A Spoonful of Murder by J.M. Hall

Author:J.M. Hall [Hall, J.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2022-01-17T17:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

An apology is made, a tale of reckless abandon is related and the nature of wickedness is contemplated.

Waiting outside the Thirsk bookshop for Derek, Liz reflected on the evening. She felt more than a little resentful about having to witness that whole scene when she’d not even wanted to go to the bar in the first place. All this speculation like it was a game of Cluedo or something! She knew she was going to feel deeply awkward at the funeral; how she’d face KellyAnne she did not know.

She looked in the window of the bookshop, hoping to distract herself. There was a big display – March, the month of murder! – with an array of dramatic-looking titles. She looked away, eyes recoiling reflexively, and turned her gaze to the other side. There was a display of the new Julia Donaldson book, which turned her weary thoughts back to her other worry: Jacob. The upshot of the big meeting the other day had been new strategies to try each day. But avenues were being exhausted and things were looking serious. It wasn’t that Mrs Bell wasn’t trying her damnedest (apparently she loved the little guy to bits), but this, it seemed, simply wasn’t stopping Jacob from having some meltdown or other on a virtually daily basis. A report card system had been instated, which involved either Tim or Leoni (or herself if she was picking him up) reporting to Mrs Bell for a discussion on how the day had gone. But despite all of this there’d been yet another upset today.

From out of the Darrowby Arms came a burst of laughter, which for some reason reminded her of when Tim was little and Mum and Dad used to babysit so she and Derek could go to the quiz night at the Ainderby Stoop (now that curry restaurant). Remembering those far-off days gave her a pang; when had life become so bleak? She’d always had some idea that in your sixties, life became gentler, slower – gardening and coach holidays – but none of this upset. Her thoughts were broken by the familiar sight of the silver Corsair with the reassuring figure of Derek sat at the wheel. She felt a flush of guilt as she recalled his earnest entreaties to leave the whole question of Topsy alone. Well, leave it alone she would; let Thelma and Pat do what they wanted.

‘Good evening?’ he said as they pulled away.

‘So-so,’ she said. ‘Definitely so-so.’

‘Never mind,’ he said, signalling left.

‘Did our Tim ring?’ she said.

‘No.’

She suddenly wanted to tell him she loved him but knew better than to speak whilst he was negotiating a mini roundabout.

Thelma retraced her steps to the Aldi car park, one hand in her pocket clutched around the rape alarm (yes this was Thirsk, but one never knew). The night had grown even mistier, wispy murk stealing up from the river to hang pearly across the racecourse. She would have to go easy on the drive back to Ripon.

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