Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
A t first, Clayton thought Laura hadn’t spotted Spencer swishing along the high street in that flash car of his. Then she’d performed a kind of double-take that she’d tried to cover up for his benefit, and he’d known otherwise. Blasted man seemed to be popping up everywhere these days.
He’d had to keep a strict watch on himself while they’d been having coffee in the Ginger Cat. For two pins he’d have told Laura, straight out, what kind of a man she was seeing – and who he really was. She was so easy to chat to that sometimes, while he was with her, he forgot to censor his thoughts as well as his words. He’d felt stupidly bereft when she’d said goodbye and gone off to finish her shopping.
But there, he’d be up at Spindlewood again on Monday for the winter trim and tidy. When Laura was out, he and Saul just got on with the gardening. She’d given him a key to the larger of the two sheds in case he wanted to use it. Therefore it didn’t matter what time he turned up, but if he left Spindlewood until the last call on Monday, he’d stand a better chance of still being there when Laura came home from her school.
He hung about outside the bookshop to give her time to get ahead of him before he, too, set off along the high street. Twenty minutes later, the manila folder was almost empty. Every shop had a poster, as had the library. The verger he’d met coming out of St Luke’s churchyard had been happy to take one for the noticeboard in the church porch. He’d even foisted some on the WI ladies who were running the weekly market in the old village hall. There was also a new hall – well, newish – which formed part of the community centre, but that was on the outskirts of the village. He might call in there another time, when he had the van, in case there was anyone about. For now, it was home, and this afternoon he planned to tackle a job he’d been putting off for far too long.
As it happened, it wasn’t until the evening when Clayton took a deep breath and prepared to knuckle down to his task. Had he been prevaricating again? Yes, that was part of it, but there had also been genuine reasons as to why he hadn’t started earlier.
Arriving back at Mistletoe Cottage after his poster deliveries – and the pleasant time with Laura in the Ginger Cat – he’d found a large square parcel propped up against his front door, clearly addressed to his neighbour, Nell Whitby. It wasn’t the first time he’d received post and parcels for her, and vice versa.
Nell lived at Mistlethrush Villa, one of a pair of handsome 1930’s red-brick houses, four doors along. The delivery people were obviously in too much of a hurry to read the address properly, or couldn’t be bothered, which was more like it. Dropping his folder on the doormat, he’d picked up the parcel and walked along with it. And then, of course, Nell had kept him chatting, but she was a nice woman – eighty-something, but full of life – and he hadn’t minded.
What he had minded was the way she’d started on about Christmas; the parcel apparently contained presents for her grandson. He’d hurried away then, as fast as he could without seeming rude.
As he’d let himself into his house, the phone had been ringing and, seeing Ruth Fielding’s number on the little screen, he’d picked it up. Ruth was Saul’s mother; the family lived in a converted barn on the outskirts of Charnley Acre. Before he’d moved into Mistletoe Cottage, Clayton had rented the barn’s tiny annexe for a year and had become good friends with Ruth and her husband, Nathan. Ruth was calling now to ask him over for Sunday lunch tomorrow, an invitation Clayton easily accepted; she was a brilliant cook, and being in the Fieldings’ company was always a pleasure, despite him spending almost every day with Saul.
Having ended the call from Ruth, various terminally boring, domestic tasks had pressed into his consciousness. The sun had decided to beam in through the windows and throw a spotlight on the half-inch of dust on the furniture, the cobwebs in the corners, and the dried tea stains on the kitchen worktops. Supposing, by some remote chance, he had a visitor? Normally he didn’t make a show for visitors – they could take him as they found him – but in the back of his mind was Laura Engleby. Okay, there was no reason on earth why she should pay him a visit, but just supposing she did? Would he want her to find him living in a pigsty? Definitely not, even though she’d never pass judgement. And so, he’d got out the vacuum and the dusters and set to work, and before he knew it, the afternoon had raced away and it was dinner time.
Later, Clayton sat down at the cleared dining table, telling himself what a fool he was. Cleaning the cottage for an imaginary visitor – of course Laura wouldn’t come – had been procrastination of the highest order. But now the time had arrived. If he didn’t do this today, he never would. At least, that was how it felt.
In front of him was a large, flower-patterned box, bought by his sister, Louise, while she’d been living with him in Mistletoe Cottage. The box was temporary storage for her photographs, ready for when she had time to arrange them in the albums. He’d brought those down from Louise’s old bedroom, too, where they’d lain untouched, like the box, for the past five years. Taking a deep breath, Clayton blew the dust off the lid, took it off and set it aside. He picked out a photo at random. Ironically, it was one he’d taken himself of Louise; he remembered grabbing the camera from her one day and taking the candid shot. His sister’s lively hazel eyes smiled out at him and almost sent him reeling.
This was going to be really hard – that was even more apparent, now he’d started. In which case, why do it at all? Why torment himself unnecessarily?
Louise’s passion for photography had given her much needed respite from her demanding job as a physiotherapist at Cliffhaven General. On her days off, she would drive for miles in search of likely subjects, and Clayton had sometimes gone with her. Birds were one of her favourites. Many a time he’d sat glued to a barren, windy spot on top of a cliff or the side of a hill, forbidden to move an inch while Louise clicked away at a swooping gull or fast-diving swallow. The harder the shot, the better she liked it. As he flicked through the perfectly captured frames of birds, as well as landscapes and seascapes, he was reminded how talented she was. Her photos deserved to be treated properly, however painful the task.
In the first place, then, he was doing this for Louise; it wasn’t as if there was anything else he could do for her.
Secondly, there was something truly inspirational about Laura Engleby, something that gave him heart, and courage. She’d been through the trauma of losing her partner but there she was, embracing life with an energy and purpose that almost shone from her. He wished she wasn’t embracing Spencer – Marcus – at the same time, but perhaps it wasn’t such a hopeless situation. If there was any justice in this world, Laura would discover the truth before it was too late.
Then again, if there was any justice, Marcus Dartnell would have gone down for manslaughter after he’d left Louise to die alone on a dark country road. Instead, he’d slithered away, like the evil snake he was, with a penalty for careless driving that was a pure insult.
Clayton got up, a little shakily, and went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of red wine. He brought it back to the table, then sat gazing at the picture of his sister before putting it aside and turning his attention back to the box.