Aunt Bessie Invites (An Isle of Man Cozy Mystery Book 9) (7 page)

“Just the one brother?”

“Just the one,” Bessie confirmed.
 
“I didn’t know the families well, but I
knew them well enough to know they didn’t have any more children than that.”

“No chance either family was hiding a mentally
ill relative in a disused barn?”

Bessie shook her head.
 
“First of all, they couldn’t have kept
such a thing secret, and besides, there is no such thing as a disused barn on
Manx farms.
 
The one where the body
was found was being used for storage, even back then.
 
It was used for farm machinery for many
years, until Marion passed.
 
Then
Niall packed up all of her things and moved them to the barn.”

“What year was that?”

“Nineteen-forty, I believe,” Bessie
replied.
 
“You’ll have to check the
records, but it was around then.
 
Fenella was two or three, so I think that’s about right.”

“So who have we found?” John asked.

Bessie stared at him.
 
“Is that a serious question?” she
asked.
 
“Because if it is, I have no
idea.”

John frowned.
 
“It was a serious question,” he told
her.
 
“The last time we found a
skeleton, you were able to put a name to it almost immediately.”

“In that context, it seemed the most likely
answer,” Bessie said.
 
“But for
this, I have no idea.
 
I don’t
remember anyone going missing from up there.
 
They’ve had any number of farmhands over
the years, of course, but I don’t recall any disappearing suddenly.”

“What about anyone who might have caused
trouble?” John asked.
 
“Maybe someone
who was caught stealing something or mistreating the animals?”

Bessie shook her head.
 
“Oh, whenever I was there Niall or Eoin
would often have a good moan about the quality of the help they could get,” she
said, thinking back.
 
“The farmhands
never worked hard enough or fast enough to make them happy.
 
But I certainly don’t recall any serious
problems with any of them.
 
I’m
going to give it some thought, though, that’s for sure.”

“It sounds like you weren’t already
considering that possibility,” John said, his tone curious.

“It was the watch,” Bessie replied.
 
“I just glanced at it, but it looked as
if it might have been valuable.
 
Farmhands don’t own such things.”

“Maybe the dead man stole it,” John
suggested.

“Then why bury it with him?” Bessie asked.

“Why bury him with it anyway?” John
retorted.
 
“Assuming someone killed
the man, why not take the watch?”

“Perhaps it was too distinctive,” Bessie
suggested.
 
“Maybe the watch will be
the key to identifying the remains.”

“I certainly hope so,” John told her.
 

“You’re talking about the remains as male;
does that mean you’re sure it was a man?”

“As sure as we can be at this point.
 
The coroner’s preliminary examination of
the remains suggests a young male, somewhere between eighteen and thirty, but
that could change after a more thorough exam.
 
It took most the day to carefully dig up
what’s there.
 
He barely got a look
at it before we called it a night.”

“Has Doona had any luck with the missing
person reports?”

“Not so far,” John told her.
 
“She’s found several that might be
relevant, but it was a long time ago and the records aren’t exactly
complete.
 
We’ll have a few
constables ringing all over the island and across in the next few days trying
to track people down, but we have to hope the watch will help.”

“What about clothing?”

“Nothing significant was left,” John told
her.
 
He opened his mouth to say
something else, but Bessie held up a hand.

“I think I’d rather not know,” she said.

John nodded.
 
“If there were anything to tell you, I
would, but you don’t need all of the details that amount to nothing.”

John had finished his soup, and now Bessie
cleared away the bowl and replaced it with the plate of biscuits.
 
John grinned at her and took
several.
 
She handed him a small
plate to put them on.

“Did you have any more questions for me?”
Bessie asked.

“Oh, several,” John replied.
 
“Tell me about Niall, to start with.”

Bessie frowned.
 
“He lives in a care home in Douglas
now,” she told him.
 
“He suffers
from dementia of some sort.
 
I’m not
sure of the exact diagnosis, but he’s been there for many years now.”

“So interviewing him about the body might
not be very helpful,” John said with a sigh.

“Even if he told you something, I don’t
think you could trust it to be true,” Bessie said sadly.
 
“I went to visit him over the summer and
he didn’t have any idea who I was.
 
He, well, it’s just very sad.”

“I think I’ll leave him for Anna, then,”
John said.
 
He looked at Bessie and
then winked.
 
Bessie hid a smile
behind a chocolate biscuit.
 
Perhaps
John was finding Anna as difficult to work with as Doona was.

“So what else can I tell you?” Bessie asked.

John glanced at the clock and shook his
head.
 
“I don’t want to keep you all
night,” he said.
 
“Until we can get
a better idea of when our victim died, I’m not sure there’s much else you can
tell me.
 
I’m sure I’ll need a lot
more background after that.”

“You know where to find me,” Bessie said
with a grin.

“I do,” John agreed.
 
He stood up and then sat back down.
 
“How’s Doona?” he asked.

“Surely you saw her today,” Bessie replied
in confusion.

“I did, but at work, when we were both
focussed on other things.
 
I was
just wondering how she’s dealing with everything that happened last month.”

“I think she’s getting through it all,”
Bessie said slowly.
 
“I’m sure
she’ll feel better when all of the legal issues are sorted, of course.”

“And she might end up being quite wealthy,”
John added.

“She’s engaged a solicitor across,” Bessie
told him.
 
“He’s coming over to meet
with her on Friday to discuss things.”

“I wish she’d told me the truth about her
divorce,” John said.

“That makes two of us,” Bessie replied.
 
“But I know she did it to avoid talking
and thinking about it rather than to mislead anyone.”

John nodded and then shrugged.
 
“We’re, well, things are a bit awkward
between us at the moment, but I’m glad she’s okay.
 
Please let me know if she needs
anything.”

Bessie bit back a dozen replies and settled
for simply nodding.
 
John stood up
and walked to the door.
 
As Bessie
joined him to let him out, she had a thought.

“I still have that painting,” she reminded
him.
 
A few months earlier she’d
been given a painting of Laxey Beach that she adored.
 
She hadn’t wanted to accept the gift, as
the painting was expensive and the giver wasn’t someone she wanted to feel
indebted to.
 
Now the man who’d
given
her the
painting was on the run from the police and
Bessie really didn’t feel right keeping it.

“Ah, I forgot to tell you,” John said.
 
“There is going to be an auction at the
weekend.
 
It will be well advertised
now that we’ve received clearance to hold it.
 
Many of Grant Robertson’s things are going
to be auctioned off and all of the proceeds are going into a fund to reimburse
the people he stole from over the years.”

“What a good idea,” Bessie said.
 

“Yes, well, it took some considerable time
to get it organised, but it’s set for Saturday, I think.”

“The painting should be included,” Bessie
said.

“The painting was given to you before
witnesses,” John countered.
 
“It’s
legally yours.”

“It was purchased with stolen money,” Bessie
told him.
 
“I don’t feel right
keeping it under the circumstances.
 
I’ll probably come to the auction and bid
on it, though, as I do love it.”

John shook his head.
 
“Just keep it,” he urged her.

“I can’t,” Bessie said softly.
 
“It simply isn’t right.”

Before John could argue further, Bessie went
upstairs and got the painting from where she’d stored it in a spare
bedroom.
 
It was still wrapped up,
as it had been when Grant had given it to her.

“Here, I’ll sleep better tonight with it out
of my house,” she told John.

John took the bulky package from her.
 
“Maybe I’ll buy it for you,” he said.

“You just bought a house,” Bessie
replied.
 
“I think you have enough
expenses without adding to them on my behalf.
 
I’ll talk to my bank manager and see how
much I can afford to spoil myself with before I go.”

“I’ll probably be back tomorrow,” John told
her.
 
“After I talk to Eoin and
Fenella, I’m sure to have many more questions.”

“I should be home most of the day,” Bessie
replied.
 
“I don’t have any plans
for tomorrow.”

“Lucky you,” John said lightly.
 

Bessie shut the door behind him and checked
that it and the backdoor were locked tightly.
 
She washed up the dishes and then
switched off the lights, taking a moment to turn off the ringer on her phone as
well.
 
She’d decided a few years
earlier that she was too old to be racing down the stairs in the middle of the
night for a wrong number.
 
It was
one of her very few concessions to her age.

Upstairs she got ready for bed and then
propped herself on pillows and read for a short while.
 
When she switched off the lights and
slid down under the duvet she found her mind racing.
 
How did someone come to be buried on the
old Clague farm, seemingly unnoticed for so many years?
 
She felt a curious mixture of dread and
excitement as she finally fell asleep.

Chapter Four

Bessie took a very long walk the next
morning, trying to clear her head.
 
For the first time in a very long time, she’d actually overslept.
 
The shock of seeing her clock showing
seven instead of her usual six stayed with her in the shower and as she
dressed.
 
She only began to feel
like herself again as she patted on the rose-scented dusting powder that
reminded her of Matthew Saunders.
 
After a quick breakfast, she took herself for a long walk on the beach,
not turning back until she was well past Thie yn Traie.
 

As she passed the holiday cottages on her
way back, she waved to Thomas, who was just arriving as she was heading
home.
 
He returned the gesture.
 
Bessie’s heart sank a bit when she
realised that his wife was with him.
 
She kept walking, pretending she hadn’t noticed Maggie, but she knew her
efforts were futile.

“Bessie, there you are,” Maggie shouted
across the beach.

Sighing, Bessie stopped and turned to face
the woman who was rapidly approaching.
 
“Good morning, Maggie.
 
How
are you?” she asked.

“I’m fine, but I’m ever so worried about you
again,” Maggie said.
 
“What’s
happened now?”

“I’m sure you know as much as I do,” Bessie
replied.

“Oh, no, you were there, on the scene.
 
It must have been terrifying, like
something out of a horror film.
 
I
can just picture it.
 
Hidden for
decades behind broken furniture in the dark and dusty barn, a skeletal hand
reaches desperately out of its shallow grave, imploring someone to find him and
bring the evil soul who put him there to justice.”

Bessie rolled her eyes.
 
“It was nothing like that,” she told
Maggie.
 
“The barn is well-lit and
the furniture they store in it is in good condition.
 
The hand wasn’t reaching anywhere, it
was just lying on the ground, and it wasn’t the least bit scary, just somewhat
sad.”

“But who could it be?” Maggie asked.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Bessie told
her.

“But you must know,” Maggie said
emphatically.
 
“I’m much younger
than Fenella, of course, but you knew Marion Clague.
 
I heard that the body was under her
things that Niall put there when she died.”

Bessie knew that Maggie was less than ten
years younger than Fenella, but she let the remark go.
 
“I don’t believe the police have established
a date for the remains yet,” Bessie said.
 
“They could have been there since the barn was first built, or they
could have been put there rather more recently.
 
Until they can get an idea on the date,
it’s rather pointless to try to guess who they’ve found.”

“I wondered about Eoin’s brother,” Maggie
said in a whisper.

Bessie glanced around the beach.
 
There was no one else in sight.
 
“Fenella tells me that he’s happily
settled in Derbyshire with a family.”

“Ah, but has anyone seen him lately?” Maggie
asked.
 
“If Eoin killed him and hid
the body, they’d probably tell everyone that he was across, right?”

“Why would Eoin kill his brother?” Bessie
had to ask.

Maggie shrugged.
 
“Why does anyone kill anyone?” she
replied
 
“I’m sure he had a reason
at the time.”

“I really don’t think the body is Nicholas,”
Bessie said.
 
“But I’m sure the
police will be investigating every possibility.”

“I did think it might be Harvey Snow,”
Maggie said.
 

Bessie stared at her for a moment, trying to
think.
 
“Harvey Snow?” she said
eventually.
 
“I don’t think I know
who you mean.”

Maggie nodded.
 
“I’m probably the only person who
remembers him,” she said.
 
“He and
his father moved to the island when I was sixteen.
 
He was a year older and he went to
school with me for a little while.
 
Then he decided to move back to live with his mum instead.
 
He promised he’d write, but I never
heard from him.
 
I told my mum at
the time that something terrible must have happened to him, because otherwise I
know he would have written to me.”

“Well, you should definitely let the police
know about him,” Bessie said.
 
“You
should let the police know about anyone you think of that might be a
possibility.”

“I just hate talking to them,” Maggie told
her.
 
“That Inspector Rockwell is
quite intimidating, really.”

“You should ask to speak to Anna Lambert,”
Bessie said.
 
“I’m sure it would
easier, talking to a female inspector, wouldn’t it?”

Maggie nodded.
 
“Harvey and I had a little romance,” she
told Bessie.
 
“Another woman would
understand why I’m so sure something awful happened to him.
 
He really cared about me, you know.”

“I’m sure he did,” Bessie replied.
 
“Whatever happened to him, I’m sure Anna
can find out, assuming they haven’t identified the body yet, that is.”

“I’ll go and see her now,” Maggie said with
determination.
 
“Before I change my
mind.”

“I hope it isn’t him,” Bessie said.
 
“I’m sure you’d be sad, even after all
these years.”

Maggie shook her head.
 
“At least, if it is him, I’ll know why
he never wrote,” she told Bessie.
 
“I quite fancy the idea that he would have written if he could have.”

Bessie nodded uncertainly and then continued
on her way home.
 
She was almost
feeling sorry for Anna Lambert by the time she reached her cottage.
 
No doubt Maggie wouldn’t be the only
person visiting the police with a suggestion about the identity of the body.
 
It was likely that Harvey Snow would be
able to be quickly eliminated, though.
 
Bessie was pretty sure the man had simply never bothered to write.

Back at home, Bessie checked for phone
messages.
 
There were a great many,
and they were all concerned with the remains on the Clague farm.
 
Bessie listed the callers and then
crossed out several that she simply couldn’t be bothered to ring back.
 
Although she hadn’t rung and left a
message, Bessie decided to ring Doona first.

With a cup of tea on the table, Bessie sat
down and rang the front desk at the Laxey police station.
 

“Laxey Neighbourhood Policing, this is
Joan.
 
How can I help you?”

Bessie was so surprised that she nearly
didn’t reply.
 
“Oh, I was expecting
Doona Moore to answer,” she said after a moment.

“Doona’s on another line.
 
Is there something I can help you with?”
Joan asked in a cheery voice.

“No, I really just wanted to have a quick
word with Doona,” Bessie replied.
 
“Can you let her know that Elizabeth Cubbon rang, please?”

“I’ll tell her, but I wouldn’t expect her to
get back to you any time soon,” the woman said.
 
“We’re quite busy at the moment.”

“There’s no rush,” Bessie told the woman,
even though she didn’t really mean it.
 
She wanted to speak to Doona as soon as possible, but it seemed like it
might be a while before that happened.

Bessie hung up and frowned at her tea.
 
“I’m sure there are lots of people
ringing in with ideas about the remains,” she said to the cup.
 
“But who is Joan and why is she answering
the phone?”
 

When the tea didn’t reply, Bessie sighed and
then picked up the phone again.

“Good morning, Breesha,” she greeted her
advocate’s secretary when her call was answered.
 
“It’s Bessie Cubbon.
 
Is there any chance Doncan has a
minute?”

“I’ll just put you through after I thank you
for the kind invitation to Thanksgiving dinner,” Breesha replied.
 
“It’s one of the highlights of my social
calendar every year, you know.”

Bessie laughed.
 
“It’s kind of you to say so,” she
replied.
 
“Would you like to bring a
guest?”

“Ah, no, but thank you for asking,” Breesha
replied.
 
“I’m quite happy on my
own.
 
Now let me put you through to
Doncan.”

“Ah, Bessie, how are you, my dear?” Doncan
Quayle, Bessie’s advocate, asked when they were connected.

“I’m fine,” Bessie said.
 
“Thank you for ringing to check on me,
though.”

“I do hope yesterday’s events weren’t too
traumatic for you,” Doncan said.
 
“I
know you’re a strong woman, but I do worry about you.”

“I’d hate to think that I’m getting used to
finding dead bodies, but yesterday wasn’t nearly as awful as some of the things
I’ve gone through lately,” Bessie replied.

“Yes, well, if you need anything, don’t
hesitate to ask,” he told her.

Bessie smiled.
 
The man had handled her legal and
financial affairs for many years and in that time she liked to think that
they’d become friends.
 
“You and
Jane are coming for Thanksgiving dinner, right?” she asked now.

“We’re planning on it,” the man
replied.
 
“It was kind of you to
include young Doncan as well.
 
He
said you suggested that he might bring a guest as well.”

Bessie laughed.
 
“I’m sure there are plenty of young
women who would love to accompany him for the occasion,” she said.
 
“And I’m sure he’ll enjoy it more with a
friend than on his own.”

“Well, we’re all looking forward to it,”
Doncan replied.

“I don’t suppose you have any ideas on the
identity of the dead man?” Bessie asked.

There was a long pause before the man spoke
again.
 
“Really, I don’t,” he
said.
 
“I’ve been thinking about it
since yesterday.
 
There seem to be
almost too many possibilities, but none of them seem likely, really.
 
People do come and go from the island a
great deal, but it seems odd that no one missed this man.”

Bessie nodded and then caught herself.
 
“Yes, that’s exactly it,” she
replied.
 
“I don’t envy the police
their job.”

“I never do,” Doncan told her.
 
“I understand that the watch they found
with the body is quite distinctive.
 
I heard that the Chief Constable has agreed to put it on the front page
of the local paper today to see if anyone recognises it.”

“I hope they find out who he is soon,”
Bessie said.
 
“And what happened to
him.”

After fixing herself another cup of tea, she
picked up the phone again and read down the list of people she needed to ring
back.
 
She didn’t really feel like
talking to any of them.
 
The sun was
shining outside the window and Bessie thought seriously about taking another
walk.
 
A glance at her calendar
reminded her that there was a lecture at the Manx Museum that afternoon that
she had been thinking about attending.
 

William Corlett, a young researcher who was
one of the driving forces behind the creation of a new Manx History Institute,
was speaking about fifteenth-century pottery finds on the island.
 
Her own fascination with the island’s
history tended to focus on the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, but she
enjoyed learning everything she could about the island she called home.
 

More to avoid returning any more phone calls
than anything else, Bessie rang and requested a taxi.
 
The driver took her into Douglas and
left her in front of one of her favourite restaurants.
 
She ate lunch with a book for company
and then headed up to the Manx Museum to hear what William had to say.

Some parts of the lecture were fairly
incomprehensible to Bessie, who knew very little about pottery, but she enjoyed
hearing where the various pieces that had been found around the island came
from.
 
When the talk was over, she
found herself having tea and biscuits with a large group of friends from Manx
National Heritage, the organisation responsible for preserving, protecting and
promoting the island’s unique history and culture.