one more decision he still had to make, but that could wait until after he had visited the cemetery.
The hotel receptionist had been full of sympathy when he asked for directions. “Are you up for a funeral?” she asked.
“No, just checking out a family connection,” he said with a reassuring smile. Probably best not to tell her he was in search of his father, a man he had never met.
It was a long walk, but a pleasant one, along streets of bungalows with well-kept gardens. At last, he reached the entrance to the cemetery, which was much grander than he had expected, with ornate iron gates between imposing granite pillars. The main gates were locked, but a small side one was open. He took a deep breath and went through it.
His first thought was how pretty the cemetery was. It was full of stately trees, with well-maintained gravel paths leading between the grass of the graves. All the memorial stones were in granite, some in the silver of the city’s architecture, some in rose pink, and some in black.
He took out his phone to check where he was going. Lorna Fielding, the private investigator, who had broken the news to him that his father was dead, had given him clear instructions. He headed for the north-west corner where he would find the memorial stone that Lorna had photographed for him. The gold inscription on the black granite read: Calum McAlister, beloved husband of Linda, dear dad of Anne .
Not Calum McAlister, beloved husband of Verity, dear dad of Alfie , even though he had been married to Alfie’s mother in Bunburry’s parish church, with practically the whole village in attendance. He had walked out before Alfie was even born, and now he could never ask him why. Perhaps that was just as well. He might not have wanted to hear his father’s explanation.
As the path curved round between the trees, he could see the cemetery’s boundary wall. He must be close now. There was a figure ahead of him, standing at one of the graves. A woman, tall, slim, brown-haired. He wasn’t sure whether he should acknowledge her – it might be best just to walk past her.
As he got closer, he saw she was gazing at a black memorial stone. A black memorial stone with gold lettering, commemorating Calum McAlister.
Hearing the crunch of gravel behind her, she turned round. And the instant she saw Alfie, she gave a gasp of horror, her knees buckled, and she fell down in a faint.
Alfie rushed over to her, desperately trying to remember what you should do when someone fainted. But even as he reached her, her eyelids flickered open and as she registered that he was still there, she shrank away from him.
“Please don’t be scared,” he said urgently. “My name’s Alfie, Alfie McAlister. I think I’m your brother.”
2. Anne McAlister
After a cup of tea, Anne was beginning to get her colour back.
Sitting opposite her in the café, Alfie was still amazed by how similar they looked to one another. Quite apart from the fact that she had been standing at his father’s grave, he had recognised who she must be as soon as he saw her. And she had seen the family resemblance as well, though not quite in the same way.
“I really am so sorry,” he said again.
She was able to smile now. “Stop apologising. It wasn’t your fault, it was me being stupid,” she said. Her accent was English, not Scottish. “Just seeing you like that – you looked exactly like Dad when he was younger. I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
Lorna Fielding had told him he had a half-sister. Through her discreet enquiries, she had traced Calum McAlister’s second wife, Linda, who was now in an Aberdeen care home.
“She has Alzheimer’s and I’m afraid it won’t be possible to speak to her. But she has a daughter, Anne, who’s out of town at the moment. Do you want me to make contact with her?” Lorna had asked.
“No, it’s okay,” he said. “Just give me her details and I’ll get in touch.”
But he hadn’t. How could he introduce himself to somebody who didn’t even know he existed? Even when he got to Aberdeen, armed with Anne’s address and phone number, he wasn’t sure whether he would use them. He had decided to leave the decision until after the cemetery visit.
And now they had met when he had no chance to produce a prepared speech, but had simply blurted out his name and the fact that he was her brother.
What he didn’t understand was her reaction, or rather her non-reaction. Calum McAlister hadn’t known anything about him, hadn’t known whether he was a boy or a girl, or even whether he had been born. But it was as though Anne found nothing extraordinary about a stranger suddenly materialising and claiming to be her brother.
Had Calum McAlister fathered children across the country and this was a regular occurrence? There was the family resemblance, of course. And perhaps she was so relieved to discover he wasn’t a ghost that she was happy to accept him as a living relative.
And just as she knew nothing about him, he knew almost nothing about her apart from her name. He didn’t know how old she was, what she did for a living, whether she was married or not. Could he ask these things at a first meeting?
Across the table, she was staring at him, studying every detail of his face.
“I can’t get over it,” she said. “You’re so like Dad.”
He wasn’t even able to say whether she was right or wrong. His mother hadn’t kept a single photograph of his father.
Almost speaking to herself, she said: “I can’t believe I’m sitting here with my little brother.”
Little brother? She might be tall, but he was taller. And she had to be younger than him – Calum McAlister had married her mother after abandoning Alfie’s. He could make that point by telling her his age and asking her hers, but that was a dangerous question to ask a woman.
He tried a safer topic. “You don’t have a local accent – I have to say I’m relieved. I haven’t quite tuned into it yet, and I keep having to ask people to repeat themselves.”
She laughed, a friendly, open laugh. “I know – when we first moved up here, I thought they were speaking a foreign language. They are, in a way. The local dialect’s called the Doric, and even people from other parts of Scotland have trouble understanding it.”
He swiftly grasped the opportunity she had given him. “When did you move up here?”
“I was five,” she said. “This was where Dad’s family was from, and he got a job working on the rigs. That was when there was a big boom in the North Sea oil industry. I was so upset. All my friends were going to school in Cirencester and suddenly I was being dragged away.”
“Cirencester’s a nice area,” he said. “I live about forty miles away, in Bunburry.”
She looked startled. “Really? But I thought…” Her voice tailed off.
“I know,” he said. “I don’t have the local accent either. I was brought up in London.” He decided he might as well be frank with this new sister. “Your father was married to my mother in Bunburry. He left before I was born, and my mother moved to London for work. Three years ago, my mother’s sister, my Aunt Augusta, died and left me her cottage in Bunburry. I’ve been there ever since.”
He hadn’t thought of what impact this bit of biographical detail would have on Anne McAlister. She flushed scarlet, began to speak but stumbled over her words. She took a mouthful of tea before trying again.
“Augusta? Was everything all right between her and your mother?”
“What do you mean?” asked Alfie uneasily.
“Oh, Alfie. I feel so dreadful about it all. I know it wasn’t my fault, although I suppose it was in a way.” She leaned across and put her hand over his. “Alfie, you’re going to be really angry with me. But there are things you need to know.”
3. Back in Bunburry
Alfie woke to the sound of birdsong, feeling content in a way he could never have imagined after Vivian’s death.
When the architect had rung to say the work was complete, he headed straight back from Aberdeen, a ten-hour journey with a couple of coffee stops. After a shower in the elegant new bathroom, which no longer had the slightest trace of avocado, he fell into bed and an untroubled sleep.
Now he was preparing breakfast in a newly refurbished kitchen, which still retained Aunt Augusta’s exuberantly coloured tiles. He carried the food and cafetière out through the new back door on to the sunny patio overlooking the lawn and flower beds, and thought over the events of the past few days.
He had learned so much about his family, so much about Aunt Augusta. And, at last, he knew the truth about her relationship with Calum McAlister, rather than the dubious rumours that had swirled round the village.
Anne had said he would be really angry with her, but how could he be? Anyone would have done what she did. She had found the messages Calum McAlister had written – including what you might call a confession – and of course she had read it all, even though it had been addressed to Alfie. She had no idea where he was or how to find him. Not everyone was in his privileged position of being able to hire a private investigator.
He sipped his coffee, realising that he couldn’t imagine ever being angry with Anne. After her initial awkwardness, they had relaxed into one another’s company. She told him about her marriage and divorce, how proud she was of her daughter Ruby who had just started work, and he found himself able to tell her about Vivian.
She invited him to her home, and it turned out that she lived in a cottage as well, although quite different from his own. A fisherman’s cottage, part of a 19th century fishing village built beside the beach near the old harbour. Much squatter and smaller than Windermere Cottage, but still cosy and welcoming.
Anne invited him to stay, and it was clear the offer was genuine, but Alfie, trying to sound regretful, explained that the hotel was paid for upfront.
“And we’ve only just met,” she said. “It’s maybe a bit too early for you to know whether you could stand my company.”
That wasn’t it at all. If he was honest with himself, he hesitated only because he was more than happy in the spacious high-ceilinged hotel room, which he reckoned was probably bigger than Anne’s entire cottage. But he was so confident about enjoying her company that before he left, he invited her to come and stay with him in Bunburry.
After a moment’s pause, she said diffidently: “I’ve got a long weekend next weekend – it’s a local holiday. I could come down by train, get to you on Friday evening, and go away on Monday morning. But that’s not giving you any notice, and you’re probably busy. There’ll be another time, I’m sure.”
“I’m not busy at all,” said Alfie immediately, which wasn’t entirely true, but he would happily rearrange all his other commitments for this visit.
Anne’s face broke into a smile. “That would be wonderful. And you could meet Ruby - she actually works in Oxford. I know she’ll be very excited to meet her new uncle.”
Now back in Bunburry, Alfie was determined to have everything perfect for his sister. He finished breakfast on the patio and went to examine the redecorated guest bedroom. It had lost its jarring Seventies vibe and now looked restful and comfortable, in a streamlined Scandinavian style, with off-white walls and plain wood furnishings. He would pick some flowers from the garden for Anne’s arrival – they would look good in a vase on the small circular table by the window.
It felt appropriate that the first guest would be his sister. Given what he had discovered, neither he nor Anne would have been comfortable with her staying in a room designed and furnished by Aunt Augusta. But with all the changes, the cottage at last felt his.
And now to report to Liz and Marge. The elderly ladies had been Aunt Augusta’s best friends, so he wouldn’t tell them everything just yet. Perhaps he might never tell them everything. It was his history and Anne’s, after all, not anybody else’s business.
He had done enough driving the previous day, so walked through the village, enjoying being back in the cobbled streets flanked all by the proudly individual buildings in honey-coloured limestone. London and Aberdeen were all very well, but Bunburry was his home now.
Reaching the neat two-storey Jasmine Cottage with its sloping front garden, he climbed up the steps to ring the bell.
Marge, petite and white haired, answered the door and peered at him accusingly through her oversized spectacles.
“Hello, stranger. When did you get back?”
“Only last night, very late,” he said.
She sniffed. “I suppose you’d better come in, then.”
The greeting from Liz, larger and milder than her friend, was more enthusiastic.
“Oh, Alfie, we’ve missed you,” she said as she gave him a hug. “Come and sit down. Cup of tea?”
“Or-” began Marge, which usually heralded an offer of something stronger.
“Or nothing, dear,” said Liz firmly. “It’s just after breakfast. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Alfie settled himself on the chintz-covered sofa while Marge perched on her rocking chair.
“Well?” she asked. “How are the renovations? Any snagging problems?”
“Not that I’ve found so far,” he said. “I’m very happy with it all.”
Marge gave a satisfied smile. “We kept an eye on the workmen while you were away.”
It struck Alfie that he could have saved himself the expense of an architect and simply let the ladies supervise the work. Marge in particular would have terrified everyone into doing a perfect job.
“The outside looks very smart with the carriage lights all polished up, and the door and window frames repainted,” she went on. “But I’m surprised they’re still purple. I would have thought you’d want something more subdued.”
“Is that your way of telling me I’m boring?” he said. “In that case I definitely need to borrow a bit of pizzazz from Aunt Augusta.”
“Never boring,” Liz assured him as she came in with the tea tray. “And how lovely that you’ve kept the outside of the cottage the way Gussie had it. She would be very happy about that.”
“It’s now a mixture of Aunt Augusta and me, and that makes me happy,” said Alfie. “You must come round and inspect it soon.”
“Of course we will,” said Liz, handing round the china cups, and leaving a plate of her celebrated fudge within Alfie’s reach. “Maybe not just yet. We’ve got some things to sort out first.”
Marge began to say something but, unusually, was quelled by a look from Liz. Slumping back in the rocking chair with a defeated air, she said: “How have you enjoyed all this time with Oscar?”
“Good to catch up, but I wasn’t in London the whole time. I’ve just come back from Aberdeen.”
“Aberdeen?” squawked Marge, incredulous. “Scotland? What did you want to go all the way up there for?”
“I’m sure it was lovely,” said Liz. “Did you visit a lot of castles?”
“I wanted to visit my father’s grave,” said Alfie awkwardly.
Marge’s eyes goggled behind the large spectacles. “I can’t imagine why, after he ran out on your poor mother. Unless you wanted to dance on it.”
“Margaret!” Liz’s voice rang out with unaccustomed force, and Marge lapsed into silence.
“It was just something I felt I should do,” said Alfie. “My father moved to Aberdeen with his second wife and his daughter, and I wanted to see what sort of a place it was. It’s a beautiful city.”
“I bet it was freezing,” muttered Marge mutinously. “I hope you had a jumper with you.”
“There was a bit of a breeze off the sea, but it was very sunny,” said Alfie.
“Did you find where your father was laid to rest?” asked Liz delicately.
“I did, and more besides,” said Alfie. “I found my sister.”
“Sister?” repeated Marge.
“You can’t have been listening, dear,” said Liz. “Alfie’s just told us that Calum McAlister had a daughter.”
“I’ve been listening perfectly well,” snapped Marge. “There’s nothing wrong with my faculties, thank you. But she’s not a sister, is she? She’s just a half-sister.”
Alfie didn’t want to make an issue of it, but he didn’t think of Anne as his half-sister. He was saved from having to reply by Liz saying firmly: “Alfie said his sister.”
“So, what’s she like, this … sister ?” asked Marge, putting a little too much emphasis on the last word.
“Very like me,” said Alfie, then corrected himself. “Except she’s pretty.”
Marge gave him a cursory inspection. “You’re not bad looking. Nor was Calum McAlister, more’s the pity. If he’d been a bit plainer, your mother would never have fallen-”
“Margaret!” Liz cut in again. “Please.” She turned to Alfie. “That’s wonderful that you’ve found her. Tell us more about her – what’s her name, how old is she, what does she do?”
“Her name’s Anne Argo-”
This met with a mutter of “funny name” from Marge.
“It’s a local name up there,” Alfie explained. “She’s divorced now.” He noticed Liz give Marge a warning look, presumably to deter her from saying something along the lines of “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree”. “But she’s got a daughter, Ruby, who’s just graduated from Oxford, and has started work with a solicitors’ firm there.”
“She sounds a clever girl,” said Liz, defying Marge to argue.
“I think she got an interest in law from her mother,” said Alfie. “Anne’s a legal secretary. She’s three months older than me.”
Having delivered the bombshell, he waited for the reaction, for Marge to say: “If Calum McAlister only got married after he divorced your mum, how can this sister of yours be three months older than you?” and for Liz, quicker on the uptake, to say: “Oh dear.”
But instead, Liz said vaguely: “That’s nice,” and Marge continued rocking in her chair.
It struck him that the ladies were being more than a little sharp with one another today. Something was wrong.
“Anyway, what’s been happening here while I’ve been away?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Marge quickly.
“Nothing much,” echoed Liz. “We’re still going to Haridasa’s yoga class. Oh, Alfie, he’s a marvel, so helpful and encouraging. You wouldn’t believe how much fitter we are – imagine, at our age.”
“Our age?” scoffed Marge. “I’m nowhere near as old as you.”
“You’re getting a little forgetful, dear – you’re actually only very slightly younger,” said Liz.
“I’m sick and tired of your insinuations!” snapped Marge. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory. For the last time, it’s nothing to do with me, it must be you.”
Alfie was taken aback. He had never heard Marge speak so angrily to her friend.
As he wondered whether he should beat a tactical retreat, Liz jumped up from her armchair with a speed that proved how effective the yoga classes were, and ran over to hug Marge.
“There, there,” she soothed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t mean it. Of course you’re not forgetful.”
Only then did Alfie realise that Liz, more sensitive than him, had seen that Marge wasn’t angry, she was upset. Marge pulled a hankie out of her sleeve, wiped her eyes, and noisily blew her nose.
“It wasn’t me,” she said hoarsely. “You can go upstairs and search my room if you like.”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” said Liz, giving her another comforting hug.
“But you think it was me – how can I prove it’s not?” Marge said.
Alfie, wishing himself miles away from whatever was going on, must have cleared his throat, since Marge suddenly registered his continued presence.
“Let’s see what Alfie thinks,” she said.
“There’s no need,” soothed Liz.
“Oh, but there is,” said Marge. “I don’t want you snooping after me the whole time, suspecting me.”
“I don’t, dear. I’m sure everything will turn up safely.”
“After I get my memory back, you mean?” Marge turned to Alfie. “She thinks I’ve been stealing things from her precious kitchen.”
Liz gasped. “Now, dear, I’m afraid that’s complete nonsense. I said no such thing.”
“You may not have said it, but you thought it. Alfie, do you think I’m a thief?”
Alfie gulped. “I really…” he began, but didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Then, “What’s happened?” he asked.
“It’s nothing, Alfie dear,” said Liz. “Just a few things that have gone missing.”
“And you think I’ve stolen them,” interrupted Marge.
“I just asked if you’d seen them,” said Liz mildly. “And you hadn’t, which is fine. I’ve probably mislaid them.”
The ladies did their household cooking in a small kitchen at the back of the cottage. Now that Liz’s fudge was selling all over the Cotswolds and beyond, she had renovated the original kitchen, which was now dedicated to fudge alone. Alfie thought it looked like the galley of a spaceship, with its stainless-steel surfaces and massive fridges. It was meticulously ordered. A place for everything, and everything in its place: that had been the motto of the ladies’ generation, and Liz stuck to it rigidly – especially in her kitchen. Alfie couldn’t imagine her mislaying anything.
“Any sign of a break-in?” he asked.
“None,” said Liz and Marge together.
“What’s gone missing?” he asked.
“Nothing important,” said Liz, resuming her seat. “My little timer that looks like an egg. A couple of teaspoons that I’d left by the sink. I think my sugar thermometer’s disappeared as well.”
Alfie was certain that she didn’t simply think it had disappeared; she knew. She couldn’t keep up with the demand for her fudge without being perfectly organised.
“And some newly made fudge,” she concluded.
“Well, I didn’t touch any of them,” said Marge, her voice shrill.
“As I said, dear, I’m sure it’s my fault. Everything will turn up in time.”
Alfie had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He thought of Anne’s mother, in a care home with Alzheimer’s. Neither of the ladies was getting any younger, and while Haridasa’s classes might be keeping them supple, did yoga extend to the memory? Liz and Marge both seemed of sound mind, but these disappearances were worrying.
It was such a curious mixture of objects. It was perfectly plausible that Marge had picked up a teaspoon, and he could imagine her taking the kitchen timer for some purpose, but the sugar thermometer? And why hadn’t they turned up again? Had she really squirrelled them away in her room?
Then there was the fudge. While Marge wasn’t averse to the occasional square of fudge with a coffee or tea, her petite frame was proof that she didn’t overindulge. Both she and Liz said that since the cottage was always full of fudge and the smell of fudge, they could easily resist it.
Or what about Liz? Had she begun mislaying things, and she didn’t know? Had she actually made the new batch of fudge, or did she just think she had? It was a possibility he didn’t want to consider.
“Of course everything will turn up,” he said with a conviction he didn’t feel. “I remember once losing a screwdriver – I looked high and low for it, and eventually found it in the fridge. I had absolutely no memory of putting it there. It’s so easy when you’re doing one thing to get distracted by something else.”
“Maybe if you’re a man,” sniffed Marge. “I’m perfectly capable of multi-tasking, thank you. I didn’t put any of these things in the fridge, or anywhere else, for that matter.”
Alfie saw a look of disquiet suddenly cross her face. She had been so busy defending herself from what she felt was an unjust accusation that it was only now she was genuinely allowing for the possibility that Liz was responsible. And that was disturbing her as much as it disturbed Alfie.
He quickly changed the subject to the wonder that was his new bathroom, with underfloor heating, recessed lighting, a state-of-the-art walk-in shower, and distressed mirror tiles.
“Distressed mirror tiles?” snorted Marge. “That’s the in thing these days, is it? I suppose what’s distressing is the price. And they’ll be out of fashion by next year. I remember Gussie putting in that avocado suite – they were all the rage in the Seventies, and then nobody could stand them anymore. I bet you’re glad you’ve got rid of it at last.”
“It sounds gorgeous, Alfie dear,” said Liz. “Gussie would be so happy that you’re properly settled in Windermere Cottage.”
As Alfie walked back, he realised that being settled in Windermere Cottage had nothing to do with fresh paint or a new garden or distressed mirror tiles. He felt at home because of the people, and the most important to him were Liz and Marge.
He had only ever encountered Aunt Augusta when he was a small boy, spending the school holidays with his grandparents in Bunburry, and he could scarcely remember her, although he had remembered every detail of her Cotswold Blue Jaguar convertible. But Liz and Marge, her best friends, had welcomed him because of her, to the extent that he almost felt they were his aunts.
Until now, he had had no other family. But next weekend, his sister would visit, and he would meet her daughter, his niece, for the first time. What linked them all was Aunt Augusta, but would he ever be able to tell Liz and Marge how?
4. The Visitors
Alfie pulled up near the bus stop on the outskirts of the village and put on the handbrake.
“Ruby’s bus should be here within the next ten minutes, but it could just as easily be half-an-hour late,” he told his sister. “The country bus service is diabolical.”
Anne shifted luxuriously in the Jaguar’s grey leather seat and ran her fingers over the polished wood of the dashboard.
“I’m more than happy to sit here and wait,” she said. “I feel like a film star in this car.”
When he collected her from the station the previous evening, she had given a gasp of amazed delight at the sight of the Cotswold Blue convertible. Today she had been even more thrilled when Alfie put down the roof for the drive from the cottage to the bus stop to meet Ruby.
Alfie could still recall with utter clarity his first trip in the car. He couldn’t remember how old he had been – eight, possibly? – and he couldn’t remember much about Aunt Augusta, but every detail of the glorious vehicle was imprinted on his memory, the four headlights, the narrow bonnet, the massive speedometer, the purr of the engine deepening as Aunt Augusta went through the gears.
His second trip had been three years ago when he discovered that Aunt Augusta had left him not only her cottage but also her car.
And seeing Anne’s reaction, he had to admit ruefully that he had got blasé about driving the wonderful machine. She could help him recapture that feeling of awe.
He wondered what Ruby would think of it. It impressed Anne, but she was his generation. A twenty-threeyear old was unlikely to appreciate a classic car. She would probably dismiss it as hopelessly old-fashioned.
Today being Saturday, when Ruby was off work, Alfie had suggested driving Anne to Oxford to see her, but she had rejected the offer with a half-laugh.
“She wouldn’t want that. She’ll prefer coming to Bunburry,” she said. “Ever since she started working and got her own flat, I’ve been kept at arm’s length.”
“You mean you haven’t been to her flat?” asked Alfie, surprised.
Anne shook her head. “The last time I saw her in Oxford was at the graduation, when she was flat-sharing with other girls. She comes back to Aberdeen from time to time, of course, but I’m not allowed anywhere near Oxford anymore. When you’re a young professional, the last thing you want is your mum turning up to embarrass you.”
She made it sound like a joke, but Alfie suspected she didn’t find it funny. He had been looking forward to meeting Ruby, had been elated by unexpectedly finding himself an uncle, but now he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to meet this new niece. What if she turned out to be thoughtless and selfish?
“It’s not exactly surprising,” Anne went on in the same light tone. “You know what mothers and daughters are like.”
Not really, Alfie thought. And I don’t know what fathers and sons are like either.
“Actually,” Anne confided, “I suspect the real reason is that she’s moved in with a boyfriend and she doesn’t want me to know. The younger generation think they invented sex – I don’t know how they think they got here.”
Alfie laughed along, but if Anne was right, that didn’t sound good. Why wouldn’t Ruby want to introduce her boyfriend to her mother, unless there was something dubious about him? He was less impressed by Ruby by the minute.
A distant rumble heralded the arrival of the bus, more or less on time. The plan was for Alfie to take Anne and Ruby to The Horse for lunch, but if Ruby was as disagreeable as he feared, he would invent some other commitment and leave mother and daughter to it – whatever they were like.
“I’ll wait here for you,” he told Anne as the bus trundled into view.
She got out of the car and made her way to the bus stop, arriving just as a lone passenger got off the single decker.
“Mum! It’s so good to see you!”
Even in his parking place, Alfie could hear Ruby’s enthusiastic greeting, her accent the same as her mother’s. It was interesting how some children who moved area picked up the accent of their new community, while others spoke as they always had done at home.
He half turned to see Ruby throw her arms round Anne. After what his sister had said, he would have expected a restrained air kiss.
Perhaps it was Anne who was responsible for the difficult relationship. He still knew so little about this new family of his – he had barely spent three days with his sister in total. In his business life, he had found he could sum people up quickly and accurately. He had thought it was the same with Anne, immediately feeling at ease with her, enjoying her company. But was he so desperate to be part of a family that he simply wasn’t evaluating her the way he would a business rival?
The two women were approaching the car now, Ruby’s arm linked through her mother’s. Alfie got out of the driver’s seat and prepared to greet her. Now that he could see her properly, she wasn’t at all what he had expected. He had imagined a brash young woman, business-like and purposeful, but Ruby exuded uncertainty. She was tall and slim like her mother, but a paler, more fragile version of Anne, her shoulders slightly hunched, and an anxious set to her face.
Anne stopped by the Jaguar and Ruby suddenly registered Alfie’s presence with a start.
“Ruby,” said Anne, “this is your Uncle Alfie.”
“I’m so pleased to meet you,” said Alfie. He intended to give her a kiss on the cheek, but as he stepped towards her, he had the distinct impression that she flinched away from him. He ended up, absurdly, patting her arm. She would think he was an idiot.
“Lovely to meet you too,” said Ruby. There was none of the enthusiasm she had greeted her mother with.
Anne didn’t seem to notice any awkwardness. Putting her arm round Ruby’s shoulders, she said: “Don’t you think Alfie looks just like Grandad?”
Ruby peered at him. “No, not really,” she said hesitantly. “Grandad was old.”
Anne sighed. “Yes, I suppose you only remember him as an old man. But when I was growing up, I was very proud of how handsome he was. Just like Alfie.”
Alfie cleared his throat, and opened the passenger door of the Jaguar.
“I hope you don’t mind sitting in the back, Ruby,” he said. “It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, and you have to clamber over the front seat.”
A stupid thing to say. What would he do if she said she did mind sitting in the back? Suggest she jog alongside instead?
“I’m fine,” she said, her long legs making the manoeuvre seem effortless. But her long legs also meant that when she fastened the seatbelt, she had to sit sideways to avoid being squashed against the front seats.
“It’s a beautiful car,” she ventured.
“Isn’t it just?” said Anne, getting into the more comfortable passenger seat. “I was just saying to Alfie that it makes me feel like a film star.”
“And stuck back here, I feel like one of the extras,” said Ruby with a giggle that Alfie was heartened to hear.
“I thought you might want to see the cottage, and then we can walk to the local pub for lunch,” he said as the Jaguar purred into life. “You don’t need to worry about getting the bus back. I’ll run you home.”
“Oh no,” said Ruby swiftly. “I couldn’t put you to all that bother.”
“It’s no bother whatsoever,” said Alfie. “It’ll take less than an hour, and I know what that bus is like. It must take closer to three hours, going round all the villages by the most obscure route it can find.”
“It’s nothing like that,” said Ruby. “It’s quick, and it takes me right home. I know the timetable, so all I need is a lift back to the bus stop, thanks.”
Alfie thought he detected a note of panic in her voice.
“I told you, didn’t I?” said Anne. “It’s nothing to do with you, Alfie. It’s because she knows I’d insist on coming along as well, and I’d give her a row for not cleaning the oven properly, and not having a laundry basket.”
“Mum!” muttered Ruby. “Honestly, Uncle Alfie, the bus will be fine.”
Alfie was about to tell her she needn’t call him “uncle” when he stopped. He liked the sound of it. Until he met Anne in Aberdeen, he had never imagined that he could be an uncle. The title underlined that he had a family now.
Anne had enthused over Windermere Cottage when she arrived the previous evening, admiring everything, and complimenting him on his taste. But she could scarcely have done anything else, knowing that the cottage had belonged to Aunt Augusta, and being told that some of the décor remained Aunt Augusta’s choice. His late aunt remained a sensitive topic.
But Anne stressed that Ruby had never heard of Augusta Lytton, and Alfie was intrigued to see what the younger woman would make of his home. She had relaxed a little after Alfie’s assurances that he would get her back to the stop in good time for the country bus.
When they reached the cottage, she said: “This is where you live? You’re so lucky – it’s gorgeous.”
He took that as approval for the bright purple door and window frames, but he was still apprehensive about her reaction to the parlour. When he first saw it, Liz and Marge had had to revive him with tea, and the fresh wallpaper now made the purple, black, pink and white even more vibrant. He had wondered if he would ever get used to it, and it was true, he never had. But that wasn’t a bad thing. Now every time he came into the room, he found the boldness of the colour combinations invigorating.
Ruby stood in the middle of the parlour, taking in the full effect, which was intensified by the black leather seating.
“Wow,” she said at last. “This is so cool.”
Anne laughed. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? I thought you would like it.”
Alfie felt unaccountably relieved. He wanted to have their approval. Anne had complimented everything, but she was perfectly able to find the right thing to say while concealing what she really thought. Ruby, he sensed, wore her heart on her sleeve, and would have difficulty concealing her true feelings.
As far as Windermere Cottage was concerned, she was completely enchanted. She loved the kitchen with its bright multi-coloured tiles, the pristine bathroom, the Scandinavian simplicity of Anne’s bedroom, the suntrap of the patio where Alfie and Anne had breakfasted that morning.
She exclaimed excitedly about everything she saw, each fresh outburst making Alfie feel even more guilty about having labelled her as thoughtless and selfish before he met her. He had no idea why she was so reluctant to let Anne visit her in Oxford, but that was her business, and as he saw mother and daughter together, smiling and relaxed, he had no doubt that they had a close, affectionate relationship.
“Lunch,” said Alfie. “You must be starving, Ruby. Did you have breakfast?”
Ruby looked surprised. “Of course,” she said.
Anne laughed. “Ruby was born in Scotland, remember. She starts every day with a bowl of porridge – she makes it very well.”
It was Alfie’s turn to be surprised. He had imagined her living a disorganised post-student existence, her cooking skills extending to baked beans out of the tin. He had to stop making assumptions about her.
“But breakfast was a long time ago – a snack would be great,” Ruby said.
Alfie carefully chose the most scenic route from his cottage to The Drunken Horse, anxious to show the best of Bunburry, passing by the prettiest of the cottages with neat grass verges, and down the most charming narrow cobbled streets.
“I’d forgotten how much I miss the Cotswolds,” sighed Anne. “There’s something so special about the atmosphere – it’s all so peaceful, so civilised.”
Don’t you believe it, thought Alfie. But this definitely wasn’t an appropriate time to tell her that he, Liz and Marge had a sideline in solving local crimes, often murder.
“I have to warn you about the hostelry,” he said. “The food is excellent, but quite polarised.”
“Polarised?” said Anne. “You mean it’s cooked from frozen?”
Alfie wasn’t certain whether she was joking, but a mock-severe “Mum!” from Ruby reassured him.
“Never,” he said. “Everything’s lovingly prepared from scratch. But there are two chefs – Edith, the landlord’s mother, who specialises in traditional English, and Carlotta, the landlord’s wife, who’s vegan with an Italian twist. It’s crucial that we don’t all go for one type of menu, or the other chef will take it badly.”
Ruby laughed. “I can’t wait.” She sounded cheerful now, and almost relaxed. Bunburry was working its magic.
