Chapter 21 #2
She locks her hands around her knee as she perches in a chair opposite my seat on the couch. “Such a bad business,” she says, although she appears neither regretful nor sympathetic. There’s a sharp-eyed look to Tilly Mitchell that says she enjoys her neighbor’s misfortune.
“How’s that?” I ask.
“That girl was always wild. Always scarpering off with this boy and that boy. I should know. My brother was one she messed about.”
“Messed about? How did she mess him about?”
“She was with him but not with him for ages. All while they were kids and then after they both got married. Shameful. I feel so for his wife and her husband.” Tilly clicks her tongue.
“He was there that day, you know. He called me in a panic, crying. ‘She’s killed him,’ he told me.
‘She’s ruined it all.’ And she had, hadn’t she?
Ruined that family, certainly. The mother off to the continent, in and out of hospitals. Absolutely destroyed that poor woman.”
Since I’m recording—with Tilly’s permission—I’m not taking notes, but I make a mental note to find out everything I can about Miranda’s mother.
“Your brother, sorry, what was his name? He was there the day Nicholas drowned?”
“Fred, and certainly he was there. Never far away from her, in those days. He followed her around. Most of the lads did. I told you she was wild.”
“You did. After Fred called you, what happened?”
“I went over, of course. He was in pieces. They had the poor little boy out of the pond by then, wrapped up in a sheet. Joseph Porter was with him. I waited with them until someone came, then I drove Fred home. I think it was someone from the hospital, but they didn’t come in an ambulance. Just a car. Certainly, no police.”
“Why no police?” I ask.
“Because no one wanted that girl to go to jail, murderess that she is.”
“I’m confused about that,” I say, although I’m not. “What about justice for the boy?”
She clicks her tongue again. “No one spoke for him, poor wee thing. All the talk was about her and how it would ruin her when she had such a bright future. So, no, no police. Nothing but a notice in the paper and a private funeral.”
“But the coroner must have been involved,” I say, as though I don’t already have a copy of the report.
“I suppose, but the family wouldn’t say a word against her and without them or anyone who was there that day to speak for the lad, nothing happened to her. Not a thing.”
“But your brother was there. I understand there was a group of five or six others. Didn’t anyone speak up?”
Tilly’s lips, slightly chapped, thin into a white line as she shakes her head. “No one wanted to go against the Porters’ wishes.”
“You said Mrs. Porter went off to the continent. What happened to Mr. Porter?”
She sniffs. “Went to the City and stayed there.”
“The City. London?”
She nods like there’s only one city. Maybe in this tiny country, there’s only is one of note, although Logan talks smack about London.
“Did the whole family leave the area?”
“Oh no. That girl’s shameless. Even though the family sold up and went their separate ways, she came back every summer.
All while she was in school. Whoever had a spare bed, she’d stay with them, often for weeks.
Never paying a penny. Not that any around here would ask her to.
It’s a friendly village. But the family was never short, I’ll say that, and now she’s a doctor and everything. ”
Miranda’s willingness to mooch off her former neighbors isn’t really what I’m looking for, so I move on.
“Once she finished school, did Miranda ever come back?”
Tilly nods. “To visit her friends, but it was really to see the boys that trailed around after her.”
“You said she had a relationship with your brother while they were both married. Are they still seeing each other, do you know?”
“No.” Tilly clicks her tongue again. “She broke it off about four, maybe five, years ago. Destroyed poor Fred. Ruined his marriage, too. Shell was never able to forgive him. She took their little boy and moved to Spain. Fred doesn’t see them but once a year.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” I say. “Does Fred still live here?”
Tilly nods. “He has a little house in Cadeleigh.”
“Do you think he’d be willing to speak with me?”
Tilly rocks back in her chair. “I suppose so, although he’s still foolishly loyal to that girl. Still won’t hear a bad word said about her.”
“Maybe if I can just have his number, I could give him a call.”
“I don’t suppose it could hurt.” Tilly reels off his number.
I ask her a few follow-up questions, mostly just verifying the people who were there on the day Nicholas died.
Despite what Tilly thinks about Miranda’s promiscuity, everything I’ve heard about both that day and the summer as a whole is that Miranda only had two steady boyfriends, Tilly’s brother and a rugby player who was away at a game.
I haven’t had much luck tracking down the girls who were there—they’ve moved away and gotten married, so they’re a little harder to find—Fred’s the first eyewitness I’ve found.
I want to talk with Logan before I try to interview him, though.
I thank Tilly and give her the bottle of wine and box of chocolates I’ve brought.
I may not understand fine social cues, but I know how to butter up a witness, and I’ve learned that the ladies of this little British village are seriously impressed when a man brings them wine and chocolates.
When I leave, she shows me to the door and gives me a kiss on the cheek, which surprises me. I guess it is a friendly village.
As I walk back through the small town towards our bed and breakfast, I notice two things. First, in all the time we spoke, Tilly never once said Miranda’s name.
Second, I have eyes on me.
It could be De Leon. He’s been trailing me on and off, unobtrusively, as I’ve gone about my interviews.
But these eyes don’t feel that friendly.
I do what he’s told me to, stepping into the first store in the town that has a big picture window.
I’m in luck that it’s a chippy—a fish and chip shop—and while Logan might disparage southern fish and chips, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with them in my book.
I order fish, chips, and two steak and kidney pies.
That will take them a few minutes to cook, and De Leon will polish off anything I don’t eat.
There are a few copies of the village newspaper scattered on the windowsill.
I take one of them and pretend to leaf through it while I watch the street.
My order’s ready and wrapped in plain paper, before I spot them.
A man and a woman. Both wearing plain, dark clothes; both on the wrong side of too muscular to fit in anywhere but a weightlifting competition.
The man’s hair is a blonde buzz. The woman’s is a dark bob tucked just under her ears.
No jewelry on either of them. No makeup on the woman.
No shopping bags. The woman’s not carrying a purse.
I don’t think I’ve seen a single British woman since we landed who wasn’t carrying a purse.
Even most of the teenagers carry cross-body bags, either designer or knock-off.
There are only a dozen shops on this street and the man and woman check the windows on all of them—except the chippy I’m in—at least twice while I watch them. She takes his hand at one point, trying to look casual, and he barely controls a flinch. Absolutely not a couple.
I take out the phone De Leon gave me and text him.
I’m at the Tickled Trout chip-shop. I have a tail. Man and woman. What should I do?
I tuck the warm, paper parcel under my arm while I wait for a response. The kid behind the counter shoots me several strange looks and I’m sure he’s wondering why I’m lingering, letting my food go cold. But he doesn’t have a pair of potential kidnappers standing fifty feet away.
De Leon: I’m five minutes out. Wait where you are.
I fiddle with my phone, pretending to be involved with social media. While I’m stalling, the man and woman cross the street to a craft store and peer in the window. Two people less likely to craft anything other than IEDs, I’ve never seen.
At six minutes, my phone goes.
“Walk out of the shop and turn left instead of going back to the bed and breakfast. Don’t look around. There’s an uber waiting two blocks down. Get in. The driver will hand you a piece of paper with directions. If I don’t meet you by midnight, you know where to go,” De Leon tells me.
“Got it.”
“Good. Go. And save me a pie.”
I hang up without answering or saying goodbye.