What she needed to do was think of something else. She could see Angie at work in her ‘studio’, having spent the weekend on her own. She had suddenly been inspired to paint again and Kate wondered if this was some sort of delaying tactic because she feared what she might find (for example, a wife) if she went to Plymouth. Then the elusive Fergal had finally rung up, full of apologies. He’d had to work overtime, he was very tired and yes, he should have phoned earlier but… Kate couldn’t remember all the excuses. She couldn’t make him out at all, particularly as he was such a charmer and seemed very fond of Angie.
She decided she’d make lasagne for supper and then discovered that there was no grated nutmeg with which to make the bechamel sauce. She could get back into the car and head for the supermarket or she could walk down to the village and chance her luck at Bobby’s Best Buys. Bobby prided himself on stocking ‘everything you could need’ – provided it wasn’t too exotic. There was a fifty-fifty chance Bobby would not have nutmeg but Barney needed a walk and Kate needed to get on with her lasagne.
She fastened the lead onto Barney’s collar and set off down the winding lane, past a couple of cottages, bungalows and The Greedy Gull before reaching the river. Bobby’s was one of a straggle of shops and tea-rooms on the other side of the Pol and, as they crossed the ancient stone bridge, Kate looked over the side at the water level, which was high due to the rapidly incoming tide. The few remaining holidaymakers down on the beach were hurriedly gathering up their windbreaks and retreating to avoid the oncoming waves which would shortly cover most of the sand.
Bobby’s did a roaring trade in bodyboards, buckets and spades and all manner of highly coloured necessities to satisfy holidaying families. He’d probably keep them on display until the end of the month before adorning the window with all the Halloween paraphernalia.
The shop suffered from lack of light, which only came in via the front display window. This was always packed with ‘Bobby’s Specials’ which, depending on the season, varied from Christmas trees and festoons of tinsel in winter, she’d been told, to plastic paddling pools (displayed upright) in high summer. The interior was therefore gloomy and lit only by a single strip light. Bobby, who was in his late sixties, was short, tubby, bald and sported a bristling moustache. He always wore a striped apron, butcher style, and he had an opinion on absolutely everything, which could anchor you there for hours or until another customer came in.
Today Bobby was explaining patiently to an elderly lady in a voluminous floral gown that yes, indeed, his prices were a tiny bit higher than Tesco and Lidl and the rest, but that was because he was a one-off, in the middle of nowhere, and every single item had to be delivered by road from Plymouth or Truro, so it was a holy wonder that he was able to stay open at all. ‘And, in the winter,’ he concluded, ‘there’s only a handful of locals buying anythin’, because the tourists have gone and all them second-home owners have gone back to London or wherever. Ain’t that right, Mrs Palmer?’ He nodded at Kate.
‘Oh yes indeed,’ Kate agreed as the woman pushed past her, an orange in her hand and a face like thunder.
‘Bloody woman!’ Bobby said after she’d slammed the door behind her. ‘She comes in here, buys one bloody orange and then has a go at me about my prices. Oranges don’t grow on bloody trees round here. Them people ’aven’t a clue! Now, what can I do for you?’
Kate was looking round the shelves in the hopes of seeing some little jars of herbs and spices. ‘I wondered if you had any nutmeg?’
‘Nutmeg,’ repeated Bobby.
‘Yes, you know, the spice? Comes in a little jar usually.’
Bobby frowned. ‘I got some spices somewhere. Perhaps they’re out the back. Hold on a sec.’ With that he disappeared into the murky depths of the storeroom at the rear of the shop and reappeared a couple of minutes later with a jar of mixed spice.
‘Will this do?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Sorry, Bobby, but I really needed nutmeg.’
Bobby pushed his spectacles up his nose and scrutinised the jar closely. ‘There’ll likely be nutmeg in there somewhere,’ he said.
‘Well, never mind, it’s not important,’ Kate said. Then, to soften the blow, she said, ‘But I’ll take half a dozen of your newly laid eggs, please.’
Bobby tossed the mixed spice onto the nearest shelf and, as he carefully inserted the eggs into the box, said, ‘I hear there’s an old girl died of poisoning up at Seaview.’
‘Yes, I believe so,’ Kate said as she got out her purse to pay for the eggs. ‘Do you know any of them up there?’
‘Only Stan. Funny lot up there,’ Bobby said dismissively. ‘Stan Starkey’s a mate of mine and we often have a pint together in The Tinners.’ He was referring to The Tinners Arms, an ancient pub up in Middle Tinworthy where the older locals preferred to drink and for whom The Greedy Gull in Lower Tinworthy was considered to be ‘too bloody touristy’.
‘Stan’s the gardener and handyman up there, does everythin’ what needs doin’. His missus is the cleaner, and they can tell you some stories!’ He snorted. ‘The police came up there and took some stuff out of the old woman’s freezer. You don’t need to be bloody Sherlock to work out what their thinkin’ was! Anyway, Stan’s had a word with his mate on the Post, so I expect some of the press will soon be nosin’ around.’
‘Oh really?’ Kate said as she picked up her eggs.
‘Yeah, and the old girl what was poisoned
