Dying To Succeed

As a well-known agony aunt, Amelia was used to solving problems. But did she have the answer this time?

LYMPHNETT ST JUDE was a chocolate-box village with thatched cottages, ancient oaks and an idyllic village green.

There was a common belief that there had indeed been a chocolate company that had used a picture of Lymphny (as it was known to residents) on a Christmas selection box.

Strange, then, that no-one had such a box in their attics, nor had one come up for sale on eBay.

Another rumour had it that the exquisite green and beautiful church had featured on a set of bridge cards in the 1950s.

Given that bridge was a universal activity in local circles, it was strange no-one could produce a pack.

Nevertheless, the stories featured frequently in information about Lymphnett St Jude on the internet, in parish literature or via gossip channels.

Local folklore was guarded by the good people of the village, since it guaranteed a steady flow of visitors through the year.

The estate agent had trotted out both claims when Amelia had enquired about the possibility of buying in the village.

It had taken six months before she secured the Limes, a cottage in St Jude’s Way, a cobbled lane that led to the parish church of St Jude the Martyr.

The day she moved in, she found an iced fruitcake on her doorstep and a jug of flowers from her neighbours.

Lillian at No. 3 (the cake) waved shyly, then darted inside, while Ernest from No. 5 explained gruffly over the fence that the flowers had come from his garden.

Her first proper visitor was the vicar. It was that sort of village.

The removal men had just departed when Reverend Alistair Pepper arrived.

He loomed over Amelia on the doorstep and had to duck his head as he stepped inside.

“Just wanted to say welcome to Lymphny. Are you from these parts?” The vicar had bulbous eyes that Amelia found slightly unnerving.

He accepted a mug of tea and perched on the edge of the sofa, his knees almost up to his chin.

“No,” Amelia confessed. “My grandmother was from nearby. We visited her a lot when I was a child, so I feel an affinity with this part of the country.

“When I felt I was ready for a change, Lymphnett St Jude popped into my head. I suppose it was a sign.” He nodded gravely.

“So here I am!” she finished brightly.

Rev. Pepper regarded her quizzically over the rim of his mug. Under his scrutiny she found herself blushing. “I’m sorry. Is there . . .?” He coughed and dropped his gaze.

“I do beg your pardon, Miss . . . er . . .”

“Lemon,” Amelia said, reintroducing herself.

She was slightly miffed that he’d already forgotten her name and that he had assumed her to be single. “Please call me Amelia.”

“Yes . . . it’s just that, for a moment, you looked very familiar.”

Amelia’s heart sank. She had hoped to remain incognito for the first few days, if not weeks, in her new home.

She sighed. Perhaps he would let it drop.

But the reverend was made of sterner stuff.

“I’m certain that I’ve seen you before. I never forget a face, Anthea.”

Well, Amelia thought, you certainly don’t remember names.

“Amelia,” she said for the third time, trying to suppress a note of irritation. “Of course,” he replied. Then he gave a gasp.

“I’ve got it!” he cried triumphantly. “Ask Amelia!” Amelia smiled resignedly. “My wife is a fan,” he gushed. “She reads your column every week. I often read it, too.”

He made it sound as if Ask Amelia, a traditional advice column that ran every week in the national press, were slightly racy reading for a man of the cloth.

Admittedly, Amelia pulled no punches and on occasion employed a bluntness about relationships that might make a bishop blush, but millions seemed to find her no-nonsense approach interesting and helpful.

To her relief, years ago the editor had agreed to let an assistant help her sift through the e-mails that implored her to offer some solace to the unhappy.

Now, as working practices changed, they had agreed Amelia could work from home.

“That is gratifying,” she said. “I do hope I can rely upon your discretion, vicar.”

She explained that she was continuing with her employment, working from home.

“When people realise I am an agony aunt, they tend to . . .” She trailed off, hoping he had caught her drift.

“I’d rather just be a regular resident. Do you see?” she added.

He nodded vigorously.

“If only I were able to do the same. I’m always on call, I’m afraid. Like a doctor, you might say.”

It took Amelia a further ten minutes to send the good man on his way, and it was with considerable relief that she finally closed her front door.

The cottage was starting to look more organised, with cushions on the sofa and chairs and most of the kitchen equipment stowed away, when the doorbell sounded again.

Amelia hurried to the front door. She opened it to be confronted with a huge bunch of flowers, from behind which a woman’s smiling face emerged.

“Hello! Julia Galleywood.” There was a tiny pause as though Amelia ought to respond, then her visitor rushed on.

“I live in Stapleford House. Just an offering from my garden. Well, my gardener, to be more accurate. I do hope I’m not interrupting.

“Ghastly, isn’t it, moving house? All those boxes! Hector said I wasn’t to swan in, playing the lady of the manor . . .

“Oh, I love that fabric!”

Julia was now standing in the sitting-room, having thrust the bouquet at Amelia and eased her way past, uninvited.

She peered unashamedly at her hostess’s possessions, fingering her curtains and drifting a hand along the back of the sofa.

She looked up expectantly, leaving Amelia no choice but to offer tea.

Soon they were sitting beside the hearth, cups and saucers in hand (Amelia having located them), slices of cake in front of them, and Julia still in full flow.

“I hope you like village life. Very picturesque, but everyone knows everyone else’s business. Drives me potty!

“Hector swears the whole place must be bugged. Anything juicy is around the village before you can draw breath.

“I understand you’re some sort of agony aunt.”

Julia laughed at the expression on Amelia’s face.

“You see? Someone asked the receptionist at the estate agent’s your name and the whole village was busy on the internet checking you out.

“You won’t get peace unless you lay down some firm rules. Otherwise you’ll have folks pitching up at all hours with their tales of misery and whatnot.”

Julia suddenly looked serious and a shadow flitted across her face.

“What is it?” Amelia said, sitting forward with a vague sense of alarm.

Julia hesitated, as though weighing up her words.

“Lymphny is a lovely place to live, but it’s not all picture postcards. We have our share of tragedies like everywhere else.”

Julia put her cup on the table and got to her feet, her good humour restored.

“I think we might be friends. I always know. I’ll see you soon, no doubt.” And she was gone. Despite the sunshine flooding in through the window, a shiver ran down Amelia’s spine.

****

It was nearing dusk when Amelia called it a day.

Her bedroom was fairly straight, with only a few boxes to unpack, the kitchen was finished and there were enough lamps in the sitting-room for it to look like home.

Her home. She smiled with satisfaction, then went to the fridge.

She had made herself a promise to work as hard as she must to build a new life and make fresh friends.

Not that she didn’t expect her existing friends to visit, but she wanted to immerse herself in village life.

She located two wine glasses and popped out to the lane and up the path to Lillian’s cottage.

She needed to thank her new neighbour properly for the beautiful cake.

As she waited, she checked her watch and was surprised to see it was just after 8.30 p.m.

When Lillian appeared in the doorway, it took her a second or two to recognise Amelia.

“Oh, forgive me! I was just . . .” She waved towards the back of the house.

“I haven’t disturbed you, have I?” Amelia asked.

“Oh, no! I’ve been cooking some coley for Biscuit, my cat. It stinks the place out.” She looked enquiringly at Amelia.

“I wanted to thank you for your beautiful cake. Then I wondered if you’d care to join me in a glass of wine to christen my new home.”

Lillian leapt at the offer, grabbed a cardigan and her keys and within 10 minutes both women were enjoying glasses of Chablis and getting acquainted.

Lillian, it transpired, was a widow, a retired English teacher, a stalwart flower arranger and a keen cyclist.

Every year she went on a hiking holiday with an old colleague and friend, and adored living in Lymphny.

“I warn you: it’s impossible to keep a secret here. Typical village life. Now, tell me all about yourself.”

Amelia obliged with a potted biography: there seemed no point now in trying to conceal her occupation.

Lillian confessed to never having read her column, which came as a relief.

“I meant to say,” Lillian said with a nod to the corner, “what beautiful flowers! Gift from a friend?”

“I hope she will be,” Amelia replied. “Julia Galleywood brought them.” Lillian’s face darkened. “Ah, Lady Bountiful.” “Oh?” Amelia was disappointed.

“Don’t mind me. I’m a crabby old thing. I get tired of her trading relentlessly on past glories.”

“Past glories?”

Lillian looked astonished. “You do know who she is? Julia Galleywood?”

Now she heard it repeated, Amelia supposed the name sounded familiar.

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the fragment of memory.

“In the 1970s you couldn’t tune into a single TV serial without Julia making an appearance,” Lillian explained. “She was a good enough actress and a real looker.

“Then she snaffled Hector – poor soul – and the work dried up. She’ll tell you she decided to retire, but read into that what you will.

“Oh, this isn’t like me. I’m not in the habit of badmouthing people. To be fair, they are very generous – they donate to everything.

“Anyway.” Lillian glanced at her watch. “It’s time I was away. Thank you for a lovely chat.

“I have a funeral tomorrow,” she explained, “and I’m reading one of the lessons.”

“I’m sorry. Someone close?”

Lillian’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away.

“I knew him for years. Lovely chap, Peter. The Smythes have farmed in this area for generations.

“Dreadful accident in his slurry pit – overcome by fumes, apparently – and then he fell in.”

“How awful!” A memory of what Julia Galleywood had said about tragedies came back to her.

“Such a waste. Just the day before he’d won best in show at the county fair with one of his Belted Galloways.

“I’d been asked to do a feature on him for the county newspaper.”

Lillian explained that she was an occasional correspondent for the local newspaper.

“Take care now.” She squeezed Amelia’s arm.

Amelia waved her on her way then went back inside, bolting the door.

She wasn’t one for Googling other people, but she switched on her laptop and typed Julia Galleywood.

Hundreds of images appeared on the screen of Julia in character, in costume and in real life.

She was still a handsome woman, but Amelia could see that, in her heyday, Julia had been beautiful.

Galleywood was born in Hampstead, London, to actors Sir Sydney Galleywood and Ellen Markby, she read.

Her sister was actress Juno Galleywood; her brother the artist Jeremy Galleywood.

She looked at reviews of films and plays in which Julia had appeared. All of them commented on her looks, but the critiques of her acting were kind at best.

One critic seemed particularly spiteful: Miss Galleywood adorns her scenes like a piece of precious china, as lovely, if not lovelier, than her sister.

Unfortunately, her interpretation has the same fragile quality and is as inanimate.

That must have hurt, Amelia thought. Still, Julia had seemed such a breezy character, she presumably would have taken it on the chin. It was the price of fame, she supposed.

She was about to close her laptop when she remembered tomorrow’s funeral. It took less than a minute to find press reports of Peter Smythe’s accident.

There were tributes from friends, including Lillian, and a photo of the farmer, beaming proudly, holding his rosette at the county fair, the prize-winning cow behind him.

A woman, presumably his wife, was grinning up at him.

A wave of sadness swept through Amelia. Life was so short.

Resolving to make the most of every opportunity that came her way, she went upstairs to her bedroom.

Amelia had taken a fortnight’s leave to allow for the move, but by the end of the second week she was ready to get back to work.

Her assistant Jemima had been covering for her absence, and she rang her to thank her for doing such an excellent job.

Jemima was gratified. “Oh, thanks, Amelia. It’s only because I’ve a good role model! How are you enjoying your new home?”

Amelia filled her in about her new neighbours and acquaintances, and when she mentioned Julia’s name, Jemima squealed.

“I was just watching an old movie she was in the other night! Didn’t she marry some millionaire? She must be sixty now?”

Amelia did a quick mental calculation.

“I suppose she must, but you’d never think it. She doesn’t look a day over forty-five.”

They chatted for a few minutes, but were interrupted by Amelia’s letter-box.

Still talking, Amelia picked up a thick envelope, unstamped, her name written in extravagant, looping handwriting.

“This looks interesting.” “I’d better let you get on,” Jemima remarked. “I’ve forwarded some e-mails and scanned two letters that should make the cut.”

Amelia said goodbye to her assistant and opened the envelope.

It was an invitation to dinner at Stapleford House from Julia and Hector St John for the following day.

Sorry it’s short notice,

Julia wrote. If I don’t hear to the contrary, I’ll assume you’ll come. Dress casual.

Amelia smiled. Hadn’t she said she was going to throw herself into village life?

Julia’s idea of casual was at odds with Amelia’s.

Amelia wore a summer frock she’d worn to a drinks party at the editor’s house, while Julia was resplendent in a stunning low-cut black number that had undoubtedly cost a fortune.

Amelia, who kept her upper arms covered at all times, could only speculate on the amount of exercise her hostess must take to keep hers in toned condition.

She felt like a country cousin amid sophisticates as she surveyed the gathering, noting the other two female guests were dressed in outfits that probably cost her entire annual outlay on clothes.

The room in which they were enjoying drinks was beautifully appointed, with lavish flower displays on every available surface.

Amelia gave silent thanks that she had resisted her initial intention to bring a supermarket bouquet, settling instead for some upmarket chocolates.

Julia, high-spirited, had thanked her effusively.

“Oh, what a treat! Let me introduce you . . .”

With Julia’s arm through hers, Amelia had been led down an elegant hallway, its walls festooned not with paintings, but with dozens of photos from her career on stage, TV and film.

Amelia barely had time to register much beyond the sheer number of them before a glass of champagne was thrust into her hand and she was taken on a tour to meet the other guests.

Hector St John was a florid chap – she guessed in his seventies – who looked adoringly at his wife as she drifted around the room with Amelia in tow.

He pumped Amelia’s hand enthusiastically and beamed.

Behind him, over the mantel, was a vast painting of his wife playing Lady Macbeth, judging by the bloody dagger in her hand.

Lydia and George Templeton were old friends of the couple, and Julia was godmother to their eldest son.

Veronica and Gordon Pym were an oddly matched pair. She was glamorous, but not in the same class as Julia, while he was a rather weaselly fellow who proved to be Hector’s accountant.

“Keeps me honest!” Hector boomed.

The final guest – invited, Amelia surmised, to be her partner – was a nervous literary agent from a neighbouring village.

Widowed, Julia whispered in Amelia’s ear, and out that evening for the first time since his wife’s death.

He looked as uncomfortable as Amelia had felt at first.

As the champagne began to take effect and she settled into her designated role as a newcomer to this magic circle, she began to relax.

The room was lovely, though the scent from the flowers was overpowering, and when they moved to the equally delightful dining-room, Amelia found, to her surprise, that she was really quite hungry.

The food was delicious and Amelia couldn’t stop herself saying so, however gauche that might make her seem.

Lydia Templeton grinned and shot a look at Julia.

“Jooles has the most marvellous cook she hires, in case you were about to congratulate her,” she said. Julia pulled a face.

“Don’t give away all my secrets!” she called across the table.

She had placed Amelia beside her and now laid a hand on her arm.

“I wish I could say it was my own work, but as Hector will be only too pleased to confirm, I am the most terrible cook!”

Her husband, seated on the other side, raised a hand to caress her cheek.

“You make up for that one failing in so many other ways, my beloved.”

Amelia squirmed inwardly and looked across the table, catching Veronica Pym’s eye.

She raised an amused eyebrow and addressed herself to her turbot.

Amelia noticed that Julia had barely eaten a quarter of any dish: no wonder she was so slender.

She turned to her fellow guest, Terence Cathcart, the literary agent.

He had ploughed his way through every course with such enthusiasm that she could only assume he hadn’t had a decent meal since his wife’s demise.

“I understand you have recently lost your wife,” Amelia said softly, mindful of bereaved readers she had counselled over the years whose distress was compounded by people’s reluctance to talk about their departed loved one.

Terence looked at first astonished that the topic had been broached, then extremely grateful.

Amelia was happy to lend an ear as he described his late wife to whom he had been married for 35 years, and whom he had obviously dearly loved.

Recounting the story of their disastrous honeymoon in Italy even raised a sad smile.

He stopped mid-sentence. “Sorry, I’m being an awful bore.”

Before Amelia could reassure him, Julia cut in.

“It’s her job, Terry! Amelia doesn’t mind, do you?”

Everyone else at the table had stopped speaking and looked at her askance.

“Oh!” Julia exclaimed. “Didn’t I say? Amelia is an agony aunt. You know Ask Amelia?”

She looked around at her guests as though she were a conjurer pulling a rabbit from a hat.

Amelia, embarrassed, had never felt less like a rabbit.

“That’s my cover blown,” she said lamely as everyone busied themselves with their food.

She could have kissed Gordon Pym when he broke the awkward silence and changed the subject.

“Did Veronica tell you, Jooles? She’s up for a part in that new soap on ITV. The one set in a health spa?”

“Wow!” Julia said. “That is brilliant! A decent part, I hope? When will you hear?” Veronica simpered.

“Oh, you know what they’re like. All over you like a rash at audition and then nothing. My agent is chasing them.”

Julia’s jaw dropped.

“You had to audition? That’s a bit much with your track record. I can’t say I’m sorry I’m out of the industry these days.”

Veronica’s face tightened, then she forced a smile.

“We don’t all have your fame. I’m sure if anyone knew you were available, they’d beat a path to your door.”

Hector nodded vigorously and squeezed his wife’s hand.

Julia accepted the compliment with a gracious dip of the head.

“Lydia, what’s this I hear about a book deal? Does Terry know?”

Terence shook his head, frowning.

“Oh, I’m a bit behind the drag curve, what with . . .” he trailed off.

Embarrassment once more cloaked the room. Only Hector seemed oblivious as he scraped the sauce from his plate.

“Of course,” Julia said, her face the picture of contrition. “Anyway, it’s not your area, is it, cookery books?”

Terence rallied.

“I’m afraid not. Fiction only. But tell us more,” he said to Lydia, eager to hand over the baton of conversation.

Lydia obliged with suitable self-deprecation.

It transpired that she had written a cookery book marrying a travelogue with an exploration of Italian dishes.

They had a villa in Italy, she explained to Amelia, where they spent as much time as possible, and she had been collecting recipes

for years.

George, who owned a boutique hotel nearby, was an accomplished amateur photographer and had taken the pictures that illustrated the text.

A friend in publishing had sniffed an opportunity and everything had fallen into place.

“Lucky you,” Amelia said. “So many of these ideas get picked up and then nothing comes of it. When will the book be available?”

“In time for Christmas, we’ve been told,” George replied. “We’ve a publicity bod assigned to us, who are lining up interviews and appearances. It all sounds a bit over the top to me.”

“Don’t be such a grouch, George! It sounds positively thrilling!” Julia gushed. “You won’t want to know us once you’re a bestseller!”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” Lydia laughed. “It’ll be a flash in the pan, if we’re lucky. We’re just enjoying the ride while it lasts.

“I mean, who doesn’t dream of being a minor celebrity?”

I don’t, Amelia thought. She supposed in her own way she was quite wellknown. Not that she traded on it.

It was rare these days for anyone to recognise her in public, as she’d refused to change the photo that accompanied her column for over 10 years.

Every time the editor suggested it be updated, she managed to miss the appointment with the in-house photographer or be on annual leave.

Sooner or later they were bound to catch up with her.

The conversation moved on to other topics, wonderful concoctions were produced for dessert, and by the time the cheeseboard arrived Amelia was thoroughly full and a bit sleepy.

When the company rose from the table to move to the sitting-room for coffee, Amelia took a reluctant farewell.

“Sorry to be a party pooper, but I can barely keep my eyes open.

“What a wonderful evening this has been! Thank you for inviting me.

“It’s been lovely meeting you all.”

She shook hands with the other guests, then Julia enveloped her in a perfumeladen hug, through which Amelia could feel the angularity of her frame.

Hector went to fetch her coat and returned with his own, too.

“I shall escort you home,” he said, helping her into her favourite old tweed.

“Not at all,” she replied. “You mustn’t abandon your guests on my behalf.

“It’s only a five-minute walk. You’re very kind but I absolutely forbid it.”

He looked nonplussed, one arm in his overcoat.

“I don’t like to think of a lady walking along dark lanes alone late at night.”

“For heaven’s sake, darling,” Julia said, rolling her eyes, “Amelia’s old enough to know her own mind.

“This is Lymphny, not London. The village is hardly a hotbed of crime.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw a policeman here.” Her face fell. “Except for when poor Peter . . .”

“Now, my love, don’t dwell on it,” Hector murmured.

Julia turned to Amelia. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get maudlin. One of our friends, a local farmer. There was a dreadful –”

“Yes,” Amelia said quickly. “My neighbour told me. Horrible.”

Julia shivered, then gave a wan smile.

“Well, thank you so much for coming. I do hope you didn’t find us all a little overwhelming.

“And forgive my little

faux pas earlier. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. ”

She looked so genuinely remorseful that Amelia’s heart softened.

She reassured her, thanked both her hosts once again, then set off at a fair pace for home.

It was dark, certainly, but she felt perfectly safe, even when she turned off the high street into her unlit lane.

It had been an interesting evening, she decided.

She had enjoyed being an onlooker, watching the interactions between the guests and sensing ripples under the surface of the bonhomie.

It was what she was good at, after all. Seeing the bigger picture. Assessing. Listening.

****

It was good to get back to work.

Friends often asked Amelia if she got depressed dealing with people’s sadness and distress, but she didn’t see it that way.

She felt she offered a shoulder to cry on and someone to confide in at the bleakest times, in a busy world where so many were lonely.

How often correspondents had said they felt better just for committing their thoughts and fears to paper.

Over the years she’d received thanks more times than she could remember from readers in a similar position to the one covered in a feature, saying how much her advice had helped them.

She knew some might regard her chosen career path as a waste of her talents or trivial, but she’d never for a second regretted her choice.

On Monday, she was working through her response to a mother deserted by her husband when the doorbell rang.

She looked up at the clock. Just before one.

She saved the file on her laptop and went downstairs to find Lillian on the doorstep.

“Before you say anything,” her neighbour began, “I know you’re working, but I wondered if you permitted yourself a lunch hour.

“I’m about to walk down to the village to try the café that’s just opened. I thought you might like to join me.” Amelia didn’t hesitate. “I’m wrestling with a particularly knotty problem at the moment. A walk and a bite to eat will clear my head.”

Over quiche and salad, Lillian quizzed her about her evening at Stapleford House.

“You must be quite the celebrity.” Lillian laughed. “They’ve never invited me!

“Mind you, that’s probably more down to Hector. He’s never forgiven me for declining his suggestion I should write a profile of his dearly beloved soon after they moved here.

“Years ago, that was. He certainly knows how to hold a grudge.”

She had the grace to look contrite at Amelia’s raised eyebrow.

“He’s a darling, really.” Amelia added more vinaigrette to her salad.

“I thought he was quite a poppet. Very solicitous. It’s rare to see such devotion these days, especially when you’ve been married that long.

“He couldn’t take his eyes off her all evening.”

“He does rather follow her around like a puppy. Poor chap always seems to play second fiddle. I’d find it a bit stifling, myself.”

“They seemed very upset about Peter Smythe’s accident,” Amelia said. “Which reminds me, I must get a thank-you card and

pop it through their door. Is there anywhere I can get one in the village?”

It appeared that the craft shop had a selection of greetings cards designed by various local artists.

Amelia thought one of those would be perfect and, after a very convivial lunch, she said goodbye to her neighbour and walked up the high street to Perfect Presents.

As she was rotating the carousel of cards, she heard the shop owner take a call at the counter.

It soon became clear that she was the recipient of some dreadful news.

“I don’t believe it! When did it . . . but I saw her only yesterday! She was over the moon!

“Oh, darling, don’t cry or you’ll set me off . . . but what was she doing there? Did she? I never knew that.

“Oh, her poor husband! How ever will he . . . no, no, you get off. I’ll speak to you later.”

The woman put her mobile down and stood at the counter, looking utterly distraught.

Amelia was in two minds whether to leave quietly or to try to comfort her.

She decided on the latter. As she reached the counter, the owner jumped, as though unaware that she had a customer.

She fumbled in her sleeve for a handkerchief.

“Are you all right?”

Amelia leaned across and touched the woman’s arm.

She saw a notice on the wall bearing the owner’s name.

“Elaine, is it?”

“Yes.” Elaine frowned, as though trying to place this stranger.

“Amelia Lemon. I’ve just moved into Lymphny.”

“Of course. Forgive me. I’ve just had some terrible news.

“One of my friends has died. An accident.” She gulped and brought the handkerchief to her eyes.

“She was out on a run and she fell.” A sob escaped her. “I didn’t even know she liked running!”

Elaine said she would shut the shop straight away and go round to see the friend who had called her.

“Julia may know what actually happened . . . or Hector. He’s always so good in a crisis.

“Oh, poor Julia. Another bereavement!”

Amelia’s scalp tingled. “What’s your friend’s name, Elaine?”

“Veronica. Veronica Pym. I mean, that’s her married name. She is – she was – an actress.”

Amelia returned home, deep in thought.

Two accidental deaths in less than a month? Of course, Peter Smythe’s death was not uncommon in the farming community.

Slurry pits were dangerous places, but an experienced farmer would surely know that.

As for Veronica Pym – where could she have fallen so far that she would be killed?

There were plenty of hills around Lymphnett St Jude, and admittedly Amelia hadn’t been on many walks beyond the boundaries of the village, but she couldn’t think of anywhere treacherous nearby.

Instead of going home, she knocked on Lillian’s door.

“No joy?” Lillian asked, looking at Amelia’s empty hands. “Finding a card?”

“I had to forget that for the moment.” She swiftly related all she knew about Veronica’s accident and her conversation with Elaine in Perfect Presents.

Lillian looked aghast and insisted she come inside.

“But where did it happen? You say it was a fall?” Amelia nodded.

“No idea. I don’t know the area very well, but I just can’t think where –”

“Hang on. I know who’ll know. Bob.”

Lillian reached for her phone. She explained as she swiped through her contacts.

“He’s the crime reporter at the paper. If anyone has any information, it’ll be Bob.”

Seeing Amelia’s white face, she jerked her head towards the kitchen.

“Do you want to put the kettle on? I think we could both do with a cuppa.

Mine’s black, no sugar.”

Amelia filled the kettle, switched it on and stood at the kitchen window, staring out blindly over Lillian’s neat back garden.

A slight breeze rustled the leaves of an apple tree in the middle of the lawn and birds flitted from branch to feeder to fence. Life went on.

Ernest was out in his garden, feeding the chickens, and caught sight of her in the window.

He raised a hand in greeting and Amelia waved back and managed to summon a smile, even though her thoughts were miles away.

She couldn’t help remembering how excited Veronica had been at the dinner party, her proud husband spilling the beans about the crucial audition.

She knew enough about soap operas to know that if you won a pivotal part, your career was secure for years, if not decades.

All that possibility destroyed in an instant with one fateful misstep.

Poor Gordon. She imagined Veronica’s death would leave an enormous hole in many lives.

“The quarry,” Lillian said, joining her in the kitchen and accepting a mug of tea. “Up by Baynard’s Wood.

“It seems that only really keen runners use that route, because it’s a pretty desolate spot.

“Bob says his police contact told him it looks as if she strayed off the path and then lost her footing.

“It’s a sheer drop from there, with large boulders at the bottom. She wouldn’t have stood a chance.

“I only met her the once, but she seemed nice. Just had her forty-eighth birthday, according to

Bob.”

Amelia shook her head. What a terrible waste.

“She was extremely attractive, in my opinion. Good company.

“Bless her heart, she was up for a part – I mean, a proper character part – in a soap. Everything to live for.

“Her husband was obviously thrilled for her. What must he be going through?” Amelia replied.

“Let’s hope he has a strong character and a good lawyer,” Lillian said grimly.

When Amelia looked puzzled, she went on.

“The police will want to be sure it was an accident, won’t they? For instance, why did she leave the track?

“If she’d used that path before, she’d be aware of the dangers, surely? The first person they’ll point the finger at if there’s any doubt is the husband.

“Had they quarrelled?

Any skeletons in the cupboard? Was there another woman? Mental health problems?”

“Suicide?” The thought hadn’t even occurred to Amelia. “But she was so full of life last Saturday!”

“I should have thought you of all people would know how desperate people can get and how hard they try not to let on.”

Amelia acknowledged the sad truth of Lillian’s observation.

How many times had she dealt with people seemingly at their wits’ end who couldn’t bear to confide in anyone except a total stranger?

She nodded.

“You’re right. I suppose they have to look at every possibility.”

“Whatever the outcome,” Lillian went on, “the papers will have a field day.

“I don’t have to tell you what they’re like when anyone who could even vaguely be considered a celebrity is involved.”

“Ghastly,” Amelia agreed, sipping her tea.

She believed herself to be a good judge of personality and had liked what she saw of the dead woman and her husband.

But one never knew what went on behind closed doors.

Searching through her desk drawers, Amelia found a pack of rather dreary thank-you cards she’d bought from a charity shop several years before.

One of these would have to do.

Apart from the fact that she invariably sent a note to anyone kind enough to invite her to a function, she felt an additional pressure to send her condolences to Julia and Hector as soon as possible.

She took some time before writing a brief but heartfelt note, saying what an impression Veronica had made on her when they met and tendering her sincerest regrets.

She decided to walk to Stapleford House and deliver the card herself.

Her mood was unsettled; she felt she wasn’t giving her proper attention to her correspondents and a walk might help clear her thoughts.

One advantage of working from home was that she could pick up an unfinished task whenever it suited her, day or night.

The breeze had turned into a surprisingly cutting wind and Amelia was glad of her scarf and gloves.

The sky was no longer bright; clouds scudded from the east and she wondered if she ought to have worn her Barbour jacket.

By the time she reached Stapleford House, it was looking ominously like rain.

As Amelia trudged up the gravel drive to the fine Queen-Anne-style house, she saw Julia at an upstairs window.

She waved and indicated she would come down to the front door.

Amelia waited in the shelter of the portico as the wind whipped viciously around her legs.

The door opened, but before Amelia could hand over the envelope, Julia pulled her into a tight embrace and began sobbing.

Amelia patted her on the back and allowed herself to be drawn into the warmth of the hall.

“I’m so sorry!” Julia snivelled into her handkerchief, finally relinquishing her hold.

“I thought I was all right and then I saw you and that lovely evening we had together came flooding back.

“She was so happy! She rang us last night: she got the part! Why do these terrible things happen?

“Peter, and now Veronica. She was such a darling.” Julia’s face crumpled. “Not to mention Juno.”

Amelia frowned. She started to say something, then Hector materialised beside them.

He took Julia in his arms and she burst into a fresh bout of weeping.

Over her shoulder, he smiled wanly at Amelia.

His skin was waxy, pulled taut over the bones, his eyes bloodshot.

She thought she caught the tang of whisky and, when he spoke, his voice was slightly slurred.

“Good of you to come. We’re both in shock, I suppose. Such a dear, dear creature.” He stroked his wife’s hair. “Won’t you sit with us for a few minutes?”

Amelia felt she had no option but to accept, intrusive though it seemed to be witness to such grief.

Unbidden, Hector pressed a whisky on her, which she sipped gingerly.

Julia recovered her composure and gratefully took a crystal tumbler from Hector, who stood between the women, his hand on the mantelshelf.

“I wanted to offer you my deepest sympathies,” Amelia said as the fire in the hearth flared and spluttered. “I know how close you were.”

“Yes,” Julia whispered. “One of my closest friends. We met when we were in a show together years ago. I was so nervous! Ridiculous, really.

“She was a slip of a thing, just out of drama school and being tipped for stardom. I, of course, never had any formal training.”

“Didn’t need it, my darling,” Hector said gruffly. “Natural talent.”

She reached up to squeeze his hand.

“She had marvellous reviews, I remember. I was the tiniest bit jealous, I confess.

“You know, the old green-eyed monster. Shocking, I know.” She gave a rueful smile and sniffed.

She was sitting under a lamp and, Amelia thought, looked every bit her age.

As though Hector had read her thoughts, he leaned over and turned the shade to one side, leaving Julia in shadow.

Amelia put her glass on the table beside her chair.

“I’ll be on my way. If there’s anything I can . . .”

Julia shook her head.

“No, no, thank you. We need to speak to Gordon. See how he’s bearing up. Such a shock.”

Amelia let herself out and hurried home through the spitting rain, something nagging at the back of her mind.

Feeling very unsettled, she went straight to her study. Supper could wait.

It was just past two o’clock when, after hours on the internet sustained by copious amounts of tea, she fell into bed.

With a maelstrom of dreadful thoughts whirling round her brain, sleep eluded her, and she was glad to hear the newspaper dropping on her doormat.

It was full of Veronica’s death.

Amelia studied the pictures of the victim and of the accident site.

The well-trodden track was clearly visible and was many yards from the edge over which Veronica had plunged.

According to her husband she had only recently taken up running as a way of keeping trim.

“The pressure on actresses to stay slim and fit is relentless,” he was quoted as saying.

The police were appealing for anyone who had been near Baynard’s Wood that morning to come forward.

Coincidentally, in the culture section of the paper, there was a section about Lydia and George Templeton’s cookery book.

Amelia waited until she heard the eight o’clock pips on the radio, then picked up her phone.

“Lillian? It’s Amelia.

Could you pop round? I need a word.”

Lillian took one last look at the printouts and the smiling, hopeful face on Amelia’s computer.

“I’m not going mad, am I?” Amelia said anxiously, looking to her neighbour for reassurance, half-hoping she would brush aside her conjectures.

She didn’t.

“You can see the resemblance, can’t you?”

Lillian nodded, her face ashen.

“I wasn’t quite sure what she’d said. Then Hector interrupted us,” Amelia murmured, scanning the screen again. “It didn’t take long to find it online.”

She turned to Lillian. “There’s only one way to find out if we’re right. Put it to the test.”

She explained what she had in mind.

Lillian was appalled. “Amelia, that’s madness! Why put yourself in such danger? And why there, of all places?”

“Because,” Amelia replied, “every one of them died in a fall. That’s the modus operandi, if you like.”

They argued the pros and cons for a good 20 minutes, until Lillian held up her hands in surrender.

“You promise you’ll do exactly what we agreed?”

“I promise,” Amelia said more robustly than she felt.

She reached for her mobile.

“Here goes.” She dialled the first of two numbers.

She had a brief conversation, then she rang the second number.

“Julia? I know you’ve a lot on your mind, but I could really do with some advice.”

They chatted for several minutes, Amelia’s eyes

locked on Lillian’s.

“That is so kind of you, Julia. I can’t thank you enough.

“Could I pop over in, say, an hour? I’m just going to stretch my legs first.

“It’s such a beautiful day now the rain has cleared. I thought it was time I climbed to the top of this famous church tower of ours to admire the view!”

The lane leading to the church was quiet, with only the distant sound of passing traffic on the main road disturbing the birdsong.

The stained-glass windows of the Parish Church of St Jude the Martyr glowed like jewels in the morning sunshine.

Amelia pushed open the heavy oak door and found, as the vicar had promised, a large antique key on the long refectory table just inside.

The turning of the key echoed around the empty building, which was bonechillingly cold.

Amelia began the steep climb up to the top of the bell tower.

“Watch your footing,” the vicar had said when she rang him earlier. “The steps are very uneven.”

It was a long way up the winding staircase and Amelia stopped twice to catch her breath.

When she pushed open the small door leading on to the parapet, the sunlight was blinding.

Squinting across the low crenellated wall that ran around three sides of the roof, she saw spectacular views across the countryside.

She took a step forward, careful to keep a fair distance between herself and the wall.

She froze as she heard a footstep on the stairs.

Her phone buzzed and she scrabbled in her pocket.

The screen was hard to read in the brightness, but she didn’t need to check the sender.

As she swiped, her phone was snatched from her hand.

She watched it sail into the air and disappear over the edge, smashing on the stone path far below.

“You won’t need that,” a voice behind her said.

She gasped and spun round.

The new arrival laughed. “Barking up the wrong tree, I fear.”

Hector St John took a step towards her and she backed away.

“No need to get jumpy.” He laughed again. “No pun intended.”

“You upset my wife when you rang her. That I cannot allow. She didn’t say anything, but I knew. I always know.

“Asking her advice about what clothes to wear! My darling is consumed with grief and you want to gloat about some profile of you in a glossy magazine.”

“I wasn’t gloating,” Amelia stammered, but it was as if he hadn’t heard her.

“You! You’re a nobody!” Spittle had gathered in the corner of his mouth and he wiped it away with an angry swipe of his hand.

Amelia looked for some remnant of the affable man she had met only days before beneath the surface of this ranting bull of a man before her.

She found nothing.

Her mind was spinning, trying to recalibrate her thoughts.

She’d got it wrong and now it was like picking up the scattered pieces of a jigsaw and reassembling it.

Suddenly it all made sense.

“Think you’re so clever, all of you.” He glared at her, cold eyes under bushy eyebrows. “With your petty triumphs, your pathetic so-called accomplishments.

“It hurts her every time. I see the little cuts in her armour when they boast about their new jobs, new parts, the books they’ve written.

“Even Peter, strutting around the farmyard like a little Napoleon. He won a cup! Then he goes bragging about the centre spread in the paper!

“‘And Veronica, so full of herself with her agent and her audition – knowing all the time that if my beloved had shown the slightest interest in the part, it would have been hers.

“Stupid woman! I waited on the path for her to run by and pointed out something down in the quarry.

“Over she comes, a lamb to the slaughter, and whoops!” He made a pushing gesture and barked out a harsh laugh.

Despite the warmth of the sun, Amelia shivered.

She flicked a glance at the door, but he caught it and smiled.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Amelia anchored herself firmly on the flagstones.

“And Juno? Why did she have to die? Her sister!”

“Quite the little detective, aren’t we,” he sneered. “I didn’t think you’d noticed when Julia mentioned her.”

“I didn’t, at first. But let me hazard a guess.

“Juno and Julia were both up for the same part and Juno got it.

“That was so unbearable for Julia that she decided to abandon her career, because she couldn’t compete any longer.

“Yes, she was beautiful, but deep down she knew her limitations. You couldn’t accept that.

“Anyone who upstaged Julia – even Juno, whose only crime was to be a better actress than Julia – had to be removed.

“You arranged to meet at the bridge that night. Perhaps you pretended you were there as a peacemaker. Perhaps you put an arm around her . . .”

“Very good!” Hector gave an ironic clap.

He took another step forward, but Amelia stood her ground, her anger giving her courage.

“You claim to love your wife, but you’ve made her life a living hell!

“Putting her on a pedestal and convincing her that she’s still a goddess of stage and screen.

“To meet your impossible standards she starves and exercises herself to a wraith, fearful that, unless she does, the whole edifice of her life and marriage will crumble.

“You can’t hold time at bay, Hector. Your wife is getting old. No matter how many people you clear from her path.

“There will always be someone younger, more beautiful, more talented to –”

He was upon her almost before she realised.

Like an enraged bull Hector charged her, hurling his bulk at her, his shadow blocking out the sun. Somehow she managed to throw herself sideways, crashing into the wall, but Hector’s momentum kept him going.

Hands outstretched, he cannoned into the parapet beside her.

The ancient mortar securing the coping stone gave way and, arms spread wide, Hector St John plunged into the clear country air.

Amelia screamed as the door burst open and Lillian ran to her side.

They stared in horror at the gap in the crenellation, like a missing tooth.

Lillian held up her little voice recorder.

“It’s all on here. Every word. The police are on their way.”

Amelia rubbed her bruised shoulder and, with Lillian’s help, shakily got to her feet.

The countryside lay before them in all its patchwork glory, bathed in sunshine, and for a moment it was possible to believe this was just an ordinary day in an ordinary village.

“Can you walk?” Lillian asked, as a siren sounded in the distance.

Amelia nodded and allowed her new friend to precede her on to the stairs.

As they made their way down, she thought of the terrible price so many people had had to pay for Hector’s obsession with his wife.

Well, she mused, he’ll have his wish, but not in the way he intended.

His beloved Julia would certainly be back in the limelight after this.

She joined Lillian at the foot of the tower.

Together they walked out into the sunshine towards the waiting policemen.

The End.