‘Well?’ asked Matt when Emma had driven off in Brad’s car that was more rust than bucket.
‘Well, what?’
‘This is usually the point at which you say “it’s Emma” or “it’s Brad”.’
‘No I don’t!’
‘Yes you do. You always think it’s the person we’ve just talked to. And I definitely thought you would try to squeeze what Emma has just told us into one of your outlandish theories as to why she could be the only person responsible.’
‘Well, I…’
Matt laughed and her cheeks coloured because that was exactly what she had been about to say, but having had a few minutes to think about it, she just couldn’t see Emma, or Brad for that matter, wanting to shoot Rick, mainly because they both knew they were onto a good thing having Rick finance their trips abroad. Why would they want to put a stop to that? Rick had plenty of money; if he was willing to spend some of it on the club members so they could undertake foreign excursions together as a group then that was his prerogative. She couldn’t blame Emma, or Brad – who probably didn’t earn a huge salary either – for taking him up on his offer.
And could Emma really be responsible for stabbing her faithful bear Mitzy with an arrow? It didn’t seem likely, but then who went around doing that sort of thing anyway? Ergh. Rosie’s head felt like a marshmallow army had invaded and were partaking in a foam party, but there was no time to linger on her misfortune because a police car was winding its way down the drive towards the Windmill Café.
After spending the best part of an hour giving a statement to a police constable who took the ancient art of pedantry to a whole new level, Rosie watched him place poor Mitzy in a plastic evidence bag. Feeling like a toddler whose favourite toy had been confiscated for a misdemeanour she hadn’t committed, she made the hooded-eyed officer promise to keep her informed of when she could have him back. She saw the look of disbelief on the man’s face, but he wasn’t the sort of person who would understand that the bear was the only item she possessed that had belonged to her father and precious memories were tied up in his threadbare fur.
She showed him out through the French doors and they both paused on the terrace whilst they waited for Matt to finish scrolling through his mobile phone before shaking the officer’s hand.
‘What are you looking at?’ asked Rosie.
Instead of answering her question, Matt turned to the policeman. ‘I’ve just read on the Willerby Gazette’s website that the police have concluded their search of the area surrounding Garside Priory and they found a chisel hidden under a rock close to where we camped for the night. Why didn’t you mention it?’
‘I wasn’t sure whether that information was going to be released,’ sniffed the man, rolling his eyes at Matt’s impertinence for questioning the police’s procedures and their unwillingness to share their discoveries with the public.
Rosie leaned over Matt’s shoulder to take a closer look at the write-up by intrepid journalist, Dan Forrester. A swirl of citrusy cologne sent a frisson of desire snaking around her abdomen and it took her a few seconds to drag her thoughts back to the subject at hand.
‘A chisel, though? Not a quiver filled with poisoned arrows, or a long bow, or a recurve bow or … what’s the other type of bow called?’
‘Composite. So, do the police think the chisel is connected to what happened to Rick Forster?’ pressed Matt.
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘But Rick wasn’t attacked with a chisel,’ said Rosie, wrinkling her nose in confusion.
‘True. Have the police made any further progress on locating the bow?’
‘Perhaps you should direct your questions to Mr Forrester. Good evening, Miss Barnes, Mr Wilson. If either of you think of anything else that might assist with our enquiries, then please do contact us. Otherwise, try not to worry, we have everything under control.’
‘Unlikely,’ muttered Matt as they watched the most unfriendly police officer in Norfolk amble back to his car and sling Mitzy unceremoniously in the boot.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ said Rosie, her eyes still following the red taillights of the police vehicle wind through the country lanes. ‘Why don’t you give your farmer friend a call and see if he knows anything about the chisel?’
‘Why?’
‘Because if it was there before Sunday night, don’t you think one of his dogs would have sniffed it out?’
‘Maybe…’
‘And the fact they didn’t could mean someone brought it with them on our camping trip and maybe it’s connected in some way to Rick’s shooting.’
‘I’m not sure about that, but I don’t mind giving Giles a call.’
‘Thanks, Matt.’
Matt meandered out to the terrace to make his call and Rosie returned to her kitchen to set the kettle to boil. A wave of sheer exhaustion gripped her bones and squeezed out whatever ounce of energy remained. Her brain tumbled with a kaleidoscope of ideas and counter-ideas, all searching for a ledge upon which to park their theories. Maybe she should have gone with Emma and Brad to drown her anxieties with a couple of the Drunken Duck’s finest beverages.
‘So, what did he say?’
‘Giles has seen the Gazette piece, too, and he came to exactly the same conclusion as you. Well done, Sherlock.’
Rosie beamed and Matt rolled his eyes at her, but smiled as well.
‘He said that he walks his dogs past the spot where the chisel was found every morning and every evening. He agrees with you – one of them would definitely have sniffed it out straight away but he’s been avoiding the area where we camped since Rick was attacked for obvious reasons. So the chisel has to have been hidden by someone on Sunday night or Monday morning.’
‘Why not just dropped accidentally?’
‘Because it was found underneath a rock.’
‘But hidden by whom?’
‘Well, it can only be one of three people, can’t it? Freddie and I don’t carry that sort of equipment on wild camping trips, and I’m sure you’re going to tell me that you and Mia don’t own anything like a tatty old joiner’s chisel.’
‘No – whisks, spatulas and wooden spoons are the tools of our trade.’
Matt laughed. ‘I’m surrounded by a bunch of complete obsessives – myth seekers, legend lovers, baking boffs, adrenalin junkies!’
‘Oh, that’s the pot calling the kettle! Talking of pots, I’m starving. Shall I cook something?’
‘Unless you fancy indulging in some pub grub?’
Suddenly all Rosie wanted to do was escape the Windmill Café, to put the distressing incident out of her mind for a few hours and submerge herself in the rumble of conversation, the crackle of a log fire and a plate of Archie’s hearty fayre.
‘Thanks, Matt, I’d love that.’
She grabbed her pristine wax jacket and one of Georgina’s hand-knitted scarves and followed Matt out to the car park. She struggled to put words to the emotions swirling around her body as they made their way to the Drunken Duck where she suspected every one of the guests from the lodges would be eating that night. Perhaps a night with Matt and a takeaway in a wooden cabin huddled beneath the arboreal canopy would be a much more inviting prospect than having dinner with a group of people that possibly included a proficient marksman amongst its ranks – irrespective of the delicious food on offer.
Rosie’s suspicions proved to be only partially correct. Phil, Steph and Helen were indeed at the pub but there was no sign of Emma and Brad. She assumed they had changed their mind and gone to the upmarket bistro in the next village so they could enjoy a more intimate dining experience.
For a few uncomfortable moments, the spectre of Rick’s assailant lurked large in their company, but then everyone made a valiant effort to pretend nothing had happened. Phil regaled everyone with a detailed story about the group’s trip to the Isle of Man and his continuing research for his next book. Apparently, he had hoped to have another chapter finished by the end of their week in Norfolk but, unsurprisingly, the literary muse had deserted him. Rosie chatted about her love of baking as they all savoured the flavours and textures of the food on offer at the Drunken Duck, which as she had predicted was delicious – she even devoured a generous wedge of chocolate fudge cake.
With everyone’s stomachs replete, the prickly atmosphere of earlier morphed into mellowness and the conversation became less stilted, more jovial. For a couple of hours, Rosie managed to fool herself that things at the Windmill Café were normal; but the insidious coil of questions still needing answers eventually crept back in and she couldn’t forget that once again she had involuntarily become embroiled in something disturbing. What with the poisoning in August and now this, she wondered if she should consider handing in her notice and moving on – even though neither incident had been her fault.
The very thought of leaving Willerby caused her stomach to flip-flop with distress. She loved everything about the village and the little Windmill Café which had woven its magic into her heart and she desperately wanted to stay. She thought of her approaching ‘date’ with Matt for Grace and Josh’s Christmas wedding and enjoyed the sparkle of anticipation it caused in her chest. Seeing the couple together, happy, excited about starting their life together in the village they had grown up in, surrounded by friends and family – well, it made her think there might be an outside possibility she could find that too if she could only muster the courage to take a leap of faith into the dating game.
One thing she knew for sure was that she didn’t want to be alone for ever. Before her father had passed away, her parents had enjoyed a strong, loving marriage filled with plenty of laughter, togetherness and mutual respect. Georgina might complain about Jack’s obsession with music but Rosie knew she loved him fiercely. She wanted the same kind of relationship for herself. Just because she had made one disastrous choice with Harry didn’t necessarily mean her next one would be.
Could she see herself dating Matt? Who was she kidding? Yes! He was extremely attractive with a surfer-dude thing going on, and, if the sparkle of desire she felt when he kissed her was anything to go by, she was certainly attracted to him. On top of that, he was intelligent, supportive and generous with his time, not to mention their shared love of puzzle solving.
But what did he think of her? Would the personality issues she still struggled to master be a barrier to a long-term liaison? Maybe. If she delved beneath the surface, their differences were stark. She was a neat freak, he was a clutterbug; she was organized and methodical, he was more intuitive in his thinking. He loved action-packed itineraries in the rugged outdoors; her idea of a good time was swinging in a hammock with a cocktail in one hand and a glossy cookery book in the other.
Or maybe there was something in the old adage that opposites attract? If so, perhaps they could look forward to a long and happy marriage! Oh, well, whichever way she looked at it, she was excited about being Matt’s plus one for Grace and Josh’s wedding and that told her all she needed to know. She had changed since she had first met Matt, Mia and Freddie six months ago. She hadn’t said anything to anyone, but she’d been working hard on minimizing the clean gene she seemed to have involuntarily activated.
She knew she was a work in progress, but wasn’t everyone?
At least her life now had a smoother cadence. She enjoyed her job as café and holiday site manager and appreciated the autonomy Graham gave her to run the business how she chose, using her own initiative instead of deferring to someone else because she lacked confidence in her skills. She loved her quirky new home and the Merlot-infused nights out with Mia, and now Grace, and couldn’t believe she could boast to Georgina about taking part in a wild camping expedition, despite its disturbing outcome. All she had to do was solve the mystery of who shot Rick and life could return to normal.