Aunt Bessie Goes (An Isle of Man Cozy Mystery Book 7) Page 5

  The pair walked to the kitchen where Doona was just pulling more garlic bread from the cooker.

  “That smells wonderful,” John said as he took a seat at the table.

  “It’s that frozen stuff that’s on offer at ShopFast,” Doona told him. “It’s much better than I expected.”

  Bessie sat back down and took a few polite bites of her ice cream. The soup and bread had filled her up and she really wasn’t in the mood for ice cream, but it seemed easier to eat it than to argue with Doona.

  Doona served soup and bread to the inspector and then returned to her seat and her own bowl of ice cream.

  John’s head went down and he spooned in many mouthfuls before he looked up. “You’re both staring at me,” he said with a sigh. “I guess I’d better fill you in on what I know.”

  Bessie knew it would be polite to tell him to finish first, but she was more curious than polite at the moment. “Please,” she said.

  John nodded. “You already know how I came to find the body,” he said. “It’s more of a skeleton than a body, though. I’m pretty sure it was put in there many years ago.”

  “In 1967,” Bessie said dully. “At least I think that’s right.”

  John pulled out his notebook. “That suggests that you know who we’ve found,” he said eagerly.

  Bessie shook her head. “I’m just guessing, but it’s really the only thing that makes sense. I think it might be Adam King, Nancy’s youngest son.”

  John made a few notes and then nodded at Bessie. “That was my first thought as well,” he told her. “Considering how the body was concealed, it seems more likely to have been a member of the family than a random stranger. We can’t rule anything out at this point, of course.”

  “If it isn’t Adam, it may be connected to his disappearance somehow,” Bessie said.

  “The, um, skeleton was dressed,” John said. “And he was lying on some old newspapers. Most of them had suffered badly with water damage, but we were able to get a date off of one of them.”

  “Which was?” Doona demanded.

  “22nd September, 1967.”

  “Adam’s birthday was in early September,” Bessie told him. “I remember him complaining once, when he was quite small, about having to go back to school on his birthday one year. And he disappeared right around his birthday. I remember that as well.”

  “When we’re done here, I’m going to drive down to Port Erin to talk to Sarah Combe, Nancy’s daughter. I’m hoping she might be able to identify the clothes and the suitcases that we found. If she does think they might have belonged to her brother, we’ll do DNA testing.”

  Bessie sighed. “Poor Sarah. This is going to hit her hard.”

  “I wish I could take you with me,” John said. “But there are procedures to follow in a case like this.”

  Bessie nodded. “If it is Adam, she’ll be devastated. And whoever it is, it will be a huge shock that her parents were hiding a body all these years.”

  “At the moment, we don’t know anything for certain,” John reminded Bessie.

  “We know someone hid the body there,” Bessie replied. “I can’t imagine that Nancy and Frederick didn’t notice.”

  “There are hundreds of possible scenarios,” John said. “And in at least some of them the Kings are innocent bystanders. Those may all be highly unlikely scenarios, but at this point we have to consider every imaginable possibility.”

  Bessie nodded though she was unconvinced. “What was in the suitcases?” she asked.

  “Clothes,” John replied, grabbing a slice of garlic bread. “Both suitcases were full of clothes. There was a small bag of toiletries as well in one of the cases.”

  “I assume you don’t want us repeating any of what you’ve told us,” Doona remarked.

  John sighed deeply. “While I was working with the crime scene team, Mr. Collins took it upon himself to ring the Isle of Man Times and give them the full story. Dan Ross, their intrepid reporter, was waiting for me when I left the house and I had to give him a statement.”

  “Oh, dear,” Bessie said. “I knew I didn’t like that man.”

  “Alan Collins or Dan Ross?” John asked.

  “Both,” Bessie replied.

  “The only reason our friend Mr. Collins isn’t in trouble with the constabulary is that, because the crime seems to have taken place such a long time ago, the Chief Constable had already suggested that we release everything to the papers. We’re hoping some witnesses might step forward.”

  “Witnesses to the murder?” Doona asked.

  “Witnesses to the construction, at least,” John told her. “We’d like to pin the date down firmly. And at this point, we aren’t certain it was murder, remember. The victim could have met with a tragic accident. Concealing the body is illegal as well, of course, but it’s not murder.”

  “Why conceal the body if it wasn’t murder?” Doona argued.

  “A very good question,” John said. He finished off the last of his soup and then grabbed the last piece of garlic bread. “I’ll take this with me, if I may,” he told the women as he stood up. “I have breath mints in the car so that I don’t offend Mrs. Combe.”

  Bessie and Doona walked to the door with the man. In the doorway, he turned back to Bessie.

  “I am sorry about lunch,” he said. “I’ll make it up to you one day soon.”

  Before Bessie could reply, he was off down the pavement towards his car.

  “I’m going to hold you to that,” Bessie said pointlessly to his back.

  Bessie helped Doona clear up the lunch dishes. After they were finished, Doona insisted on driving Bessie home.

  “If you feel like you need a walk, you can walk on the beach,” Doona told her firmly. “If you walk from here you’ll just get stopped by all my nosy neighbours who’ll want to know what’s going on at Nancy’s house.”

  Bessie couldn’t argue with that. Even the short walk from Doona’s house to her car was interrupted by a curious neighbour.

  “Ah, Doona, I noticed that Bessie was visiting. I don’t suppose either of you know what’s going on at the old King house, do you?” Charlie Grieves, Doona’s next-door neighbour, asked. He’d come racing out of his house as soon as Doona and Bessie walked out the door.

  Bessie exchanged glances with Doona. They both knew that telling Charlie anything was much the same as telling the whole island. The man was bored with retirement and he spent his time watching his neighbours and sharing every detail of their lives with anyone and everyone who would speak to him.

  “John Rockwell was looking at the house,” Doona explained. “He’s looking for a property here in Laxey.”

  “Finally split with that wife of his, did he?” Charlie asked. “I always thought he would be a good catch for you,” he told Doona.

  Doona flushed. “Anyway, apparently there was quite a bit of water damage in the house and when John was checking it out he found, well, he found a skeleton behind a false wall.”

  “It’ll have something to do with young Adam,” Charlie said, glancing back and forth as if checking to make sure he couldn’t be overheard. “He was a troublemaker, that one.”

  “The police are checking with Sarah to see if it might be Adam,” Bessie said.

  “Oh, I don’t expect it will be,” the man replied. “I bet he killed someone and his parents hid the body for him. That’s why he ran away to Australia, I reckon.”

  “Well, that’s certainly one theory,” Bessie said. “The police are considering every possible alternative.”

  “Young Adam moved away, what, like thirty years ago? I wonder if he kept in touch with Nancy or Sarah,” Charlie mused. “I hope they can track him down and bring him back for the trial.”

  “I think you’re getting rather ahead of things,” Bessie said with a frown. “At this point we don’t have any idea who the person is, what killed him or her, or how they ended up behind the wall.”

  “Young Adam was working for his father, you know. He cou
ldn’t get a university place, not with his A-level results. He was doing something or other down at the bank with Frederick,” Charlie said.

  “I didn’t remember that,” Bessie said.

  “I bet he and some friend of his hatched a scheme to rob the bank or something,” Charlie continued. “Heck, they might have even managed it. Frederick would have hushed everything up, I bet, if his son was involved. I bet Adam and his friend had a falling out, and Adam killed him, took all of the money and ran away to Australia.”

  Bessie sighed. “I suggest you wait until the police have investigated before you start sharing your theories with the rest of the island,” she said sharply. “You could be harming the reputation of an innocent man.”

  “That Adam King wasn’t innocent,” Charlie laughed. “He was nothing but trouble.”

  Bessie shook her head and bit her tongue. She was quite done with this conversation. Doona seemed to read Bessie’s mood.

  “Sorry, Charlie, but we have to go. I have an appointment I have to keep,” she told the man.

  Doona took Bessie’s arm and led her to the car. A door opened in a house across the street, but the women ignored the curious look they got and climbed into the car. As they drove away, Bessie spotted the woman from across the road scurrying over to talk to Charlie.

  “In another hour the whole island will be convinced that Adam stole millions from the Manx National Bank, murdered his partner and then fled the island,” Bessie said with a sigh as she settled back in her seat.

  “Everyone knows that Charlie has an overactive imagination,” Doona said. “As theories go, though, I thought it was quite interesting.”

  “I thought it was horrible,” Bessie replied.

  “So you don’t think there could be any truth in it?” Doona asked. The drive to Bessie’s was a short one. They’d already arrived by the time Doona finished the question.

  “Let’s walk on the beach and discuss it,” Bessie suggested. “I need the fresh air.”

  The afternoon had cooled off, so Bessie stopped in her cottage to grab a cardigan. Doona threw on a jacket that she had in her boot before they began to walk.

  “Adam did get himself in a lot of trouble,” Bessie said after they’d walked for a short time. “He and the Carr boy used to run around together and Mark Carr ended up in gaol across not long after Adam left. But I still find it hard to believe that a man who ate biscuits at my table could murder someone and hide the body behind a wall.”

  “I’m sure Mark is meant to be getting out soon,” Doona said. “In fact, he may already be out. Maybe he’ll be able to answer some questions about Adam.”

  “He’d be the best one to ask, outside of Sarah and her brothers, I suppose.”

  “I wonder if Spencer knows anything,” Doona mused.

  “Perhaps I’ll have to give him a ring,” Bessie said thoughtfully.

  Spencer Cannon was another of the children of the Raspberry Jam Ladies, a group of women, including Nancy King, who’d originally met as new mothers. They’d stayed friends, meeting once a week for tea, for around fifty years. Their children, Adam and Mark Carr among them, had all grown up together. Spencer had been living across for many years, but had recently returned to the island. Bessie had helped him find a job in Ramsey and he’d rung her just a week ago to thank her yet again for her help.

  “Maybe you should ring Sarah, too,” Doona suggested.

  “I intend to,” Bessie replied. “I can’t imagine how she must be feeling.”

  At the foot of the steep wooden steps that led to Thie yn Traie, Bessie and Doona turned around. Bessie had been so lost in her thoughts on the first half of the walk that she’d barely noticed the other occupants of the beach. Now she nodded and smiled at a few elderly couples who were sitting on their patios, well wrapped up against the chill.

  Doona insisted on coming in to have a quick check of the cottage, a habit she’d developed after someone had tried to kill Bessie some months earlier.

  “It’s the middle of the day,” Bessie pointed out as Doona checked the downstairs loo for intruders. “No self-respecting burglar or serial killer would break in at this sort of time.”

  “Not funny,” Doona muttered as she headed for the stairs. Bessie sighed deeply. Her friend’s fussing annoyed her immensely. She tolerated it because she knew it made Doona feel better and her friend’s happiness was important to her.

  When Doona returned to the kitchen, Bessie had put the kettle on.

  “I don’t really fancy tea,” Bessie told her friend. “But making tea seemed like the thing to do.”

  Doona laughed and shook her head. “I don’t want anything. I really should get home.”

  “I’ve taken up a lot of your day off,” Bessie said. “I am sorry.”

  Doona gave her a hug. “You don’t need to be sorry,” she said stoutly. “Think of all the number of times I turned up here, sobbing and feeling sorry for myself, while my marriage was breaking up. I owe you hundreds of hours of tea and sympathy.”

  Now Bessie chuckled. “You weren’t that bad,” she replied. “And I was happy to do it.”

  “And I was happy to be there for you today,” Doona insisted. “But if you’re okay, I do have some things I’d like to get done.”

  “I’m fine,” Bessie assured her. “A little sad, but mostly fine.”

  Doona nodded.

  Once she’d gone, Bessie switched off the kettle and wandered into her sitting room. There was a small pile of books next to her favourite chair, but reading didn’t really appeal. The phone rang before she could decide what she wanted to do.

  No doubt someone was ringing to get the latest skeet on what they’d found at Nancy King’s house, she thought to herself. She walked into the kitchen and listened as the answering machine played her message.

  “Ah, Aunt Bessie, this is Sarah Combe. Can you please ring me?”

  Sarah hung up before Bessie managed to grab the receiver. She sighed and then paced around the kitchen for a few minutes, feeling as if she didn’t want Sarah to know she’d been there but hadn’t answered. After another minute, she shook her head at her foolishness. Sarah wouldn’t care; she just wanted to talk to Bessie.

  “Sarah, it’s Bessie Cubbon. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, Bessie, it’s, that is, the police were here. They think they might have found Adam.”

  Bessie said nothing as she heard Sarah burst into tears. After a short time another voice came over the line.

  “Miss Cubbon? This is Mike Combe, Sarah’s husband. I’m afraid she’s rather too upset to talk right now.”

  “That’s certainly understandable,” Bessie said softly.

  “Yes, well, I know she was ringing to ask you if you were free for tea tomorrow. It might be best if you came here. I understand you don’t drive. I’m happy to come and collect you, if that’s acceptable.”

  “That’s fine,” Bessie said.

  “I’ll collect you around half two, if that suits,” Mike said. “I know Sarah has a lot she wants to discuss with you. I hope you can spare the time.”

  “I can stay as long as necessary,” Bessie assured him.

  “Thank you,” he said, sounding relieved. “I wish, that is, I hate to see her like this. She still hasn’t recovered from losing her mother, you know.”

  “I hope I can help,” Bessie replied.

  “I’m sure you can.”

  Bessie hung up feeling less certain than Mike Combe sounded. She fixed herself some dinner on automatic pilot and if you’d asked her an hour later, she wouldn’t have been able to tell you what she’d had. Taking a book to bed usually helped relax her, but tonight it didn’t work. She found herself frustrated with a main character who was just too indecisive. The long and restless night that followed left her feeling out of sorts the next morning.

  Chapter Four

  Bessie hoped a long walk on the beach would improve her mood, but the morning was damp and foggy and she felt chilled to the bone before she�
�d gone very far at all. She pressed on to the end of the row of holiday cottages and then turned back towards home. Having the beach to herself this morning was a treat after the long and very busy summer season, but the miserable weather meant that she didn’t really enjoy it.

  Back in her cottage, she kept herself busy, doing some rather unnecessary cleaning and then ironing, one of her least favourite chores. As she was already in a terrible mood, she figured she might as well. Her usually much enjoyed cozy mysteries simply didn’t appeal, so she grabbed a history of Anglesey off her shelves and looked through it over a light lunch. A researcher had recently kindled some interest in visiting the island in Bessie. That she was currently sitting in gaol, didn’t mean Bessie wasn’t still intrigued by the idea of visiting the island off the coast of Wales. She found the similarities and differences between Anglesey and the Isle of Man fascinating.

  After lunch she sat on the rock behind her cottage and amused herself by watching the holidaymakers from the holiday homes. The day was still overcast and cool, but everyone seemed to be trying to make the best of it. Families with very small children were playing in the sand, although Bessie didn’t see anyone splashing in the cold sea. A few older couples were dotted across the beach in beach chairs covered in blankets. As the wind began to pick up and the skies darkened, Bessie headed inside.

  She changed into a black skirt and a grey sweater, adding low black pumps and a matching handbag. After brushing her hair, she swiped on a coat of lipstick, the stickiness of it making her frown at her mirrored image. She thought about adding a bit of blush, but was interrupted by the knock on her door.

  “Miss Cubbon?” the man asked when Bessie opened the door. “I’m Mike Combe. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  The man was tall and sturdily built with a full head of grey hair and brown eyes. While he was smiling, he looked exhausted and as if he were under considerable strain.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” Bessie replied. “I hope Sarah is feeling better today.”