Page 8 of Murder in the Winter Woods (Julia Bird Mysteries #8)

Sunday morning started with a gift, personally delivered to Julia in her own bed.

The gift, unfortunately, was a mouse, and the delivery man was Chaplin. Julia had been dozing when he jumped onto the bed with a loud prooowww sound, and nudged her with his hard forehead.

‘Hello, kitty cat,’ she muttered sleepily, keeping her eyes determinedly closed.

She reached out a hand to give him a stroke and push him gently away.

He was all the more insistent, coming right up into her face, so that when she opened her own eyes, she was looking straight into his yellow ones, directly above the dangling figure of the dead mouse.

‘Bloody hell, Chaplin,’ she said, practically levitating into a sitting position, while flapping her hands about without a clear purpose. ‘Get off.’

Chaplin retreated to the end of the bed, proudly holding the little brown corpse in his mouth.

‘Oh God, take that thing away, will you?’

Julia tried to disentangle herself from the bedclothes without making contact with the cat or the mouse.

Chaplin seemed bemused by the commotion and, frankly, disappointed by the lack of gratitude for his fine present.

He stood his ground, the grisly gift hanging from his jaws.

Julia got up crossly, slapping her feet down on the cold floor and stomping off to the bathroom for the loo roll.

She’d feared having to wrestle the victim from Chaplin’s jaws, but by the time she got back he’d dropped it onto her duvet.

The poor little thing. It was tiny, and really rather cute with its little round ears and its whiskers.

Fortunately it was in one piece, and not torn to shreds or bleeding all over the place.

She wondered if it had died of fright. Chaplin’s stare was pretty alarming; that might have done it.

Julia pulled off a wodge of loo paper and used it to pick up the mouse without making contact.

She set off down the passage to the kitchen, where she found a plastic bag.

Dropping the mouse and the paper into the bag, she slipped her feet into her gardening shoes and opened the kitchen door so she could put the bag in the outside bin.

Jake delayed matters with an enthusiastic morning welcome, dashing in and out of the door, turning circles this way and then that, yapping excitedly for his breakfast.

‘In a minute,’ Julia said, trying to make her way past him without her shins being bashed by his hard head or his whipping tail.

The cold air hit her, cutting straight through her pyjamas. She considered going back for another layer of clothing, but opted to hurry to the bin.

Picking up the bin lid, she tossed in the small rodent. She had a momentary urge to say a short blessing, but instead said, ‘Bye, little chap. Sorry it had to end this way.’ Closing the lid, she hurried back inside.

There was no going back to sleep. The cold had braced her fully awake, and besides, Jake was now convinced that breakfast was imminent. She went back to the coat hooks and took the long shapeless cardigan she used for gardening in the chill.

‘Ah, the glamorous life of the Cotswold retiree,’ she said out loud, looking down at her slip-on rubber waterproof shoes and her flannel pyjamas.

She pushed her arms into the sleeves of the cardigan.

‘All that Burberry. The cashmere jumpers. The fine tweeds. The shooting jackets. What even is a shooting jacket, come to think of it? Or a gun dog?’

At the word ‘dog’, Jake looked at her worriedly. What on earth was she on about, and what did it mean for him?

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Jake. I’m just out in the garden in the freezing cold in my pyjamas, tossing out dead rodents and talking to myself. Breakfast’s on its way.’

She fed the dog and the chickens. There were no eggs to collect. The girls’ laying had slowed down to next to nothing in the shorter days and colder weather, even with Brendan’s winterising efforts.

Back in the kitchen Julia turned on the kettle, shed her stylish garden-wear and went back to her bedroom to fetch her book and her handbag.

She would hit restart on Sunday morning, first with the full suite of word games, and then with the new prize-shortlisted novel Tabitha had pressed on her with glowing recommendations.

Ten minutes later, she was dressed and sitting at the kitchen table with a tray of tea.

She’d made herself a generous pot of Earl Grey, the first cup already poured and just cool enough for sipping.

On a plate next to her were two slices of wholemeal seed loaf, generously spread with butter – one topped with marmalade made by Pippa, and the other with Matthew and Hester’s honey.

Yes indeed, Sunday was looking up. Julia had nothing specific planned.

Sean had dropped her home after the cinema and gone back to his house to sleep.

He had Sunday plans with Jono – something that involved going to a very large shop to purchase some very specific electrical item for a speaker or some other music-related thing that Jono had requested as his Christmas gift.

She was pleased not to have such an errand herself, nor to have been roped into theirs.

She wiped her hands and got going on her games.

She always started with Wordle, which she knew was probably more luck than skill, but she persisted in thinking she was rather good at it.

She got the word in three goes, which was satisfactory.

She went on to Connections, and then the crossword puzzle, followed by Sudoku.

She considered topping up the teapot and making a third piece of toast, and taking to Facebook to lurk, spying on friends and acquaintances, but her inner goodie-goodie won out.

‘Okay, that’s enough,’ she told herself sternly. ‘It’s time to do something more useful.’

With a determined flourish, she dropped her phone into her handbag to seal the deal, even though she hadn’t quite decided what the ‘something more useful’ might be.

There was a small metallic sound, and at once she remembered the St Christopher pendant she’d picked up yesterday.

She felt around in her bag and pulled it out, turning it over idly.

It made a certain kind of sense that Lewis might have carried an image of the patron saint of travellers.

After all, he’d spent his life on the roads.

It was likely a precious lucky charm, a talisman.

There and then, Julia knew what the ‘something more useful’ would be.

Julia had never visited Lewis Band at home, but she knew where he’d lived.

His taxi, when not in use, was to be seen parked outside a pleasant, modern little house in Wood Grouse Lane.

Julia had often noticed the car, and the magnificent magnolia beside it that looked like any old, rather boring, tree until spring came, and then it was filled with an astonishing number of glossy pale blooms, seemingly overnight.

Passers-by stopped to admire it, or to pose for photographs or take selfies in front of it.

It would be months before the famous magnolia blooms would arrive, and the whole place had a gloomy, wintery air.

Julia slowed her walking pace as she neared the front gate, suddenly reluctant to engage with the house’s sadness, or with its owner, Lewis’s wife, Coral.

Julia didn’t know Coral beyond occasional superficial encounters at Second Chances, or the library, or at village meetings or get-togethers.

Standing in front of the gate now, looking at the front door with its cheerful holly wreath, she began to second-guess her decision to come over with the St Christopher.

Perhaps it was too soon to call on a new widow, whom she knew only in passing.

However, in the moment of Julia’s dithering, the door opened and Coral appeared in the doorway.

Although it was Sunday morning, Coral was smartly dressed in a rather formal, old-fashioned style, in what used to be called a trouser suit.

The matching top and bottom were a dark tan colour, and she wore a cream polo neck underneath.

Pearls adorned her throat and studded her ears.

Her face was made up and her golden-blonde hair looked as if it had been highlighted, and recently liberated from a set of hot rollers.

It had to be said that she looked remarkably good for a recently widowed woman.

But Julia recognised her type – some people fall apart in their grief, but others try to protect themselves with an armour of coping skills.

Coral Lewis was clearly one of the latter.

‘Hello?’

Coral voiced it as a question, and frowned as if trying to make out who was at the gate, or perhaps why they were there.

‘Coral, hello. It’s Julia Bird.’

‘Oh, Julia Bird. Hello.’

‘I’m here to…’ The conversation was awkward, conducted in raised voices across the little front garden. ‘Could I come in?’

There was a moment’s hesitation. Julia sensed some reluctance, but then Coral said, ‘Yes, of course.’

Julia opened the gate and made her way up the neat little path towards the front door. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Coral,’ she said, as she drew closer. ‘It’s a terrible, shocking thing.’

‘It is that,’ said Coral. ‘I don’t know what’s become of the world, I really don’t.’

‘I have something…’

‘Please, come inside.’

Carol had an odd, stiff manner which, together with the pointedly put-together outfit, seemed an attempt to ward off the uncertainty of life. In Julia’s experience, life’s uncertainty was guaranteed, and not to be deterred by matching two-piece outfits, or by pearls, or by a proper manner.

Julia followed her into the house, past numerous flower arrangements, some still with cards attached, and into the kitchen.

‘Tea? The kettle has just boiled.’

‘Only if you’re having one. I won’t stay.’