Perhaps it would have been better if she hadn’t opened the letter after all, Cassie thought, as she folded Ruth’s letter and slipped it back into the envelope.
For a few moments, she stared at the room without really seeing the twinkling lights on the fake tree, the faded beige wallpaper that peeled off in places and the pedestal lamp with its mustard coloured shade and bedraggled tassels her granddad refused to throw away because his darling Elsie – her grandma – had bought it when they were newly-weds, some fifty years earlier.
For once, as her gaze swept over the old-fashioned gas fire with its blue and white patterned tiles and fake coals that didn’t glow any longer, Cassie didn’t cringe at the overwhelming 1950s décor, and her fingers didn’t itch to rip the carpet and fussy wallpaper off and give the room, and the whole cottage, a fresh new look.
Her granddad had been right. The letters hinted at a story she hadn’t suspected – a story that was more tragic that she could ever imagine.
She jumped to her feet. Her granddad had been right about something else, she thought, as she slipped on her duffle coat and grabbed her handbag. She did fancy some company after all.
The pre-Christmas lull wasn’t something Red Moss’s only pub was familiar with. In fact, in the run up to Christmas, the Eagle and Child was usually busier than usual. Tonight, it was so packed people had to brave the cold to drink outside, even though, unlike trendy bars in Ambleside, Keswick or Windermere, it didn’t boast any fire pits or outdoor heaters.
Cassie stopped to say hello to a couple of friends before pushing the door open. The bright lights made her blink and a disorientating wave of heat, noise, beer and food smells hit her senses.
Tinsel and baubles sparkled from the Christmas tree standing in a corner. Fairy lights in the shape of snowflakes dangled from the ceiling’s wooden beams, and a Christmas song played on the music system. Behind the bar Sadie sported sparkling earrings and a bright red top. Even Big Jim, the landlord, usually in jeans and faded rock bands T-shirts, wore a colourful Christmas sweater that stretched over his ample belly. Cassie couldn’t identify if the animal frolicking at the front of Big Jim’s jumper was a reindeer or a fox.
‘Hey, Cassie!’ a man’s voice called as she pushed her way across the crowded room.
Her body tensed but she greeted the tall, stocky blond man standing in her path with a smile. ‘Hi, Piers. How are you?’
‘All the better for seeing you, gorgeous.’ Before she could move out of the way, Piers bent down, slid his arm around her waist and kissed her cheek, dangerously close to her mouth. His lips were warm and moist, and she tried to repress a gasp as she caught the whiff of beer, musky aftershave and sweaty socks that always seemed to cling to him.
Still holding her tightly, he smiled. ‘Fancy a drink, darling?’
‘No, thanks. I only came in to have a word with my granddad.’
His smile faded. ‘We haven’t had a proper chat for ages. Come on, it’s the season of goodwill. Don’t you think you owe me at least one drink? It’s in your interest to keep me sweet. I’m your boss, after all, as well as your landlord, so to speak. We could enjoy a drink or two and talk about work, life… and love.’
She stiffened. ‘Perhaps next time.’
Piers often liked to remind her that as Charles Ashville’s property manager, he had given her the contract for the holiday lets on the Ashville estate without which her small cleaning company couldn’t survive, and bring up the fact that Bluebell Cottage was an Ashville property that her granddad rented for a very advantageous rent that hadn’t changed much since the 1970s. However, she had no intention of keeping Piers sweet, at least not in the way he implied. She was well aware of his reputation as a ladies’ man, but as far as she was concerned he was her boss, as well as her granddad’s landlord, and she would maintain a professional relationship with him.
‘Make sure it’s soon.’ He released her, and she wiped her cheek discreetly as she pushed her way through the crowd towards the quieter back room where her granddad and his friends usually retreated.
Sure enough, he was sitting at a table with David Fern and Tom Hays, both of whom had worked with him at the slate mine in the next valley. From the number of empty glasses on the table and the men’s red cheeks and animated discussion, it was safe to assume that they were finishing their second pint, exchanging puns and jokes, and complaining once again that things were better ‘in the olden days’. It was over fifteen years since they had retired from the slate mines, and loved nothing better than to moan about the ‘circus’ that the mines had become since Matt Jamieson had taken over from his father and created an adventure park to boost the mines’ income.
Sighing inwardly because she liked Matt and admired what he was trying to do to keep his business going, Cassie walked over to them and pulled a chair out.
‘Do you mind if I join you, gentlemen?’
Her granddad arched his eyebrows in surprise when he saw her. ‘Trifle! You changed your mind.’
She nodded, said hello to David and Tom and sat down. ‘I read the letters.’
‘I knew you’d be intrigued. You were always going on about poor Ruth when you were growing up. I had to tell your grandma to stop stuffing your head with nonsense.’
It wasn’t nonsense, but she didn’t protest. ‘Did you ask her not to mention the letters to me?’
‘I sure did. It wasn’t a good tale for a girl with too much imagination like you.’ He drank the last of his beer and put his pint down.
‘Then why give them to me tonight?’
‘I had a funny feeling when you mentioned that Frenchman who just arrived at Belthorn Manor.’
‘A tourist at the manor house at this time of year?’ David Fern looked at her, curiosity shining in his eyes. ‘What’s he doing up there?’
‘Resting, I suppose,’ she answered.
‘You said he’d been in an accident, didn’t you?’ her granddad asked.
She shrugged. ‘I think he has, but I didn’t ask him for his life story.’ And even if she had, she doubted Stefan Lambert would have answered. ‘He seems a very private person,’ she added. Private was one way of putting it. Rude was another, more accurate one…
‘Well, he’ll be private enough up there for sure. He’ll only have the sheep to talk to, and the Grey Friar, of course.’ Tom Hays laughed and gestured towards the empty pint glasses and got up. ‘It’s my round. Same again, lads?’
The other two men nodded.
‘What about you, Cassie?’ he asked.
‘I’ll have half a cider, thanks.’
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ David Fern said as he got up and the two men walked to the bar.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Cassie leaned over the table towards her granddad. ‘What can you tell me about the letters?’
‘There isn’t much to tell. You read them, so you know who wrote them and what’s in them, and now you understand that what happened to Ruth wasn’t an accident.’
Cassie shuddered. ‘You think she deliberately walked into Wolf Tarn and drowned.’
He nodded. ‘Her lover had deserted her. Her family had disowned her. She lost her reputation, and nobody in the village would talk to her or give her employment, apart from the vicar, that is. The poor girl had nothing left.’