“What do you mean?”
She moved to stand in front of him, flexing her fingers around the poker handle. “What do I mean? I sent her off to the Pearly Gates, didn’t I, and her grandson came to see her early. The police are there. Matilda can’t have died—she must have telephoned for help. Told them what I’d done.”
“And what did you do?”
“What? Are you thick? I thought I’d killed her, Leonard. Strangled her. Except I obviously didn’t strangle her for long enough. Those people who knocked on the door? Police, that’s who they were.” She leant forward for emphasis. “Coming to get us. Get me, then get you when they discover the strawberry patch.”
Leonard lifted his hands to cover his ears. “Stop it, Nellie. I don’t want to hear things like that. What will we do?”
“I don’t know what we’ll do, but I know what I’m going to do. Hold this for me.”
She thrust the poker towards him. He took it, and she removed the duct tape from her pocket. Pulled a strip free then bit a piece off. Threw the roll to the floor. Leonard stared at her, clearly puzzled as to what she was doing, but his expression held no fear. She slapped the tape across his mouth. Snatched the poker. She raised it then brought it crashing down on his white-haired head with massive force. A thud and a crack sounded simultaneously, followed by a wet thwack. Leonard screamed, the noise muffled, and she hit him again and again.
She couldn’t have him telling them what she’d done to their parents and Matilda. To anyone who had pissed her off over the years. Guests or passersby who had popped in for directions. She’d taken all her anger out on them. Anger over Matilda living the life Nellie had wanted. Anger that life was so sodding unfair.
Covered in blood spatter, she dropped the poker to the floor and made her way upstairs. In her bathroom, she unscrewed the cap of a tablet bottle and stuffed the contents in her mouth. Swallowed them down with water from the tap, annoyed that they’d decided to create what felt like a ball in her windpipe. At her bedside cabinet, she opened the drawer and took out a bottle of gin, staring down at it and anticipating the taste.
She wandered down the landing until she reached her parents’ old room. Opened the door. Stood and stared. Everything was the same as it had been all those years ago. The bed. The flowery cover on it. The wardrobe. And that was where she would go now, that wardrobe. She’d sit inside it and drink the gin, then wait until she fell asleep for the last time.
Yes, that was what she’d do.
And maybe she’d think about Colin and what could have been while she was at it.
* * * *
Colin couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that had come over him since he’d listened at Randall’s office door. Something was off, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it at the moment. But it didn’t matter. Whatever it was would disappear along with them when he served their dinner.
He left his room and went into the kitchen to stir the meal he’d left braising in the slow cooker. He didn’t care whether the bald gentleman liked stewed beef—that was what Colin and Randall would have had if Jackson hadn’t turned up, so that was what they’d be having now. The food looked sufficiently tender, so he popped some new potatoes and carrots on the hob then walked over to the window while they came to the boil. Beside the window stood an old-fashioned cabinet, a Welsh dresser that had been there for as long as he could remember.
Back in the days when he’d first started work here, he’d been in charge of cleaning the pots. A deep white sink had been below the window then, the dresser beside it, and he’d stared across the fields as he’d washed up and thought of Nellie. It was strange how life worked out. He’d planned to marry her, to set up home and live happily ever after, get her a job in this house. But he’d gone to war and returned to hear from Matilda that Nellie wasn’t one for marriage, that she’d pledged to spend her life helping her mum and dad manage The Running Hare.
Colin had been upset, of course he had, but hadn’t wanted anyone else. He’d resigned himself to always working in the house, and when his original masters had passed away and their children had employed him, he’d known he wouldn’t go anywhere else. The children, as he still thought of them, had sold up, and Colin had worried about where he would go. But Randall had bought the place and kept him on—the sole employee who ran the house like clockwork.
He wondered whether Nellie ever thought of him. Perhaps he’d go down to the village tomorrow, after everything here had been settled, maybe visit with her for an hour or two before he jetted off into the sun. Who knew, perhaps she’d like to go with him. They could live the life they’d been denied.
Water sizzled on the hob, and he rushed over to turn down the heat. He tugged the bell cord dangling beside the cooker to let Randall know dinner would be ready in a bit. While he waited for the vegetables to cook, he returned to the dresser and took out some red wine. He uncorked it and reached deep into the dresser for a smaller bottle at the back. A few teaspoons of the contents poured into the wine would do the trick and, satisfied all was in order, he shuffled into the dining room to set the table.
A table for two.
Colin would
