have to tell Stu that I’ve finally found a woman who doesn’t find me irresistible.’
‘That’s so vain, Will; I can’t believe you just said that. But yes, I suppose there are some women who won’t find you their type. Lesbians for one.’
‘You’re just jealous, Annie.’
He dodged the slap she aimed for his arm and grabbed hold of her, pulling her towards him. ‘But I only have eyes for you.’
‘Good, I’m glad about that because I can’t live without you. So what’s happening in the high profile world of CID this week—anything exciting?’
‘Not much, thank God. My department has had more excitement in two years than it has in the last twenty. Just the same old stuff really; the most exciting thing to happen this week was someone had their already broken petrol generator stolen from their shed by someone they already knew and identified.’
There was a loud knock on the door and Will opened it to see a beaming Jake and Alex standing on the other side. Jake was holding a bottle of champagne and offered it to Annie.
‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’
Jake stepped in, followed by Alex.
‘We wanted you to be the first to know. We’re going to be parents.’
Annie threw her arms around Jake, squeezing him tight and then Alex. ‘Aw, congratulations, but if you don’t mind me asking, how?’
Will stepped forward to shake their hands. ‘Congratulations, guys.’
Jake followed Annie into the kitchen. ‘What do you think—we kept it quiet, eh?’
‘You certainly did—have you found someone to be a surrogate?’
‘Oh, God, no, there are so many kids out there who need loving homes we put our names down to adopt last year and have been going through the process for months now. This morning we got told that a three-month-old baby girl needed a home sooner rather than later. I can’t wait! I never thought I’d say this but I guess looking after you has made me broody.’
Annie stared at him. ‘What are you trying to say—that I’m like some big kid?’
Alex pulled a face at Will and the pair of them began talking about the latest football results, neither of them wanting to get involved.
‘Of course not, Annie, but I do get to babysit you a lot and I’m just saying it made me realise how much I like taking care of people.’
Annie kept her temper in check, not wanting to spoil what was obviously an important day for both of them, but Jake had a knack of putting his size twelve feet in his mouth without thinking almost every time he opened it.
‘That’s okay then. I’ll let you off and I suppose that you are a very good babysitter.’
The tension in the room dissipated and Will felt his shoulders relax. He popped the cork on the champagne bottle and poured it into the four glasses he had just taken from the cupboard, handing Alex one first.
He downed it and smiled. ‘You have such a way with words, Jake, I’m surprised anyone even bothers speaking to you most of the time.’
‘I do, Alex; it’s like a gift from the gods.’
This made all four of them laugh. You couldn’t stay mad at Jake – well, not for very long. Annie wondered if she would ever have such news to tell her friends and, judging by the look on Will’s face, she thought that one day she might. He was looking very wistful into his champagne glass.
‘Here’s to Jake and Alex, who are going to be amazing parents.’
Will toasted them and then downed his drink as well.
1782
Betsy didn’t watch the cart which brought her mother’s coffin to the front door; she didn’t want to see it. Mrs Whitman had been the village’s local layer of the dead for years and had gone in to wash and dress her mother in her Sunday best, ready to be laid into the coffin. The funeral was not for another three days but she felt as if she had already outstayed her welcome here, at the Whitmans’ house; tonight she must go back home and sleep in her own bed. She was tired and hoped this would make her sleep and forget the fact that her mother’s body was lying downstairs, slowly rotting away. She wasn’t sure whether it was guilt she’d felt or relief when the doctor had said she had bled to death from a burst blood vessel and there was nothing Betsy could have done to stop it. She had thanked him, knowing fine well it was nothing of the sort, but she didn’t want him to suspect her of any wrongdoing. Mrs Whitman and two of her mother’s friends had been in and cleaned the house from top to bottom, ready for Betsy to go home. They had offered to go back in with her but she had told them, ‘No, thank you.’ They had done more than enough.
It was dusk by the time they had finished and Betsy said goodbye to them as they sat around Mrs Whitman’s small kitchen table drinking tea. She went to her own house and paused at the front door; on the step was a bunch of freshly picked meadow flowers and a note. Bending to pick them up, she smiled to see Joss’s name on the note. How sweet of him to have taken the time to bring them. Forgetting all about her deadly crime, she went into the house and over to the sink where, on the kitchen windowsill, there was a glass jar. Joss was so tall and handsome; he had such a sweet smile. Her mother had rarely smiled at Betsy, even as a child, whereas Joss grinned the moment he saw her, making her feel special. No one had made her feel like that since her father had died and she liked it.
Humming to herself, she filled the jar with water and put the flowers inside. Turning to put them on her small kitchen table, she gasped when she heard a groan come from behind the curtain where her mother’s bed was. Her fingers slipping on the wet glass, she almost dropped the jar, just managing to put it down before it fell to the floor and smashed into a million pieces. She stood still, her head cocked to the side, listening for the sound again. It was dark in the cramped room and she really needed to light some candles but she was afraid to move. Behind the curtain, she could see the outline of the wooden coffin containing her mother’s corpse. How could this be—had she not been told herself that the woman was dead? The doctor had said that she was dead—maybe she had just been in a deep sleep and not dead at all. Betsy did not dare to move and stood there waiting, but there was no more noise so she convinced herself it had been her imagination then set about washing her hands and lighting candles. The curtain was drawn and there was no way on this earth she would open it and look at her mother’s cold body. Mrs Whitman had placed fresh flowers around the kitchen and the sweet fragrance filled the air. Betsy took a candle and made her way up the stairs, as far away from the coffin as she could get.
Upstairs, she changed into her white cotton nightdress and climbed into the cold bed; she settled herself down and pulled the soft blanket up to her face. Her eyelids felt so heavy, she was glad for small mercies and leant across to the wooden bedside table and blew out the candle. She closed her eyes at the same time so she did not have to see the shadows which filled the corners of her room. Within no time at all she was asleep, too tired to dream.
The next thing she knew, the clock in the kitchen chimed three and Betsy opened her eyes; she had been restless for the last half an hour, too tired to wake up, but then she heard the scraping noise. This was different to the mice she could sometimes hear scurrying around up in the attic; it was much heavier, as if someone was moving a piece of furniture around downstairs. The hairs on the back of her
