To Love and to Perish Read online

  Honestly, I don’t know where it came from, but without thinking it through first, I ripped open the door to my Mercedes, yelled for Buster to get in and threw myself down into the driver’s seat. There was one way in and one way out of the Bleakwiths’ property and that was through the gate. Spitting gravel from my tyres, I backed up twenty yards and spun the steering wheel so my car blocked the exit completely. John could escape on foot, but he wasn’t driving anywhere.

  I had the driver’s door open the whole time, and no seatbelt on. Leaning out with my head cranked around to see where I was going, I was acting like some kind of stunt driver. My free hand did its best to pin Buster in place on the passenger seat and got slobbered on because that’s what he does to show affection. My left shoulder protested – I managed to dislocate it a week ago and though it was healing, it wasn’t exactly happy about being used.

  I yanked the handbrake on and slammed my door shut just as John Ramsey drove at me. My heart almost stopped when my brain performed a swift velocity and distance calculation to say I was about to get rammed.

  Instead, he slammed on his brakes, sliding across the gravel to stop a few inches shy of my window. The bonnet of his Range Rover filled my vision, and the blast of horn deafened my ears. He backed the horn up with angry profanity, swearing at me to move out of his way.

  I scooted across the central transmission tunnel, hooking my dress so it wouldn’t catch on the gear stick. Shoving the passenger door open, I said, ‘Out, Buster. Let’s go!’

  ‘We only just got in,’ he pointed out. ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘Felicity needs to get out!’ I gave him a shove, which didn’t have a great deal of impact. Buster is basically a medium sized bean bag shaped sort of like a squat dog. If dogs were made of steel ball bearings that is, because he weighs about half a ton.

  I gave up trying to get him to move and clambered over him, almost tumbling when I finally got my leading foot outside.

  John was still shouting obscenities in my direction. He wanted to go, and his rage meter was in the red.

  Of course, once I was out of the car, Buster thought we might be going somewhere interesting, so he got out too. I locked it quickly, grabbing Buster by his collar so we could get to the house.

  However, John Ramsey was out of his car and he was mad. ‘Give me the something keys!’ he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. He didn’t actually say the word something as you might imagine. I don’t go in for bad language though so censored each word as they reached my ears.

  ‘I’ll let Buster go if I have to,’ I warned. ‘What did you do in the house? Did you hurt Derek?’

  He didn’t answer my question, what he said was, ‘Give me the something keys or so something help me, I’ll something you right up the something!’

  His horrible mouth made me shudder. Where did people learn to talk like that?

  I let Buster go with a swift command. ‘Get him, Buster!’

  It was only the dog making me feel brave, I can assure you. I’d never done anything this crazy before in my life, but as my dog tore across the three yards separating me from John Ramsey, I went to my right and across the front lawn to get to the house.

  There were a score of windows at the front of the Bleakwiths’ property, all possessing that beautiful leaded design that suited the old house and thatched roof perfectly. Any modern touches on a house like this would ruin the look. However, though I could see into the house, I could not see anyone moving about and a terrible thought occurred to me.

  Had John just murdered all three of them?

  My head swung back in horror, now terrified the man might have a knife or something. If he did, then he wasn’t using it. He was on the bonnet of his car with Buster growling and barking from the ground. A larger dog would have jumped onto the bonnet in a single bound, but Buster would need a forklift truck to get that high.

  Both were making a terrible racket; Buster barking maniacally, and John swearing in frustration at the dog who would not desist. Buster wanted the human to run away so he could give chase; that would be a fun game to play. John wanted to get into his car so he could run Buster over.

  ‘Call him off, Felicity! Call him off now!’ John bellowed his demands.

  I shook my head and folded my arms. ‘I don’t think I shall, John.’

  He sneered at me. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? What? You think this is some kind of payback for me putting worms in your hair? Grow up, Felicity or I’ll do much worse when I get down from here.’

  I shook my head back and forth. Ever ready with a threat. He hadn’t changed a bit since school. Well, he could try to get down and deal with me, but my money was on Buster. If John attempted to get off the car, he was going to get his ankles mauled to death. With that belief ringing in my ears, I ran to the house.

  The front door was hanging open, I pushed through it and ran upstairs, confident John had hurt Derek and I would find Joanne and Tamara up there.

  I was wrong though. I found the master bedroom easily enough, but it was empty. An additional single bed had been set up against one wall. The sheets were stained a little; Derek’s terrible skin condition leaking plasma constantly. Next to his bed, a small table held cream and pills to treat his condition and a brandy decanter with two crystal glasses.

  But where was Derek?

  I heard voices outside and ran to the balcony. That it was open on a late autumn day was odd. The room was far too cool for a person to be comfortable in bed but looking over the edge of the balcony and into the garden, I saw a sight that took my breath away.

  Derek was lying on the ground below. Half on the patio and half on the lawn, he wasn’t moving and looked to be dead. Tamara was checking his pulse, one shaking hand to her mouth as the other felt his neck.

  I pushed away from the balcony and ran back downstairs.

  From where she stood in the kitchen, Joanne saw me reach the foot of the stairs and turn into the hallway. She shot me a surprised look but said nothing because she was on the phone to the emergency services. With her phone to her left ear, she was doing her best to explain herself to the person at the other end.

  Terrified tears were streaming down her face.

  Unsure what to do, I came up close to Joanne and waited. In the first ten seconds I heard what had happened.

  ‘Yes, he pushed him!’ Joanne cried into the phone. John hadn’t returned to apologise for his earlier outburst. He returned to kill his partner. Joanne listened for a few seconds before adding. ‘No, he’s lying in the garden. No,’ she sobbed. ‘No, I don’t know how badly he is hurt. He was already desperately sick. Dying we think.’

  Feeling like I ought to be doing something to help, I left Joanne to continue talking on the phone and ran through the house to find Tamara. She hadn’t moved since I saw her from above.

  A sound behind me, made me jump but it was Tamara’s mum, Joanne, returning. ‘The police are coming along with an ambulance,’ she announced, rushing around me to get to her husband.

  I was a fifth wheel but as Joanne knelt beside her husband and daughter, I said, ‘I blocked your driveway.’ The two women swung their heads my way. ‘I heard the scream,’ I explained. ‘So I used my car to stop him escaping. He did this?’

  Tamara sobbed, holding her father’s unresponsive hand, and it was Joanne’s wavering voice that answered my question. ‘We heard a shout and then this awful thump …’ she had to stop talking; the words just too painful to get out. She sucked in a lungful of air and tried again. ‘It was like a sack of wet sand hitting the floor,’ she sobbed, barely able to speak.

  Abruptly, she stood up, a juddering huff of breath stilling her body as she looked away from her husband and back toward the still open patio door. ‘You said you trapped him here?’

  She wasn’t really asking me to confirm my claim, nor was she waiting for an answer. She was stalking back through the house, heading for the front door, and pausing only to grab a brass candlestick from a mantl
epiece on her way by.

  I could only guess what she meant to do with it, and now torn between attempting to help Tamara with her stricken father, and stopping Joanne from doing something that would only make things worse, I chose the latter.

  ‘Joanne!’ I called after her, running through the house to catch up. ‘Joanne, let’s not do anything rash. You said the police were on their way.’

  John Ramsey was still on the bonnet of his Range Rover. He was missing a shoe and the bottom three inches of his left trouser leg had been reduced to ribbons.

  ‘Come down,’ barked Buster.

  ‘Call off your something dog!’ John demanded, resorting to profanity yet again.

  Joanne advanced across her gravel drive, a determination in her gait and the candlestick still gripped firmly in her right hand.

  ‘Why?’ she screamed. ‘Why? You couldn’t wait for natural causes to take him?’

  ‘I didn’t push him!’ John shouted in reply. ‘I already told you that!’

  ‘You lied!’ Mrs Bleakwith spat in response, the hand holding the candlestick twitching and shifting. I couldn’t tell whether she was going to attack him or the car or both or neither. I also wasn’t sure what I might be able to do to stop her if she did.

  I’m five feet five inches and a hundred pounds plus some change. There just isn’t a lot of me. Joanne had to be close to two hundred pounds and was six inches taller.

  John Ramsey had an imploring look on his face when he said, ‘Derek jumped, Jo. I’m telling you the truth. ‘I don’t think he could take the pain any longer. I came back to apologise, you know that.’

  ‘I know what you told me,’ Joanne made it clear she didn’t believe him.

  The sound of sirens in the distance drew our attention, all three of us straining our hearing to confirm what our ears believed.

  ‘You can tell the police,’ Joanne growled, throwing the brass candlestick to the ground.

  John attempted to sidle to the edge of the car again, only to have Buster circle around and snap at him once more. There were scratches all over the car’s previously immaculate paintwork where Buster had dragged his claws.

  ‘Can you call off your dog, please?’ John asked.

  At least he managed to find some manners finally, but the answer was still a firm, ‘No. I think Buster can keep you where you are for just a little longer. I’ll call him off when the police get here.’

  With a sense of acceptance, I backed away a pace and took out my phone. I needed to call Justin because I wasn’t going to make it for lunch today.

  A Challenge

  It was cool enough outside for us to have been worried about Derek getting hypothermia. Leaving me to mind Buster as he in turn kept John on top of his car, Joanne and Tamara had gone to find blankets. He was still lying on the cold ground, but we didn’t dare move him for fear of spinal injuries.

  The police arrived just a few minutes later, their hurry to get to us probably aided by the ambulance ahead of them racing to save Derek’s life. Both vehicles screeched to a stop in the lane beyond the Bleakwiths’ gate, the people inside seeing the driveway blocked and coming on foot.

  I would have to shift my car to let them park, but it could wait until John was in custody for sure.

  The paramedics, first to arrive with heavy bags over their shoulders, bore questioning looks.

  ‘In the back garden,’ I supplied in a tone that demanded their haste. ‘He’s in bad shape,’ I added to their backs as they ran for the front door.

  Ten seconds behind them, two police officers came through the gates. They were both in their twenties – a tall, athletic-looking white man and a short, stocky black woman. They looked ready to deal with whatever they might find as if they were used to running into danger.

  I believed the threat in this situation had been largely eliminated.

  ‘What’ve we got here?’ asked the young male officer. He came around the rear end of my car taking care to avoid stepping on some hellebores just coming into bloom. ‘Everyone stay calm, please. My name is Constable Hardacre, this is Constable Woods,’ he indicated his colleague.

  John Ramsey spoke before I could. ‘I want this woman charged with assault and the dog terminated.’ He shot daggers from his eyes and glared at me the whole time.

  ‘Oooh, doggy!’ said the female officer, her eyes going wide when she saw Buster.

  John moved toward the edge of the car, looking to see if he could get down now. Buster was distracted by the woman cooing at him. ‘I’ve been stuck on top of my car for fifteen minutes waiting for someone who isn’t insane to get here.’

  ‘What a lovely doggy woggy, yes!’ Constable Woods cooed, bending over. Buster was a sucker for anyone that would baby talk him, padding in her direction with his back end wagging so hard he almost fell over.

  Until John attempted to step down from his car that is.

  ‘Whoa!’ exclaimed both police officers as Buster swung through ninety degrees, darted forward, and headbutted a tyre.

  John scrambled to get his leading leg out of the way in time. Managing to get back to safety on the bonnet only to almost slide off when the whole car rocked from Buster’s impact.

  Buster shook his head. ‘That one hurt,’ he whined.

  Reassessing the danger, Constable Hardacre asked, ‘Can you put your dog on his lead, madam?’

  Now that the police were here, John Ramsey’s innocence or otherwise was their problem, not mine. I called to Buster. ‘Come here, boy.’

  He licked his face, his tongue slobbering out between his exposed canines. ‘I think I bruised my nose,’ he complained. He came to me though, wagging his tail still. It had been a fun game apparently.

  ‘I should check on the victim,’ I announced to the police officers once Buster was secure.

  ‘Your name, please?’ asked PC Hardacre.

  ‘Mrs Felicity Philips,’ I replied.

  ‘Is this your domicile?’ He had a small tablet in his hand and was making notes.

  I shook my head. ‘I am just visiting. I am a wedding planner.’

  PC Wood’s head snapped up to look at me. ‘Felicity Philips,’ she repeated. ‘Hey, weren’t you at that Sashatastic wedding that went horribly wrong last weekend?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said her partner. ‘I heard about that.’

  With a sigh, I nodded my head. ‘I was there. The bride and groom chose to postpone the ceremony.’

  PC Woods snorted a laugh. ‘That’s not what I heard. We had a bunch of colleagues there and they said Sasha was involved in some kind of murder cover up. They also said her fiancé ran off with an old girlfriend. I’m sorry I missed it; it sounded better than daytime TV.’

  She wasn’t wrong. There had been a few issues with that particular celebrity wedding. I got paid up front, so the immediate damage was minimal. The longer-term impact was yet to be determined though, and my closest rival, an evil cow of a woman called Primrose Green, was having a field day with the news.

  Primrose was only too happy to promote her business by using negative press tactics against mine. Mostly what she said wasn’t true so imagine the fun she could have when there was genuine gossip to spread.

  It was something I would need to address very soon.

  John climbed down from his car, swearing and complaining still. He showed the officers a wound on his leg - I have done worse damage shaving mine.

  They were asking questions, and insisting John accompany them to the house so they could establish what might have happened.

  ‘I’ll need your keys, sir,’ said PC Woods, holding out her hand expectantly. ‘I need to move your car so we can unblock the lane outside.’ She twitched her eyes to me. ‘You too, Mrs Philips.’

  PC Hardacre held his arms out to his sides to herd John and me inside the house. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘Patience, come and find us once you are done.’

  She called back that she wouldn’t be long just before we heard her revving the Range Rover’s engine. John tu
rned around to see what she was doing, his forehead creasing.

  ‘Is she insured to drive my car?’ he wanted to know, acting as if it were something precious. I had no such concerns about mine; it’s covered in Buster slobber most of the time.

  John was also laying it on thick with his leg wound, limping in an exaggerated way as he hobbled toward the house.

  I hurried my steps, getting to the house first because I wanted to hear about Derek’s condition. It was quite the tumble from the upper floor of the house, and he didn’t move in the time that I was outside with him.

  ‘I need to sit down,’ complained John. ‘That rabid dog bit me.’

  ‘Buster is not rabid!’ I snapped, insulted by the suggestion. I looked down to find Buster had slobbery foam around his chops. ‘He’s just a bit dribbly,’ I tried to defend him. ‘If you hadn’t shoved Derek off his balcony, none of this would have happened.’

  John’s face turned instantly red as he raged, ‘I didn’t push him!’

  ‘You can sit there, sir,’ PC Hardacre pointed to an armchair. We were going through their kitchen at the back of the house. Ahead of us, the patio doors were ajar, cool air drifting in and along with it the voices from outside.

  A quick glance was all it took to confirm Derek was still unconscious. A paramedic was heading back toward the house, jogging while awkwardly holding onto the various paraphernalia attached to her uniform.

  ‘I need the backboard from the ambulance,’ she announced, cruising into the room but pausing to speak with PC Hardacre. ‘Is the lane clear now?’

  PC Woods came into the kitchen just as the paramedic asked the question.

  ‘It sure is. I need you to move the ambulance so I can get my squad car off the road. There is a tractor already waiting.’

  PC Hardacre started toward the front of the house. ‘I’ll shift it, Patience. You already put a dent in it this week.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault,’ she called after him. She did not, however, attempt to stop him. Instead, she moved around the kitchen. ‘Anyone for tea?’

  I guess police officers are used to going into other people’s houses and helping themselves. They must have to deliver notice of death or let people know their loved one has been arrested or been in an accident. Such news might then demand liquid refreshment – everything is better with a cup of tea.