Epilogue
In the garden of the cottage in Lover’s Lane, on a breezy washing line strung between two poles, colourful kaftans blew like bunting at a village fete, while a dusty, yellowing hat that might have once been white hung limply by its brim.
Alf, wearing his chequered shirt and overalls, had a roll-up clamped between his lips, and, with Ness stationed beside him, leaned on his spade to gaze across the pond. Ness thumped her tail when Drake, like a sentry on patrol, began to paddle back and forth.
Alf thought it unusual for a male duck to take an interest in eggs being incubated. By now, they’d normally scarpered off to ponds anew. But this was Drake’s territory, and the old duck seemed hellbent on guarding the reed bed where his offspring were due at any moment.
Turning back to his roses, Alf chuckled as he dug fresh manure into the soil. Hattie, too busy in recent weeks to notice life on the pond, would soon have up to a dozen newly hatched Drakes to contend with.
In the outbuilding that served as Hattie’s office, the window was open and a pretty blind, half-drawn, stirred gently. Hattie was hard at work, and as she checked the notification on her website’s home page, she smiled.
H&H Investigations
Is now open again
& taking new enquiries.
Please leave your message
on our contact form.
Perfect! New enquiries would soon be coming in, and she already had a backlog waiting in her inbox. Two of which could be easily dealt with.
An insurance company asked for an investigation of a questionable barn fire on a local farm, and a suspicious spouse seeking evidence that their partner’s ‘business trips’ to Carlisle weren’t an extramarital affair.
But Hattie would probably decline the request from the Hollywood village gardening club, who were convinced someone was sabotaging their prize roses and dahlias.
And she was equally doubtful about the householder who believed his neighbour was spying, as his binoculars were constantly trained on their garden.
Checking the time, Hattie realised that the day had flown and decided that she’d earned a livener. Reaching into a drawer, she found a glass and poured a good measure of gin. She was about to add tonic when the office door burst open, and Alf came wandering in.
‘Goodness, Alf,’ Hattie grumbled, ‘you’ve a sixth sense for a bottle being opened.’
‘I’ll have a beer, thanks for asking,’ Alf replied, pulling out a chair and making himself comfortable.
Hattie reached again and pulled out a can, handing it to Alf.
‘It’s like a zoo in here,’ Alf said, staring at a shelf where Claude, Clement, Kitty, and Donald the Donkey sat in a neat row.
‘Treasures from the tombs.’ Hattie smiled. ‘Well, treasured gifts from Sylvie actually.’
‘I see you’ve finally got the Nile washing on the line,’ Alf commented as he took a long swig of the beer. ‘You’ve only been back from Egypt for five months.’
‘Yes, well, I’ve been busy . . .’
In truth, Hattie had forgotten about the case of depleted kaftans and her Tilley hat, which she’d worn during her Nile holiday. When she returned she’d parked it in the hallway, where it had stayed tucked deep under the stairs.
‘Busy messing about.’ Alf scratched his chin.
‘Not messing, I’ve been to see my sons and my grandchildren.’
‘Aye, alright, you were entitled to that . . .’
Hattie spun her chair away from Alf and stared out of the window.
Everything was beginning to come alive with daffodils and tulips, bright against the grass, and tender green shoots pushing through the warming April soil.
Not only had Alf created a lovely new bathroom but, as always, he was doing a wonderful job keeping her garden neat and tidy.
She noticed the washing billowing on the line and smiled.
Reacquainting herself with her Egyptian holiday wardrobe brought back happy memories, and, on opening the case, there was a familiar trace of Sylvie lingering in the fabric of the dusty kaftans.
Hattie gave her glass a gentle swirl and remembered the FaceTime call to Canada to celebrate Ezra’s coming-out party in Larksville.
Hattie had been introduced to Errol, Sylvie’s handsome husband.
‘We’ve created a house special on the grill, with your name on it.’ Errol beamed as he placed his arm around Sylvie. ‘We’ve called it the Hattie-Ever-After, and it sure is selling well.’
Grandpa and Grandma, on either side of Ezra, had joined in, too, and told Hattie that she shouldn’t be a stranger and that she must visit them all in Larksville soon.
‘I promise there’s no curses to contend with.’ Ezra laughed and introduced Hattie to Danny, his new boyfriend.
Hattie thought it a pity that the Canadian family hadn’t been able to come to Clitheroe for the renewal of Peter and Mary’s wedding vows on Valentine’s Day. But with the diner so busy, and Sylvie and Ezra having only recently taken time away, their apologies had been easily understood.
‘Off in your own world again, eh?’ Alf said, grabbing another beer.
‘I was thinking about the party in Clitheroe,’ Hattie replied.
‘Aye.’ Alf chuckled. ‘That was some do alright.’
Clitheroe Castle had proved the perfect venue for Peter and Mary to renew their vows, sitting high above the town with sweeping views across the magnificent Ribble Valley, where time seemed to have slowed down among the rolling green hills, winding lanes and wide-open skies that stretched forever.
The castle’s Steward’s Gallery, towering above the town’s independent shops, cosy cafes and homely pubs, delighted Bob’s grandchildren, who ran riot before the gathering guests.
The thick stone walls kept out the February chill, and through large windows, the outline of Pendle Hill, steeped in folklore, rolled away to the natural beauty of the Forest of Bowland in the distance.
Hattie stood holding Gerald’s hand as the celebrant led the ceremony, pleased to see that Peter had abandoned his James Bond secret-agent get-up in favour of a navy woollen suit. Gone too was his habit of scanning every corner of the castle for imaginary insurgents.
Mary looked lovely in pale blue silks, carrying a small bouquet of snowdrops, symbols of hope and new beginnings.
The couple renewed their vows with sincerity, and after a round of applause, Bob joked that the couple were the best thing to come out of Bully’s Butchers, though he was pleased to see they weren’t wrapped in brown paper.
Their Sausage Supper Celebration was a hit with everyone, and platters of Bully’s finest produce were laid out on long tables. Miniature cocktail sausages had a honey glaze, and Beef & Beetroot Bangers were served with a mustard mash.
‘The sausage rolls were the best I’ve ever tasted,’ Alf reminisced. ‘Mind, those Til-Death-Us-Do-Pork took some beating.’
‘Death Us Do Pork.’ Hattie laughed. ‘A good title for an Agatha novel.’
She touched the pearls at her throat and remembered the late winter light softening the view of the Ribble Valley as sausages sizzled and music mingled with happy chatter. Peter looked deliriously happy as he announced that he and Mary were heading to the Maldives for their second honeymoon.
Some love stories, Hattie thought, are worth celebrating twice.
There was a tentative knock at the office door, and Gerald appeared.
‘Am I interrupting?’ he asked.
‘No, of course not, come in and have a drink.’
Hattie handed Gerald a beer, and Alf pulled up an extra chair.
‘So how does it feel to be a private dick?’ Alf asked Gerald.
‘Well.’ Gerald met Hattie’s eyes. ‘I’ll let you know soon enough . . .’
On their return from Egypt, Hattie and Gerald had gone back to their separate homes, but distance did little to keep them apart. At all hours of the day, they found reasons to speak – a quick call over morning coffee and a long conversation at night, even when Hattie was away, visiting her sons.
Whenever they could, one or the other would make the journey to visit.
In a couple of months, Gerald’s divorce would be finalised, and Anouska, to his surprise, had made things easy.
With a generous settlement, she’d taken herself off on a cruise and was now husband-hunting somewhere in the South Pacific.
Her memories of the brief marriage to Gerald had already been reduced to #pastchapters and #lessonslearned, replaced by sunset selfies, pool poses, and beachside reels as she steadily grew her ever-expanding Instagram following.
For Hattie and Gerald, what had begun on a distant river had grown into something deep, but neither of them felt the need to hurry or name it too soon.
Gerald was fascinated by Hattie’s business and, realising that she could do with some help, she asked if he’d like to assist from time to time.
‘You don’t actually need a licence to be a private investigator in Britain,’ she’d told him, ‘but if you want people to trust you, I think it would be best if you did the training.’
Keen to keep his mind active and determined not to let later life dull his brain, Gerald completed an intensive course and gained his Level Three Award for Professional Investigators.
‘Now all you need is a good dose of on-the-job experience,’ Hattie said when Gerald proudly showed her his certificate.
‘Are you offering me an apprenticeship?’
‘Let’s call it . . . a trial partnership.’
‘In both work and love?’ he asked with a half-smile.
‘Well . . . there’s only one way to find out.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘By jumping straight into the first and seeing where the second takes us.’
But now, as Hattie glanced across the desk, she suspected she already knew the answer to the second question.
Whatever path lay ahead, they would be walking it together.
A sudden commotion on the other side of the door made them all look up. Alf barely had time to stand aside as Drake burst into the room, quacking wildly, wings flapping in excitement.
‘What’s to do, old lad?’ Alf asked, as the duck turned, as though urging them to follow.
Hattie pushed back her chair.
‘We’d better see what’s upsetting him,’ she said, filled with curiosity.
Trooping outside, they followed Drake to the pond.
Hattie’s jaw dropped, her eyes widening as she saw a female duck glide down onto the water. In the reeds beside the bank, tiny bundles of fluff and feathers were tumbling free of their shells.
Alf’s smile spread as he watched them wobble unsteadily towards their mother. He shook his head and began counting the newly arrived ducklings shuffling into the world.
Drake, chest puffed out, stood proudly at the water’s edge, and Hattie reached out to stroke his silky head. Beside Alf, Ness crouched down, her head resting on her paws as she watched the little procession with fascination.
‘Look at how they take a leap of faith!’ Hattie whispered, eyes wide.
For a moment, no one spoke, and Gerald reached for her hand. The pond shimmered in the last of the late-afternoon light, and Hattie felt tears of joy in her eyes.
Just when you thought things were settled, along came something new.
New beginnings could happen at any age, she realised, and often, second chances just waited for the right moment to arrive. She gripped Gerald’s hand, and when she turned, she found him gazing at her, and the warmth in his eyes told her everything.
The magic and memories of Egypt and the Nile had brought them together, and Hattie knew that love was the most wonderful feeling. No matter how it arrived, like the darling little ducklings in the pond, love was, and always would be . . .
A simple leap of faith.