2. Sudden Death

Back in Bunburry, Alfie set out for Jasmine Cottage to see Liz and Marge. The ladies were like family as well. The only actual family relationship was with Emma, Liz’s great-niece, but she called both the ladies “Aunt” and Alfie felt as though they had effectively become his aunts too.

He knew they were both of pensionable age, although he had never dared ask how pensionable, but they were admirably active. They had a fudge-making business, Liz making the fudge, and Marge running the business, and they had also developed a useful sideline in solving crimes along with Alfie.

As he approached the neat two-storey cottage with its sloping front garden, he found himself wondering whether there had been any excitement in his absence.

It was Marge who answered the door. The petite white-haired woman was clutching a handkerchief, her eyes red-rimmed behind her oversized spectacles.

“Oh, Alfie,” she said brokenly. “I can’t believe she’s gone. I know she was older than me, but I thought she’d outlive the lot of us.”

Alfie stood frozen in horror. Liz had been in perfect health when he left, coping effortlessly with a huge order of fudge for a wedding in Rimingford.

With difficulty, he managed to speak, his voice barely above a whisper. “What happened?”

Marge took off her spectacles and dabbed her eyes. “Massive heart attack. She just dropped dead. I suppose if you’ve got to go, that’s the way to do it.”

He put a hand against the cottage wall to steady himself. “And when – when did it happen? Marge, you should have rung me right away – I should have been there for you.”

She patted his arm, looking up at him through watery eyes. “You’re very sweet, Alfie, but it was just after you left for Scotland, and I didn’t want to spoil your holiday.”

“But I’ve been away for three weeks,” he blurted out. “What about – the arrangements?”

“You mean the funeral? She left very clear instructions, and she absolutely didn’t want a fuss. There were only half a dozen of us there and the whole thing can’t have taken more than twenty minutes.”

Alfie couldn’t believe it. Liz had been at the centre of Bunburry’s community life. There had been over a hundred people at the ladies’ recent joint birthday party. And whatever her last will and testament had said, he would have wanted to be there, to wish her a final farewell. Marge was in such obvious distress he felt unable to tell her that, but he was deeply hurt that he hadn’t been included among the half-dozen.

“Marge, dear?” A familiar voice resonated down the hall. “Who is it?” And then a familiar figure, patting down her sandy coloured hair, appeared in the doorway.

“Goodness, Alfie, how lovely to see you. Welcome back!”

Weak with relief, he caught Liz in a hug and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Well,” sniffed Marge, “easy to see which of us he likes best. I never got a greeting like that.”

“It was just that I was so sad to hear about…” Hear about who? He no longer had any idea who it was that Marge had lost. To avoid having to finish the sentence, he gave the petite white-haired woman an equally affectionate embrace and kiss.

“Come in, dear, and I’ll make some tea,” said Liz.

“Unless you’d prefer something stronger,” said Marge.

“Tea would be lovely,” said Alfie.

“Marge, dear, you go and have a seat in the parlour and Alfie will help me with the tea,” said Liz.

Alfie was surprised to see Marge obey without a word of protest. She seemed utterly exhausted. He followed Liz into the kitchen where she began making the tea and setting a tray without seeking any assistance.

“She’s dreadfully upset,” she said in an undertone, taking three china cups and saucers out of the cupboard. “She’s taken it very hard. But at least she’s now got things to do as an executor. Alfie, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but I wondered whether you would take her in your car? I really don’t like the idea of her driving all that way when she might not be concentrating as well as usual.”

“Of course,” said Alfie. “But I’m afraid I don’t know who it is who’s passed away.”

“Oh, goodness, Alfie, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. One of Marge’s dearest friends, Leonora. Leonora Gray.”

Alfie looked blank.

“You know, dear. Lady Leonora Gray. Of Hallwood Hall.”

Alfie was still none the wiser.

“You’ve never been to Hallwood? It’s a marvellous old place. That’s another good reason for you to chauffeur Marge. Now, what else do we need? Ah yes, the milk.”

As Liz went to the fridge, Alfie said: “I don’t remember meeting Lady Leonora at your joint birthday party.”

“Oh, no, dear, you wouldn’t have,” said Liz, putting the milk on the tray. “Leonora wasn’t there. She was in Mongolia. Quite marvellous for a ninety year old. But if you don’t mind, when we join Marge, perhaps you could tell us about your holiday. To distract her for even a few minutes would be a blessing.”

As soon as Alfie was sitting in his familiar place on the chintz-covered sofa, a cup of tea and a plate of Liz’s celebrated fudge in front of him, he said obediently: “I must tell you all about my holiday. We saw Balmoral Castle. We actually went on a tour of it—”

He was about to tell the ladies all about the incredible ballroom, and how the royals hosted an annual ball for the staff and local community, with everyone joining in the Scottish country dancing. But he never got the chance.

“You were with your sister?” asked Liz.

Marge, ensconced in her rocking chair, snorted. “Half-sister.”

“Margaret, dear,” Liz protested gently.

“Well, it’s true,” said Marge.

Alfie might have forgiven the father he never knew, but it seemed that Marge still bore a grudge on his behalf, which extended to Calum McAlister’s other child.

He was going to remind her that Anne was entirely blameless, and that as far as he was concerned, she was his sister. Liz, however, had decided that they should change the subject.

“You won’t have heard about Emma and that dreadful sergeant,” she said, a noticeable edge to her voice.

Liz was one of the kindest, most tolerant people Alfie had ever met, and it always surprised him that she was so utterly intolerant of Sergeant Harold Wilson, Emma’s superior in the Bunburry police station. It was true that Sergeant Wilson was not only bad-tempered and bigoted, but also congenitally lazy, leaving Emma to do the work, and then taking the credit for her successes.

But when Alfie went on holiday, Sergeant Wilson was on sick leave. Luckier than Marge’s friend Lady Leonora, he had survived his heart attack. This left Emma doing all the work, but since that was what she did anyway, Alfie guessed that she was quite happy, especially when she no longer had to make Wilson cups of coffee every half hour.

“So, Sergeant Wilson’s back on duty?” he said.

Another snort from Marge. “As if! Why would he go to work if he can get paid for staying at home? He’ll stretch out his sick leave for months.”

“I wasn’t talking about Harry Wilson, Alfie dear,” said Liz. “I meant this dreadful new person they’ve parachuted in. It’s a misuse of public funds, if you ask me. Emma was running things perfectly easily on her own without the need of a boss. If they wanted a sergeant in charge, I can’t understand why they didn’t just promote her.”

“Because she hasn’t actually sat the sergeants’ exams,” said Marge, but under her breath, and only Alfie heard.

“What’s so dreadful about the new sergeant?” he asked.

“That he exists,” said Marge, and Liz had the grace to look a little embarrassed. “Nobody knows anything about him. But let’s face it, he can’t be any worse than Harry Wilson.”

“That still leaves him a lot of scope,” said Liz gloomily.

“To think she accuses me of having a pessimistic outlook,” said Marge. “We’ll find out more soon. He’s starting tomorrow. Anyway, there’s some good news. Laura isn’t going back to Birmingham. She’s got a job at the hospital here, so at least Emma will get fed properly.”

Emma didn’t seem to have the slightest idea of, or interest in, cooking. Liz and Marge claimed that she existed on crisps and chocolate, and Alfie suspected they were right. It seemed the only time she ate properly was when she was invited to a meal by the ladies or by him.

But her diet improved enormously after she was injured in the line of duty, and her elder sister Laura came back to Bunburry to take care of her.

Still slightly wounded by Marge insisting on calling Anne his half-sister, he said: “Big sisters can be a tower of strength. That’s why I’m so fond of mine.”

Behind the oversized spectacles, Marge’s eyes widened. The rocking chair stopped rocking. “Big sisters?” she repeated.

Liz laid down her teacup with a clatter. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, goodness.”

Too late, Alfie realised he had just told them something they didn’t know. Once before, he had mentioned that Anne was older than him, but they had been distracted at the time and hadn’t picked up on the significance of what he had said. This time they had.

“Are you saying Anne’s older than you?” asked Marge. “How much older?”

“Three months,”...