Summer at the Star and Sixpence Read online

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2016

  A CBS company

  Copyright © Tamsyn Murray, 2016

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Tamsyn Murray to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-5006-7

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For Brid and Peter, AKA the bee and bunny

  JoJo and Jamie are delighted to invite you

  to celebrate their wedding

  at St Mary’s Church, Little Monkham, Shropshire

  and afterwards at the Village Green outside the

  Star and Sixpence, Sixpence Lane, Little Monkham

  on Saturday 4 June at 1.30 p.m.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  The renovations were not going exactly to plan, Nessie Blake decided, as muffled swearing floated down the stairs from the attic rooms. With a sigh, she got up from the tiny kitchen table and closed the door that led to the landing. Why had she let her sister talk her into opening the rooms above the Star and Sixpence to guests? The project had already overrun, although it was probably better that they’d discovered the missing roof tiles sooner rather than later, and was costing more than they had originally budgeted. Didn’t they have enough to do making sure that the pub ran smoothly, without the added stress of dust, clumping boots and roaring testosterone? Sam insisted it would all be worth it eventually but Nessie wasn’t so sure.

  Her natural instinct was to take things slowly but, as usual, Sam had bulldozed ahead and booked in an overnight wedding party for the start of June, less than a month away. It was too soon, Nessie thought, cradling her coffee as the curses got louder. They’d only moved into the pub six months ago, when they had inherited it from their estranged father after his death, and heaping on extra responsibility now felt like running before they could walk.

  Nessie glanced at the clock; she’d have to go downstairs soon. Joss the cellarman had his own key and usually let himself into the bar, but Nessie liked to be around to say good morning; although more and more frequently she found herself bumping into him on the landing as he came out of Sam’s room after staying the night. He never showed the least sign of embarrassment but Nessie felt her own cheeks flame every time. It wasn’t that she disapproved of the relationship – in fact, she’d never seen Sam so happy – but running into an employee dressed in only your sister’s dressing gown wasn’t something they’d covered on the pub management course she’d done.

  There was a crash from upstairs, followed by a thud and a furious shout. Nessie gulped down her last mouthful of coffee and took refuge in the bar, where it seemed less likely the ceiling would fall on her head. There wasn’t much to be done – Tilly the barmaid and Joss made an efficient team and had done most of the work after closing time the night before. Nessie busied herself clearing out the wide hearth, sweeping out the ashes and setting the fire again ready for the evening. She stood, glancing out of the diamond-leaded windows as she moved to take the ashes outside. Bright sunshine played over the village green, dazzling her eyes with emerald and gold. After the threat of snow in March, it had been a mild April and a warm May so far – some customers had ventured into the beer garden around the back of the pub to enjoy the blue skies and sun, although the evenings were still chilly once night fell. Last night, Owen Rhys, the blacksmith from the forge next door, had stopped by with his son, Luke, and Nessie had spent so long watching them that her sister had wryly joked she was worse than a teenager mooning over her boyfriend.

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ Nessie had said, cringing inside. Did thirty-four-year-old women have boyfriends?

  ‘Whatever you want to call him then,’ Sam replied with a grin. ‘You can’t keep your eyes off him.’

  Embarrassed, Nessie had found some work to get on with and when she’d glanced out again, Owen and Luke were gone. The truth was, she didn’t really know where she stood with Owen. They’d been on one date since Valentine’s Day and Nessie thought it had gone well, but between the renovations at the pub, the demands of the forge and a nasty bout of a winter sickness bug from Luke, they’d somehow failed to get together again. Now they were in a sort of friendly no-man’s-land and Nessie didn’t know how to get out. It didn’t stop her looking at him, though, along with half the other women in the village; with his dark good looks and Welsh lilt, Owen Rhys was arguably Little Monkham’s most fanciable man, and Nessie knew she’d been the subject of several disapproving, envious looks once word got out they were dating. Except they weren’t, Nessie reminded herself, as she dragged her attention from the sunlit green. You couldn’t call a few drinks at a nearby pub dating . . .

  ‘You wouldn’t believe the traffic.’ Sam burst through the front door, her arms full of catering supplies. ‘Mick McCluskey’s tractor shed its load up by the bridge. The queue goes back at least half a mile.’

  Nessie smiled. ‘It could be worse. It could be the M25.’

  Sam shuddered. ‘Point taken.’ She glanced around the bar. ‘No Joss?’

  ‘Not yet, which is a shame because I wanted him to speak to the builders, see how things are going up there. There’s been a lot of shouting this morning.’

  Her sister dropped the packages onto the bar. ‘Why don’t you ask them? It’s 2016, not 1816.’

  ‘I tried,’ Nessie said, pulling a face. ‘They did their best to skirt around the question and then practically patted me on the head and told me to run along.’

  Sam stared at her. ‘Bloody cheek – who do they think is paying for all this work? Give me a hand to unload the car and I’ll go and sort them out.’

  Nessie tried not to mind the implied criticism. Why had she let the builders patronise her? Why hadn’t she stood up to them and demanded to know what was going on, the way Sam was about to? She was the older sister after all, although maybe that was part of the problem; Sam was twenty-nine and turned heads. Nessie was four years older and although she had the same green eyes as her sister, the similarities ended there. They had different personalities too: Sam was confident and together, whereas Nessie was naturally cautious and reserved. All in all, Nessie knew she wasn’t in the same league. Even her husband, Patrick, had stopped fancying her by the end of thei
r relationship. No wonder the builders barely noticed when she spoke to them: she might as well be invisible.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Nessie said, squaring her shoulders. ‘Why don’t we unload the car and then go and speak to them together? At the very least I can hold your coat.’

  ‘Deal,’ Sam said. ‘And if they don’t play ball, we’ll deploy the F-bomb.’

  For a moment, Nessie frowned; Sam wasn’t scared of swearing but she didn’t usually plan it in advance. Then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, you mean Franny.’

  ‘Yep. There isn’t a builder between here and Birmingham that isn’t terrified of her. If the threat of Franny Forster doesn’t get them working, nothing will.’

  Nessie smiled wryly. The formidable postmistress was also chairwoman of the Little Monkham Preservation Society and not much happened in the village without her knowledge. Joss swore she’d been a Cold War spy and Nessie wasn’t entirely sure he was joking. She certainly had her finger on the pulse on Little Monkham and all the local workmen knew not to cross her. ‘Rather them than me,’ Nessie said.

  ‘Although I think she might have mellowed a bit since Valentine’s Day,’ Sam said. ‘Whatever old Henry Fitzsimmons is doing, he needs to keep doing it.’

  And that was another thing, Nessie thought: how could Cupid’s arrow have struck fearsome Franny and cantankerous Henry but have entirely missed her and Owen? It didn’t seem fair.

  The faint tinkle of broken glass drifted down from above. Sam pushed up her sleeves and made for the stairs. ‘On second thoughts, the unloading can wait. There are some builders’ arses up there that need a good kicking.’

  The title of champion at the monthly Monday Night Quiz was always hotly contested. The Little Monkham regulars viewed teams made up of visitors from other villages in much the same way Nessie supposed Boudicca must have regarded the Romans; invaders to be stopped and quite possibly crushed at all costs. They hadn’t quite come to blows yet but some stiffly worded remarks had been traded. Nessie tried to ensure that Father Goodluck from St Mary’s Church was there whenever possible, to exert a peaceful and calming presence. Unsurprisingly, Franny’s team was the most competitive of the lot.

  The questions were set by a TV quiz researcher Sam knew and she did her best to secure a celebrity quiz master each month too. Her previous career in PR had given her a little black book most publicists would kill for and since the sisters had launched the quiz in March, they’d had the sneering ex-host of late-night TV show News Tonight and a return visit from swoon-worthy actor Nick Borrowdale, the star of the BBC’s Sunday night flagship drama, Smugglers’ Inn. Nessie was sure the female quizzers hadn’t played with full concentration that night; even Franny had seemed distracted, a little less cut-throat. Nessie smiled at the memory. Perhaps they should ask Nick to pose the questions every month.

  Their host tonight was razor-sharp comedian, Shania Khan, and Nessie was looking forward to her banter enormously. As always, they’d had to squeeze some extra tables in to accommodate all the teams and Sam had refused entry to a couple of late-arriving teams, although she’d said they were more than welcome to watch from the bar and answer the questions unofficially. An expectant hush settled over the pub as Shania raised the microphone.

  ‘Okay, teams, welcome to the Star and Sixpence Monday Night Quiz,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. ‘Answer sheets ready, biros steady? Then let’s do it.’

  She worked her way through the first round. Whispered conversations broke out after each question and some fierce hissing could be heard over on Franny’s table. She was sitting with her usual team-mates: Henry Fitzsimmons, Martha White from the bakery, and Owen. Nessie didn’t envy them – ever since the team had won the very first quiz, Franny had been cracking the whip and chasing further glory. In April, they’d been beaten into second place by a team from Purdon and Owen had laughingly admitted to Nessie that Franny had scheduled cramming classes to ensure they retook the title this month.

  ‘Round two – geography,’ Shania called. ‘Question one: There is actually only one lake in the Lake District. What is it called?’

  Heads beetled together and murmurs filled the room. Nessie took the opportunity to glance over at Owen. He was whispering to his team-mates, his dark eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Martha didn’t appear to be listening; she was staring at Owen with a dreamy expression on her face. Nessie couldn’t say she blamed her – with his gentle Welsh lilt, almost everything Owen said sounded like poetry.

  Shania lifted the microphone again. ‘Question two: There are two landlocked countries in South America. Can you name their capital cities?’

  The questions went on. The music round was always entertaining – this time, their quiz setter had sourced ten advert jingles and the teams had to identify both the product and the decade the advert had first aired. Sam and Nessie patrolled the pub for this round; no one had been caught cheating yet but Franny demanded they were extra vigilant against mobile phone use. By the time they’d reached the final round, Franny’s team was neck and neck with Purdon.

  ‘Our last round is history,’ Shania announced, glancing over at the scores. ‘It’s looking very tight at the top. I’m told that in the event of a tie, the quiz will be settled by a duel to the death. So, for the sake of Sam and Nessie, let’s try to make sure that doesn’t happen. Blood is tough to clean off a wood-beamed ceiling.’

  The questions were the hardest yet, Nessie thought. Even Henry looked stumped a few times and he was the village history buff. Relieved conversations ensued once the last answer sheets were collected and teams began to talk to each other, sharing their answers. Franny sat straight-backed and rigid, waiting in dignified silence. Nessie shared a conspiratorial smile with Owen. She was meant to be neutral but she couldn’t help hoping all the extra revision had paid off.

  The sheets were marked and checked by scorers of unimpeachable good character; this time Father Goodluck and a fellow vicar from a neighbouring church had been enlisted. A tense silence fell over the crowd as Shania held up the microphone. ‘I’m pleased to say that we have a clear winner, so no blood will be spilled tonight. In third place, we have – and I’m not sure I can read the team name without groaning – Agatha Quiztie.’ Cheering broke out from one of the tables, everyone else clapped politely. ‘In second place we have . . . Purdon Warriors. And in first place, it’s The Inquizitors!’

  The Purdon Warriors put their heads in their hands while Franny’s table celebrated. Martha and Owen high-fived and Nessie was amused to see Franny tentatively copy the action with Henry, although it was possibly the most awkward celebration she’d ever witnessed. She made her way over to congratulate them.

  ‘Well done,’ she said warmly, holding up the trophy. ‘Who’s having it this time?’

  Franny reached out and took it. ‘It will be on display in the Post Office, the same as before.’

  Nessie bit the inside of her cheek and avoided Owen’s gaze; woe betide anyone who came between Franny and her prize.

  Bill, the captain of the Purdon Warriors, came across and held out his hand to each winning team member. ‘Congratulations,’ he said in a grudging tone. ‘You know, our local pub has a quiz night too. Maybe you’d like to come to our home ground, see how well you do there?’

  Franny’s eyes gleamed. ‘Is that a challenge?’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon it is,’ Bill said, raising his chin. ‘Last Thursday of the month, if you’re not too chicken.’

  ‘We’ll be there,’ snapped Franny. She waited until he had gone back to his own table before rounding on the rest of her team. ‘This means war. Cramming sessions every Wednesday and you’ll be set homework, too. There’s no way I’m losing to that jumped-up little general.’

  Nessie leaned closer to Owen. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, trying not to laugh. ‘I think we’ve created a monster.’

  ‘It wasn’t you,’ he murmured back. ‘Wait until the Britain’s Best Village competition gets going in August. She takes competitiven
ess to a whole new level then.’

  Nessie watched Franny drawing up a battle plan on a spare answer sheet and grimaced. ‘I can hardly wait.’

  Chapter Two

  Sam’s mobile rang as she sat on the living-room sofa after lunch on Friday, poring over a copy of Woman and Home in search of inspiration for the guest rooms. She glanced without interest at the screen – gone were the days when she was ruled by her phone – and saw with a frown that it was the same City number that had called several times over the last few days. PPI calls, she assumed, or a salesperson; certainly no one she knew. She’d changed the number when she left her PR job in London and only a handful of people had the new one. Whoever was calling, it wasn’t a friend. She blocked the number and went back to her magazine. Could they get away with a roll-top bath in one of the rooms, she wondered, admiring a scroll-footed tub in one of the glossy photos. Or was it asking for a flooded ceiling?

  Her phone buzzed and rang again. Sam glared at it, noting the similar but not quite the same number on its screen. ‘Go away,’ she muttered, hitting the mute button.

  Almost immediately, it vibrated and rang once more. She stared at it, uneasiness creeping over her. An automatic redialler? she thought. A lot of cold-call companies used them; it must be something like that. She tapped the number into Google – surely she wasn’t the only person being harassed by them. But the search returned no definitive hits. Either the caller was targeting her specifically or they were minnows at whatever business they were in. Sighing in irritation, Sam closed the browser window and blocked the second number.

  When it rang again, something snapped in Sam. She snatched up the handset. ‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.’

  There was a pause. ‘Sam? Is that you?’

  Sam felt as though someone had tipped a bucket of icy water down her back. It was a man’s voice, well spoken and perfectly pitched. The last time she’d heard it, it had been telling her it couldn’t live without her. And then she’d discovered what a liar and a cheat it belonged to and she’d never wanted to hear it again. In fact, she’d banned its owner from ever contacting her again. Right after she’d been encouraged to leave her job and warned to stay away from the press.