Page 64 of Murder in the Winter Woods
‘Unless what, Mrs B?’
‘Unless Lydia was also an investor with Anthony Ardmore.’
30
Lydia was not an investor with Anthony Ardmore.
Julia was on her way home when her phone pinged in her pocket. She pulled it out and peered at the screen. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, so she could see well enough to determine from the shape of the words that it was a message from DC Walter Farmer, but not well enough to read the text message itself. She patted her pockets for her glasses, without any success. She sighed in frustration, and for about the millionth time, thought to herself that poor eyesight – not being able to read a note, or the ingredient list on packaging, or the price tag or the size on an item of clothing – was possibly the most irritating thing about ageing.
‘I think I’d rather have perfect eyesight again than my twenty-five-year-old figure,’ she’d told Tabitha once.
‘Not me,’ Tabitha had said decisively. ‘Give me that firm young body, and I’ll happily search for those spectacles all day long.’
Sadly, this wasn’t a choice that was available to them in the real world, in which one was stuck with an ageing bodyandpoor eyesight.
Julia moved to the side of the pavement, stood under the awning for the hairdresser’s, and fished around in her handbag. Her fingers made contact with the familiar shape and smoothness of her glasses. She pulled them out, put them on, and read the message:
FYI. DI Gibson checked. Anthony A doesn’t know Lydia, and she wasn’t a client.
Ah well, that was a mystery for the police to solve, Julia thought, placing a thumbs-up next to DC Farmer’s message, and putting the phone and the glasses in her handbag.
Her walk took her down the main road, underneath the Christmas lights which would be turned on in the late afternoon for the enjoyment of locals and tourists alike. She walked past the butcher’s shop, which was closed. On the door was a notice advising customers that it would be closed all day because of the funeral of their dear staff member, Lydia Barrow. The notice featured a picture of Lydia behind the counter, as alive as anything, and laughing heartily. She was holding a meat cleaver up as if she were threatening the photographer, but the expression on her face confirmed that she’d been snapped in the middle of a joke. For reasons she couldn’t determine, Julia took out her phone and took a picture of the notice
‘Poor woman,’ she muttered to herself, shaking her head.
‘Yes, poor woman indeed,’ came a voice from close behind her, causing Julia to shout, ‘Good lord!’ and startle so violently that she thought she might be the next person in the village to pass away suddenly and unexpectedly. She turned to see the wraithlike figure of Aunt Edna standing next to her, leaning perilously in the direction of the door to peer at the poster.
‘No need to shout, young whippersnapper,’ said the old lady, sternly, to Julia.
‘Sorry, Aunt Edna!’ Julia said, at normal volume, her heart still pounding. ‘I didn’t hear you come up behind me. I was looking at the picture of Lydia.’
‘Not a bad sort,’ said Aunt Edna, in what passed for high praise. ‘All sorts, Liquorice Allsorts. Good and bad. Same with people. I like the orange ones myself. But she’s a good sort.’
‘I didn’t know her well, but so I hear.’
‘So you hear? You hear her sing, you say? Singing in the choir like an angel. Not one of those little chubby ones, the singing angels with the wings.’
‘Ah, well, that’s good to know. She was a woman of many talents and good qualities, it seems. I’m sure she will be missed by many people. Anyway, I’ll be on my way. Good to see you, Aunt Edna.’
‘Is it?’ the old woman said, sounding genuinely intrigued by the question.
Continuing down the main road and out of the village, Julia determinedly put all thoughts of dead people from her mind in order to enjoy the walk. She appreciated the absence of wind for the first time in weeks, and the ever-so-slight almost-warmth of the wan sun on her cheek. The leafless trees looked elegantly sculptural against the pale blue sky.
It was a fact of Julia’s nature that she could only reflect on the beauty of the day for a minute or two, before her mind wandered back to more prosaic matters. In this case, Lydia Barrow. Lydia and Ken, Ken and Lydia. If they weren’t co-investors with Anthony Ardmore, what else did they have in common? Of course, if Lydia had been born in Berrywick, she and Ken could have known each other in their youth. Like Lewis and Matthew. Like half the people in the village.
Julia felt the familiar prickle of a question or a vital piece of information trying to elbow its way into her consciousness. She knew from experience not to chase the elusive thought, butpretend she hadn’t noticed it, and let it make its own way to her. Like a cat, she thought, bringing to mind Chaplin, who met her advances with a haughty air, but snuck onto her bed or her lap when her attention was elsewhere.
The band.
There it was, the little kitty of a thought, climbing into her head.
Edna! In a snap, her brain made another connection. Aunt Edna had mentioned that Lydia had a lovely voice, that she’d sung in the choir.
Had Lydia been in the band with Lewis and Matthew and Ken and Dominic? Could Lydia be the mysterious girl who was simply called Egg, in the caption of the band photo Julia had seen? It made sense. Both Egg and Lydia sang. Both Egg and Lydia grew up in Berrywick, but then disappeared. And both Egg and Lydia knew Ken. It seemed more and more likely to Julia that Egg and Lydia were one and the same. If only there was someone that Julia could ask.
Dominic Ardmore selected a smoky grey document box from a shelf of identical smoky grey document boxes neatly stacked in the attic, each with a label on the front, attesting to their contents. The label on the box Dominic pulled out read:Old photographs – Dom. When he opened it, the contents of the box belied the neat and organised exterior. Julia suspected that Molly had been behind the purchasing of the boxes, and Dominic had been responsible for filling this one with the mismatched envelopes and sleeves and folders, and the drift of loose prints at the bottom.
‘I’ve been meaning to sort through these,’ he said, somewhat shamefacedly scratching through the box. ‘One day I’ll file all the pictures, or digitise them. That would be a good plan.’ It wasunclear if he realised, as Julia did, that this would absolutely never happen.
