SERIAL Who Killed Jock Dobbin? by Paula Williams

Despite being the vicar of Little Billington, Jess didn’t find Edmund very welcoming . . .

The Story So Far

JESS LANGTON has had a shock. JOCK DOBBIN has named her as the sole beneficiary of his estate – but Jess has never heard of him!

Jess grew up in foster homes after the death of her parents in a car accident. All she has left of her parents is a chain with a silver bird.

Jess inherits two cottages in Somerset. On advice from her foster father, TOM VENNOR, Jess decides to live in one cottage while trying to further her jewellerymaking business, while a tenant, ELSIE FRADDON, lives in the other.

Owner of Folly Farm Kennels MAGGIE SHIPTON is having money troubles, and her exfiancé STEVEN is demanding repayment of a loan. Maggie has cared for Jock’s dog ALFIE at the kennels since his death, so she bills Jess for the money and leaves Alfie in her care.

Notices appear around the village asking, WHO KILLED JOCK DOBBIN?, though his death was ruled an accident. A menacing note was left for Jess at the cottage, threatening that she might be next.

Jess meets PALOMA, the vicar’s sister, and sees a chain around her neck that’s identical to hers . . .

BEFORE Jess could gather her wits enough to hurry after Paloma, the pub door opened and a slim man with bare feet stood there.

“I don’t open until twelve,” he said curtly.

He went to close the door but Jess stepped forward to stop him.

“I’m not after a drink.” She took one last despairing look at Paloma’s retreating figure and forced herself to focus on why she was there.

She pointed at the notice in the window.

“I’ve come about the job. Is it still available?”

“It might be,” he said, then caught sight of Alfie. “Isn’t that Jock’s dog?” Jess nodded.

“He was. But he’s mine now, apparently.”

The man’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re the new owner of Nightingale Cottage?”

“Jess Langton,” she said with a smile, anxious to make a good impression. “I’ve worked in a bar for the last few years.

“I can start as soon as you like,” she added, trying to work out the reason for his puzzled frown.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Steven, the landlord. You’d better come in and we’ll talk about that job.” He stepped aside to let her in, then laughed as Alfie pushed past them.

“Don’t worry about Alfie. He knows his way around this bar as well as I do.”

She followed Alfie into the dimly lit bar where he flopped down in front of the unlit fire.

With its dark paintwork, shabby carpet and mismatched furniture, it was a far cry from the modern pub she’d last worked in.

Steven went across to a table in the window, pulled out a chair for her and took the opposite one.

“The last barmaid left me in the lurch.” He gestured her to sit down. “Although it’s quiet early in the week, it gets manic at weekends. I’d better warn you, though, the job probably won’t be permanent.”

“That’s fine,” she said quickly.

He didn’t need to know that she was only staying for six months at Nightingale Cottage, as decreed in Jock’s will.

She’d be out of Little Billington faster than a rat out of a drainpipe. Once she’d cleared up the mystery of Paloma’s necklace, of course.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “Jock was a good bloke. I’ll miss him.”

“Me, too,” she said with a pang of genuine regret.

Whoever Jock Dobbin was, she wished she’d met him before he died.

“Can you start tomorrow lunchtime? That’ll be a good time to familiarise yourself with everything. And for me to see how you shape up.”

“Thanks.” As job interviews went, she’d had more challenging.

As soon as they’d sorted hours and pay to their mutual satisfaction, she turned her attention back to Paloma Brookes.

“I met Paloma,” she said. “Such an unusual name.”

“She’s an unusual person.” Steven grinned.

“Does she live in the village?”

“In the vicarage.” His eyes sparked with curiosity. “Why do you ask?”

She tried to sound casual.

“Just trying to work out who’s who.”

“It won’t take long,” he replied. “In fact, you’ll probably meet most of the village tomorrow once word gets around.”

But Jess couldn’t wait until then. She needed to see Paloma now.

She called Alfie and they headed off to find the vicarage.

Maggie was relieved to see the curtains already pulled back in the Billington Arms.

Steven was obviously up and about early this morning which was a relief. She knew only too well how scratchy he could be if woken.

“Well, if it isn’t my morning for visitors,” he commented as he opened the door. “What brings you banging on my door this early? I’ve just put the coffee on. Want some?”

“No, thanks.” Maggie shook her head. “I’ve come to give you this.”

His eyebrows rose as he opened the envelope she handed him and took out the cheque.

“Been selling the family silver, have you?’ he murmured. “I didn’t think there was any left to sell.”

“There isn’t,” she said shortly. “I did a bit of debt collecting.”

“This isn’t the full amount.”

“I know that. I’m hoping to collect the balance within the next week.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. She was hoping, although it was a very slim hope.

“You’ll see I’ve post-dated the cheque. I’m on my way into Glastonbury now to bank my cheque, so if you’d give it a few days to clear, I’d be very grateful.”

Maggie tried to conceal her relief as he put the cheque in the till. But she wasn’t out of the woods yet. Jess’s cheque had bought her a bit of time, but that was all.

“I see you managed to rid yourself of one of your freeloaders at least,” Steven said.

“What do you mean?” “Jock’s dog. He was here with the lady from Nightingale Cottage. She’ll bring the customers in tomorrow, eager to have a look at her.” He reached across and took the sign out of the window. “I shan’t be needing this. I have a new barmaid.”

“You mean Jess?” “The very same. I didn’t realise you knew her?”

“I don’t,” she said quickly. “Not really.”

“I thought, in view of the fact she was walking Jock’s dog, that the two of you might have come to some sort of financial arrangement?” He looked at Maggie closely. “Is that where this money came from?

“If so, I’d definitely get that cheque into the bank ASAP, if I were you. Believe me, that girl was desperate for a job, although she was trying hard to pretend otherwise.”

“You didn’t see the car she arrived in, nor the jewellery she was wearing. It’s possible she’s taken the job as a way of getting to know people.”

“It’s possible,” he said, unconvinced. “I’d still hurry and get that cheque banked if I were you.”

Maggie frowned as she left the pub. Steven was wrong about Jess being broke, surely?

Steven must be playing his mind tricks again, hoping to unsettle her.

Jess shivered as she hugged her thin jacket closer to her and picked her way carefully up the deeply potholed drive that led up to the vicarage.

Alfie had stopped to investigate a pile of leaves and she tugged on his lead. But it wasn’t just the hint of rain in the air that was making her uneasy.

Tom often called her a townie and teased her about how she never felt comfortable in the country.

Normally she’d laugh it off and share the joke, but there was something about the way the tangled mass of yew trees and overgrown laburnum bushes seemed to reach out towards her as she hurried beneath them.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she turned a corner and the trees gave way to a broad sweep of gravel and neatly tended flower-beds.

The vicarage itself was an elegant-looking stone building, with tall Georgian windows flanking an imposing entrance porch.

She rapped the heavy iron knocker but there was no reply. She was about to turn away, disappointed, when there was a crunch on the gravel behind her.

A man cycled towards her, dismounted and leaned his bike against the wall. He was slightly built with a narrow pointy face, thinning hair and glasses that gave him the look of a startled polecat.

He was, Jess judged, in his mid-forties, although his bike looked older.

“Can I help you?” His booming voice was at odds with his slight frame. “I’m the vicar. I assume you’re looking for me?”

“Hi.” Jess gave him her best smile. “I’m Jess Langton from –”

“Nightingale Cottage,” he said before she could finish. There was no flicker of a smile in his cold eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, it’s your sister I was hoping to see,” Jess said as the vicar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Only I don’t think she’s in.”

“Really? She should be,” he boomed, and Jess felt Alfie flinch beside her. “What do you want her for?”

“Well, it’s . . .” Jess began, but broke off as the door opened with such suddenness she suspected Paloma

Whoever Jock was, she wished she’d met him before he died

had been listening on the other side of it. “You wanted to see me?” the older woman asked.

Jess stepped closer, pulled the chain from under her shirt and showed her the bird charm.

“When we were talking earlier, I couldn’t help noticing you were wearing a charm similar to this one. I wondered if you could tell me where you got it?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“It’s just . . .” Jess stammered, unnerved by the hostile stare, but determined to press on. “I’m a jewellery designer and have always been intrigued by this charm. I’ve never seen another one like it.”

Colour flooded Paloma’s pale face.

“I think . . . yes, I bought it at an antiques fair. But I’ve no idea who from. I just thought it was pretty.”

“I’ve never seen it before,” Edmund said.

“Why would you?” Paloma whipped around to face her brother, her soft voice suddenly sharp. “You don’t know everything about me, Edmund.” She turned back to Jess. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a cake in the oven.”

“Nothing comes between my sister and her baking.” Edmund gave a thin-lipped smile as Paloma disappeared into the house, closing the door behind her. “She’s not usually quite so forceful.”

Jess swallowed her disappointment and turned to go.

As she did, her attention was caught by the ornamental scrollwork on the vicarage’s wrought-iron entrance gates and her designer imagination went into overdrive.

The graceful curls and swirls were exactly what she was looking for to incorporate into her bridal jewellery design.

Excited, she reached for her phone and took a couple of pictures. She turned back to see Edmund watching her, his face as dark and angry as the storm clouds that were gathering in the sky.

Before she could apologise and explain her motive for taking the photos, he turned and strode away.

She made her way to the main street to check the time of the next bus into town. The sooner she got the jewellery to her client, the sooner she got paid.

But she’d reckoned without the vagaries of rural bus services.

She’d missed it by 15 minutes, and the next one wasn’t due until the next day.

“Great. Now what am I going to do, Alfie?”

The rain, which had been threatening all morning, began in earnest as Maggie drove down the lane towards the village.

It bounced off the windscreen with such intensity that she was forced to slow to a crawl.

As she eased her way along the main street, she could just make out the figures of a woman and a dog standing by the bus stop. It was Jess and Alfie.

She stopped, reached across and opened the passenger door.

“Get in. I’ll give you a lift.” For a moment, Maggie thought the girl was going to refuse. Alfie, on the other hand, didn’t need to be asked twice.

He hopped in, scrabbled through the gap in the front seats and settled himself in the back.

“Looks like Alfie’s made up his mind for you!” Maggie laughed. “Hop in.”

“Thanks. It came on so suddenly.” Jess settled herself in the passenger seat, brushed her wet hair back and shivered. “This is kind of you.”

“Not at all. Besides, Alfie hates the rain. He likes his creature comforts, that one. But I guess you’ve already found that out.” Jess laughed.

“I have to step over him every time I want to get at the kettle. Can’t say I blame him. That old range is lovely and warm, isn’t it?”

“It sure is. So, are you settling in OK? Got everything you need?”

“Apart from a bus into Glastonbury. I missed it by fifteen minutes.”

Anxious thoughts raced through Maggie’s head as she turned the car around and headed back towards Nightingale Cottage.

Had Steven been right about Jess? Surely she’d be calling for a taxi if she was as rich as everyone said she was?

“I’m on my way into town,” Maggie said. “Why don’t we drop the dog off and you come with me? I don’t mind waiting while you change clothes.”

“I couldn’t put you to so much trouble,” Jess said as Maggie drew up outside the cottage. “You’ve been more than kind already. I’ve got a parcel to send off but it can wait until tomorrow.”

“Then why don’t I save you a trip? Let me have your parcel and I’ll send it off for you.”

“I couldn’t do that.” Jess went to open the car door. “Thanks for the lift. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

Maggie felt a stab of guilt as the thought about the cheque in her pocket.

“I’m in no rush. I’m quite happy to wait while you get yourself ready.”

Jess hesitated. “Well, if you’re sure? The parcel’s ready to go. It’s for one of my favourite customers. She’s already had to wait while I moved and has been patient about it all. Would you like to come in?”

“What do you do?” Maggie asked as she followed Jess into the kitchen, where Alfie immediately flopped down in front of the range with a loud sigh.

“I’m a jewellery designer.” Jess reached out and picked up a parcel from the dresser. “I was packing this particular piece up when you arrived with Alfie last night.”

“That lovely silver and blue necklace? You made it?” Maggie’s heart sank when Jess nodded.

“Yes. Why?” Jess looked puzzled. “Is that a problem?”

“Yes. I mean, no. It wasn’t your jewellery, then?” Maggie stammered, as her suspicion that Jess wasn’t the rich young heiress they’d all thought her to be turned to certainty.

“I thought . . .” Her voice trailed away as she saw Jess staring at her. “I thought how lovely it was,” she added lamely.

Jess laughed. “Thanks. But no, it’s not mine. I really enjoyed making it to the customer’s specific requirements, but it’s not the sort of thing I’d wear. Not only that, I couldn’t afford something like this.”

For the first time Maggie looked closely at the clothes Jess was wearing.

Her damp jacket, which was drying out on a hook next to the Aga, was well worn, as were her jeans, while her sweatshirt, though clean, looked as if it had been washed many times.

“Oh, that’s awful. I’m so sorry.” Before Maggie could stop herself, she reached into her handbag and took out the cheque. “You’d better have this back. I thought . . .”

“Is there something wrong? Did I put the wrong date on it?”

“No.” Maggie forced herself to go on. “I thought you were rich. That you could easily afford it. But Steven said you sounded desperate for a job and I didn’t believe him.”

It was like a shutter had come down across the girl’s face. Her mouth set in a straight line.

“I am not desperate for a job,” she said coldly. “I merely thought it was a way of getting to know people in the village. So, you thought I was rich and you stung me for more than Alfie’s kennel fees. Is that right?”

“Of course not. My invoice was genuine. I can show you the books,” Maggie said miserably. “I’m sorry, Jess. When I realised I could make a claim on Jock’s estate, I thought it was the answer to my prayers. The only way I could save Folly Farm.”

Jess looked down at the cheque. Then she looked at Alfie who was watching them both

intently from his place in front of the range. “Folly Farm. That’s your boarding kennels, is it?” she asked.

Maggie nodded.

“I love it, but I’m hopeless at book-keeping,” she said and before she could stop herself, all her worries came flooding out. “My partner used to do all that side of things, but we split up and it’s got out of hand.

“I’m sure a couple of my owners haven’t paid, but I don’t like to push it just in case. Then last month I had an unexpected repair bill when a couple of the dogs somehow managed to get out.

“I had to spend money putting in new locks and replacing some doors. It’s all come at once.”

“And was Mr Dobbin – Jock – one of these defaulters?” Jess asked quietly.

“Oh, no. Jock was a friend. I wouldn’t have charged him . . .” Maggie broke off as she realised how that sounded. “That came out all wrong.”

She dragged her fingers through her hair.

“I don’t blame you for being mad at me. Jock was away a lot in the weeks before he died. That was how I came to be looking after Alfie.

“The night before he died he came round to say he was back for a few nights,” Maggie went on. “He asked me to hang on to Alfie until he’d sorted some things out.”

“Sorted what?” Jess asked sharply.

“He wouldn’t say.” Jess glanced down at the cheque in her hand and gave a brief smile.

“Well, he certainly didn’t win the lottery.”

“More the pity,” Maggie stood up. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to see me again, but I can still give you that lift into town, if you like. You can catch the afternoon post.”

Jess stared at her for a long time, her brown eyes so intense that Maggie flushed under the scrutiny.

“And you can catch the bank,” she said finally and handed Maggie the cheque. “Alfie’s my responsibility. Whilst I’m not as rich as everyone seems to think I am, I’m not broke, either. Mr Dobbin’s been very generous to me. The least I can do is pay his debt.”

Maggie couldn’t help herself.

“You didn’t know him well, did you?” she asked.

For a moment she thought she may have gone too far as the closed look came back into those dark eyes, followed by a flicker of indecision, as if Jess was trying to make up her mind about something.

“OK, you may as well know,” she said with a sigh. “But I’d prefer this didn’t go all round the village. I didn’t know him at all. The whole thing’s a mystery to me.

“I’m hoping you can tell me something about him that might help solve it. Has he always lived here?”

“Nobody knows. He came here about eight years ago. From Scotland, we think, judging from his accent. Hence his nickname, Jock.

“He became friendly with my father and was kind to me when Dad died six years ago. But Jock was tight lipped when it came to talking about himself.

“He was a fanatical birdwatcher and a talented artist. He loved dogs and didn’t much care for people. And now you know as much about him as I do, I’m afraid.”

Jess’s face fell.

“I was sure that once I got here I’d find the answer. I hate not knowing. I owe all this to a stranger. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Was there nothing in his papers?” Maggie went on, anxious to help. “What about that bureau in the sitting-room? It was always crammed full.”

Jess gave a puzzled frown.

“You mean the desk in the corner by the fireplace? But it’s empty. It was the first place I looked.”

“How bizarre. But what about your family? Could he be a relative?”

Jess looked away.

“I have no family,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry.” It was obvious Jess didn’t want to talk about it so Maggie went on. “The vicar’s sister, Paloma, might be able to tell you more about Jock. She was closer to him than anyone.

“The only other person he spent any time with was Geoffrey Heston-plucknett – or Councillor HestonPlucknett, as he insists of being called. Geoffrey lives in that great monstrosity of a house at the end of your lane.”

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll have a chat with them. But if your offer of a lift is still on, I’d like to take you up on it. Provided you think Alfie will be OK on his own?”

“Of course. He’s home, that’s all he cares about. He’ll not move from the range, I assure you.”

On his own, Maggie thought as Jess hurried out of the room to change her clothes. Did that mean Tom Vennor didn’t live here with Jess? Certainly there was no sign of a him.

He’ll be back later. Wasn’t that what Jess had said yesterday?

And why should Maggie care? She had completely missed the boat where eligible men were concerned. And judging by the way Jess’s eyes had softened when she spoke of him, Tom Vennor was anything but eligible.

So it was just as well Maggie had no intention of letting another man get close enough to hurt her the way Steven had.

On her return from Glastonbury, Jess opened the front door and froze as she heard a noise from inside the house.

She’d completely forgotten about Alfie who rushed into the hall, his gangly legs sending rugs flying as he charged towards her, tail wagging.

A weird noise, somewhere between a bark and a yodel, was coming from his deep in his throat.

The way he skidded to a halt when he realised she wasn’t Jock would have been funny, if it hadn’t been so sad.

“Sorry, boy. I’m a poor substitute,” she said as she opened her laptop to e-mail her customer to say her order had been sent.

She’d just logged the sale on her spreadsheet when her phone rang. She thought it might be Tom, but it was Maggie.

“Sorry to bother you,” Maggie said, “but something occurred to me when I got home and found a credit card bill waiting for me.”

Jess’s heart sank. Had Maggie found more expenses to pass to her? Her pride hadn’t wanted Maggie to know just how broke she really was.

“Was there something you’d forgotten to put on the bill?” she asked warily.

“Oh, nothing like that. But when I checked my statement I realised you could trace my movements by my credit card usage. I wondered if, maybe, you could do that with Jock’s?

“He must have used cash points, bought petrol, things like that while he was away. It would tell you where he went, maybe. Just a thought.”

“A very good one.” Jess was touched that Maggie should bother. “I haven’t had a good look in his studio. That might be where he kept things like that. I’ll have a look now.”

She thanked Maggie and ended the call.

“Come on,” she said, speaking as much to herself as the dog as she hesitated at the foot of the steep stairs that led up to the studio. “It’s just an empty room. That’s all.”

Alfie was more reluctant than Jess. He stayed at the bottom, his mismatched eyes anxious as he whined softly.

“OK, you wimp,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I’ll go on my own.”

The late afternoon sun streamed through the studio’s windows, creating deep shadows in the farthest corners.

It settled on the unfinished painting that was pinned to the easel, burnishing it with an almost translucent sheen.

Jock had obviously been

working from a series of photos that were pinned to the edge of the board. She looked closely at them and saw that not only was the man a talented artist, but had a good eye as a photographer as well.

She picked up a brush and ran her fingers over the bristles. They were stiff with dried paint, as if the brush had been hastily put down without being wiped.

“What happened, Jock?” she whispered to the empty room.

She looked more closely at the picture, her attention drawn to the half-finished area of blue-grey wash that was going to be wintry sky.

Although she went down the jewellery-making route when she was at college, she knew enough about watercolours to know that Jock had been interrupted in the middle of doing this.

No water-colourist worth his salt would leave a wash halfway through. Unless they were interrupted.

“Was that it?” she went on, her voice a whisper. “Were you interrupted?”

Had Jock had a visitor on the day of his death? She looked around the studio, hoping to find evidence of another person. A cup, or glass maybe. But there was nothing.

The feeling of unease clung to her like a November fog.

She gave herself a mental shake. She’d been watching too many episodes of “Midsomer Murders”. Jock was probably interrupted by the phone or the need to go to the bathroom.

She checked the shelves to see if there were any papers to give a clue to Jock’s whereabouts in the last weeks of his life. But they held only painting supplies and bird books.

Disappointed, she picked up a book that was on a side table, intending to put it back on the shelf. As she did so, it opened at a page marked by a folded piece of paper.

It was a bill. Jess’s heart sank at the prospect of yet another drain on her bank account. But it was from a firm of private investigators and, to her relief, was

stamped: Paid with thanks.

There were no details on the bill, other than: For professional services.

She thought of the cryptic note that was pinned to her door yesterday, the one that had appeared all over the village. Who killed Jock Dobbin?

Never mind who killed Jock Dobbin, she thought with a flutter of panic.

She’d already been on the internet and discovered the local paper’s report of the inquest. It was all very clear. He’d had a fairly high blood-alcohol count and had fallen down the stairs.

Having seen those stairs, she could well believe it.

No, the question she’d like answered was: who was Jock Dobbin? And why had he employed a private detective?

Was it to find her? If so, why?

She hurried down into the kitchen where she’d left her briefcase.

Her hand shook as she took out the copy of Jock’s will that the solicitor had given her. It was dated a week after the date on the private investigator’s bill.

Before she could decide whether or not that was significant, Alfie started barking with shocking loudness. He ran to the door, his long legs slipping and sliding as before.

This time it wasn’t a bark of welcome, but of warning.

Who – or what – was out there?

She hung on to his collar as she opened the door.

There was no cat. No human, either. Just a note pinned to the door.

It was the same heading as before. WHO KILLED JOCK DOBBIN?

There was a little rhyme underneath written in a childlike scrawl. Who saw him die? I said the fly, Because he was a spy. That’s why he died.

Beneath the verse were more words, written in the same childlike hand.

Spies are not welcome here. Go back to where you came from while you can. To be continued.