Chapter 48
It was three days before she saw Herv Gunnarsen again. Or anyone. She shut herself away in the cottage, not even bothering to get dressed, because she didn’t know what else to do. The manor was hers to live in, but the notion was unreal. She felt stupidly fragile and lost. As if she were standing at a signpost not knowing which way to go because the lettering had faded too much to guide her.
It was Fiona Abercrombie who put her back on the road to reason.
Marnie’s mobile rang and she pressed accept rather than decline by mistake. And then was too polite to hang up.
‘Marnieee.’ Fiona Abercrombie’s voice was at the top of the pleasant scale.
‘Mrs Abercrombie,’ Marnie replied, with flat politeness.
‘I’d like to offer you my congratulations. I hear you’re the new owner of Wychwell.’
Mrs Abercrombie’s voice had sugar overload. Marnie wasn’t taken in.
‘Thank you.’
‘I expect you’re wondering why I’m ringing.’
Marnie could make a stab at a guess if pushed.
‘I think I acted rather hastily,’ Mrs Abercrombie went on. ‘I was understandably cross when we last spoke but we can’t find a cheesecake maker in your league. How about we strike a new deal?’
Marnie could imagine her sitting at her desk, fixed grin on her face, pen hovering over her diary to make a date for negotiations. Well, she could work for it.
‘What sort of deal?’
‘Oh, one to your advantage, of course.’
‘Really?’ Interest crept into Marnie’s voice and Mrs Abercrombie leapt on it.
‘I can guarantee double the quantity I was taking from you before. And shall we say a pound more per cheesecake? I can stretch to one pound fifty if you are going to insist on driving me to a hard bargain.’ Tinkly laugh.
‘Hmm, let me think about that for a moment,’ replied Marnie. She fell silent for a three-second count. ‘No.’
More glockenspiely-type laughter from Mrs Abercrombie then, as though she thought Marnie must be joking.
‘I really mean no,’ said Marnie. ‘I know my cheesecakes are good enough to be marketed as mine, not masquerading as yours so no, I’m not dealing with you. Not after you cut me off like you did. I think Wychwell is the perfect place for a teashop and one that can sell my cheesecakes exclusively.’
Mrs Abercrombie tried to argue but Marnie disconnected the call mid-plea: ‘Oh, let’s not be too hasty, Marnie, I—’ No – for once, someone needed her more than she needed them. Actually, it had happened quite a bit in recent times. Caitlin, Justin and now Fiona fatarse. All it needed was for Gabrielle to turn up at her doorstep imploring that she needed a sister’s advice.
Mrs Abercrombie’s call made her think. Marnie had only said it to put the wind up the woman but there was no reason why she shouldn’t sell her own home-made fare in the teashop she had planned for the village. It could turn out to be the cheesecake capital of the North, the world, the universe. If Fiona Abercrombie and her sub-standard offerings could make it in the marketplace, why the hell shouldn’t she have a go?
And the matter of teashops brought her neatly round to the mystery of Margaret Kytson’s well. With an injection of much-needed energy, Marnie got showered and dressed and set off with a spring in her step towards the vicarage.
Lionel greeted her warmly and Marnie was a little sad that it had transpired that this wonderful man wasn’t her father after all.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said, ushering her into his lovely bright kitchen. ‘Can I get you a cup of something?’ There was a newspaper spread over the table.
‘Not disturbing you, am I?’ Marnie asked.
‘Absolutely not. I would rather have your company than read about doom and gloom any day. Milk? Sugar?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘When are you moving into the manor then?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Marnie, puffing out her cheeks. ‘It all seems too . . . dreamlike.’
‘You’ll get used to it very quickly, I’m sure. Lilian used to say that the house liked you,’ and Lionel smiled fondly. ‘She said that it wanted to be loved. And if it were, then it would give it all back.’
Lilian was bonkers though, she could have said, but she knew exactly what Lionel meant. She’d always felt welcomed there. Possibly by the ghost of the Pink Lady, who she now knew didn’t exist.
‘Didn’t Emelie want to live there at all?’
‘Not without Lilian. She told me that she went back a couple of times, in the night, hoping to feel Lilian’s presence there . . . but sadly, no.’
Marnie had known it was a real live person she’d seen that one time when she had run up to the manor hoping to catch the ghost before it walked through a wall. It was Emelie, retracing her familiar steps.
‘Lionel, I’ve come to ask you about Margaret Kytson and the well.’
The vicar sat down next to her and Marnie couldn’t work out if the resulting creak came from him or the chair.
‘Well, you can ask, my dear, but I have no new information.’
‘You may have, but not know it,’ said Marnie and Lionel’s head moved forward by interested degrees.
‘Oh? Do go on.’
‘Emelie said words to the effect that Lilian had been looking through the manor ledgers and had found something which made her think she was on to where the well might be, but she didn’t write it down and so she forgot it.’
‘As we all do,’ said Lionel. ‘Most annoying.’
‘Well, Lilian tried to refresh her memory by going back over them again but she couldn’t find it . . .’ she left an enticing pause ‘. . . I think that might have been because she found something that wasn’t there.’
Lionel waited for her to continue and when she didn’t, his brows dipped quizzically. ‘I’m not sure I’m with you.’
‘Lionel, where is Spring Cottage, Spring House, Spring whatever?’
Lionel tapped his lip in thought. ‘I . . . I don’t know that there ever was one. I’ve never come across mention of it. Why?’
‘There are two derelict houses named after Winter and Summer, and Derek’s house – Autumn Leaves, but no Spring one. I find that a bit odd.’
The vicar processed this and nodded slowly.
‘Yes, I see what you mean. But there isn’t.’
‘There must be. Lilian told Emelie that whatever she had found was more or less hiding in plain sight.’
Lionel considered this for a moment.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said and walked out of the room, reappearing soon after with a blue cardboard folder. He pulled the contents out onto the table.
‘This is all the stuff that wasn’t of any use but I didn’t throw it away, just in case. You never know. Here’s the child’s picture we found in one of the cottages.’
It was a drawing, of no interest so she put it back into the folder. Along with everything else because Lionel was right, it was rubbish.
‘We have a complete list of all the cottages – past and present names – but there is definitely no Spring amongst them,’ Lionel reiterated.
‘There has to be,’ replied Marnie. She had looked at the layout of the village so many times it had become tattooed on her brain. She went back to the blue folder and took out the drawing again.
‘Do you have a present map of the village here, Lionel?’
‘No, I don’t. I only have this collection of research rejects.’
‘Can I borrow it?’
‘Of course,’ said Lionel and gave a chuckle. ‘It’s yours now anyway.’
Marnie, a woman on a mission, said a quick goodbye and headed over to Little Raspberries to pick up the key for the manor house.
She was near to finding Margaret now, she absolutely knew it.