Chapter Forty-Six
The breath whooshed out of my body.
‘I can’t believe you just asked me that,’ I gasped.
With great effort, I tore my eyes away from Liam’s.
Panic mounting, I scanned the room. There was Doreen, cackling away with her mates.
Cilla was welcoming latecomers to the pub and pouring more Prosecco.
Pregnant Polly was behind the bar, rubbing her back before pulling a pint for a customer.
Alice and Ben were nose to nose. Normal people doing normal things. How I wished I was one of them.
My eyes continued darting around the pub – a sure sign of guilt.
If I’d had the strength in my legs, I’d have stood up, thrown back my chair, and yodelled at Liam HOW DARE YOU!
before running home. I’d have barricaded myself within Moonlight Manor, laid low, lived off the contents of the larder – mainly tinned tomatoes – and only later, much much later, when Liam Lancaster was on another project, would I then emerge.
Suitcase in one hand, passport in the other, I’d flee the country.
Naturally by this point I’d have somehow dropped off the key to Home and Hearth Estate Agents, sold the house by remote viewing, and messaged the twins to join me in Australia.
A sob rose up in my throat. My children. My lovely Joy and wonderful James! How would I get by without them if the truth came out? With difficulty. Great difficulty.
Maybe it was just as well that Liam had asked such a pertinent question. After all, if Hetty recovered from her stroke – another sob shot out of my throat – then it was only a matter of time before the boys in blue rang the doorbell, rattled the doorknocker and peered through the letterbox.
‘Anyone home? Mrs Armstrong? Just to say, you’ve been spotted. Your feet are sticking out from the coat stand. Open this door now because you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…’
‘Jen, look at me,’ said Liam.
But I couldn’t. I seemed to be hyperventilating. My hands were hugging my brandy glass, as if willing the warmth of the drink to infuse my suddenly ice-cold fingers. Unexpectedly, Liam’s warm hands gently encircled mine.
‘Nghh,’ I squeaked, as zingers scorched up both my arms and nearly ejected me through the pub’s ceiling. My head shot up, and my eyes finally met his.
‘Tell me what happened,’ he said gently.
His voice was low. Insistent. His hands were still over mine.
Strong. It felt nice. Reassuring. Although that wasn’t truly the case.
After all, if I wanted to run away now, I couldn’t.
I glanced at our linked hands around the brandy glass.
All we needed now was a Ouija board with a message from beyond the grave.
J E N D I D I T
I closed my eyes for a moment. Briefly weighed things up.
Should I tell him the truth? Liam had said that this conversation was strictly between the two of us.
But could I trust him not to blab? Although, of course, Hetty was still in the equation.
She’d recover. I was sure of it. And obviously I wanted her to live.
But it was only a matter of time before she sang like a canary. I could almost hear her now:
‘The reason I’m in hospital, Nurse, is because I see dead people.
And I was frightened by what one of them told me.
You see, Jen Armstrong’s deceased husband appeared by my side – as clear as that freckle on your nose – and he told me Jen murdered him.
No, Nurse, it’s not the morphine talking.
And by the way, your Uncle Bill is here and wants to know why you haven’t partnered up with that nice Doctor Brown over there. ’
Suddenly I felt overwhelmed with tiredness.
It was too much. Everything was catching up with me.
Peter’s abrupt death. The circumstances.
The hidden tension while enquiries were made.
There had been sooo many questions. Trying to keep my cool.
Act normally. Thinking I’d got away with it.
And then, Peter somehow reaching out from beyond the grave – oh yes, I was now a fervent believer!
– and psychic Hetty hitting the nail on the head before being whisked away in an ambulance.
It was too much. I couldn’t cope with the guilt for another second.
I blinked rapidly, then cleared my throat.
‘Yes, Liam,’ I whispered. ‘I murdered my husband.’