A missing signature, p.3
A Missing Signature, page 3
It’s a printed flyer from a local pub, with another piece of paper folded inside. I read the flyer first.
The Druid’s Drop
Winter Solstice Fancy Dress Party
Pagan-up for the longest night of revelling by our yule-log fire.
The pub’s logo is a tankard beneath a bead of golden liquid. Filling the rest of the flyer with words overprinted, is an image of a black figure in a hooded cape. Only the eyes are visible with a menacing gleam, reminding me of my masked attacker. I turn to the other piece of paper.
In handwriting I don’t recognise: For an audience with Her Highness wear black and white, dot dot dot.
Now I’m sure it’s from Nessa. She adores a good code. Written with her left hand? My nickname for her is Your High-ness. And when we chat about my mystery novels, we always talk about ‘joining the dots’.
I’m to meet her at the party, dressed up in polka-dots like Raider. The three dots hint at a story to tell. She didn’t write on the flyer itself because it would have linked the two.
After the boot on my door-knob, her caution feels personal.
“Do you need a hand with the tea?” Rupert calls from the living room.
“Thanks.”
I stash both pieces of paper in separate pockets. In case my hands are shaking, I let Rupert scoop tea leaves into the teapot and pour the boiling water.
“Are you distracted by finding that trinket on your door?” he asks. “It didn’t seem sinister. Or is your head caught up in a plot?”
“Both.” The plot being my best friend’s mysterious predicament.
I show Rupert the flyer.
“I found this while we were out walking and it’s given me an idea for my book. What if Piper Halliday has been invited to a winter solstice party but she doesn’t know what to wear?”
“Sounds like a good setting for a murder,” he jokes. “And if you’re looking for inspiration, Fancy Pants in Exeter will fall all over themselves to help Antigone Jones with her next novel. Dress up a mannequin. Take photos for their social media pages. You’d both get a lot of local publicity out of it.”
“I’ll keep them in mind, thanks.”
Would I find what I want there? A hooded cape? With polka-dots? Piper isn’t the only one who doesn’t know how to ‘pagan-up’.
“We could go together,” he says.
“That’s a kind offer, Rupert, but I might spend hours browsing. You’d get bored.”
“I don’t mean to the fancy-dress hire. Although I’ll need a costume myself. No, let’s go together to the Druid’s Droop.” He grins at the cheeky nickname for the pub. “They throw a good party. I’ll introduce you around. Let’s all drink some mead and chill for a while.”
I should have predicted this. So much for guarding Nessa’s secret. But could Nessa use Rupert’s help? Except such an elaborate rendezvous says she’s afraid. How much danger is she in? I’m committed to helping her, but it wouldn’t be fair to drop Rupert in it.
We carry the tea through to the coffee table.
“You spend too long with fictional characters,” he says. “You need to get out more and have some fun. Think of it as research.”
He’s worried about my mental health after too many dramas since I arrived in Topsham. And now Nessa is involving me in hers.
“If I say no, will you still go?”
“Probably. I look quite dashing in leggings and leather.”
In his sharp suits and pointed shoes, Rupert’s a bit of a show pony. It took me a while to see the man behind the façade. And after a rocky start, even Raider is giving him the benefit of the doubt. Almost.
If I’m going to bump into Rupert at the party, it will risk interrupting a meeting with Nessa. In a noisy bar, she and I could talk in private and not be overheard, but I envisage Rupert barging into our conversation, accompanied by an entourage of merry men. Instead, if he knows that Nessa is incognito and possibly under threat, he’ll keep an eye on us from a distance.
I tell him what’s happened so far.
“How long is it since you last heard from her?”
“About four months. She said she was in Sydney. Then silence.”
“And now you’ve seen her twice over here. Last week in London, looking enough like herself that you chased her. And this morning in the High Street, disguised as an American tourist and getting you to talk to her.” He’s staring at her handwritten message, intrigued by my interpretation. “If she’s going to write in code, why not use it to tell you what’s going on? Especially if she needs your help. Is it possible she’s just … playing games?”
“Nessa loves a joke, but I don’t think she’d frighten me like this. She hasn’t messaged me so whatever she’s sitting on, it’s big. She didn’t expect me to see her outside the auction house. That was chance. Then I called out her name and she took off. It suggests she’d been lying low, not expecting anyone to know her.”
“And today she hid behind a disguise. What’s your theory about why she’s hiding?”
I repeat my fears that she overheard something criminal on the plane and now she’s on the run. Or does that only happen in fiction?
“And how was her presence at the auction related to that?”
“I’m making this up, Rupert. She was leaving the auction rooms after the man announced that the Henry Moore was a fake. They sent everyone out for an early lunch and we saw Nessa.”
“If you meet up at the pagan party, it sounds like she’ll tell you the whole story.”
“I think that’s the other meaning of ‘dot dot dot’. Three dots make an ellipsis. In a printed sentence it shows that words are missing, or there’s a pause. And sometimes it’s used to … create suspense.”
We look at each other. Is this just a windup after all? Nessa playing a trick on her old friend, the incorrigible mystery writer and armchair sleuth? It’s possible.
“Do you want me to come to the party with you?” Rupert asks. “I can hover and make sure that the two single women in a private huddle don’t get hit on by the leering lads.”
“Would you do that, Rupert? Weren’t you looking for some fun?”
“Not if you or your friend are in trouble. I can also keep an eye out for anyone who might be stalking her.”
And stalking me?
“I feel safer already. Thank you.”
“And she’ll be safer too,” he says. “Because if she admits it’s all a practical joke, I’ll make sure you don’t kill her.”
Chapter 6
After Rupert leaves and Raider crawls under the desk for a snooze, I double-lock my front door and return to my manuscript. But the threat to Nessa sends my fingers to the website for Fancy Pants.
Velvet gowns, lace-up boots and fur capes look like standard garb for pagan parties. Not a polka-dot accessory in sight. Do I want to stand out or blend in? A bit of both. Be clearly visible to Nessa but not make a spectacle of myself.
If I’m going to have plenty of choice at the costume shop, I’d better get moving. Raider will be fine on his own, but he’s an asset when it comes to winning hearts. And I want an outfit that matches him!
Fancy Pants answers my call, and I launch into the fib I told Rupert.
“Hi, it’s Antigone Jones here. I’m doing some research for a scene in my latest mystery and I’m wondering if you could put together a fancy-dress costume for my main character. I’d like to try it on and wear it myself to an upcoming party.”
“Ooh,” gushes a female voice. “I’ve read about you in the Estuary Echo. Tiggy, isn’t it? I recognise your Australian accent. When would you like to come in? I’ll book you for a private fitting.”
“That’s very kind. Yes, call me Tiggy. When’s a good time? I’m available … now.”
“Now’s perfect. Lunch hours are busy and forget right after work. Friday afternoons are rush hour. What’s your size and theme and I’ll have a few things ready.”
“Thank you.” I tell her my size. “It’s a solstice party. Change of season, longest night, pagan rituals, earthy connections. And … this is going to sound weird. I need the outfit to match my dog in some way. He’s a Dalmatian/Labrador cross.”
“Spots?” She sounds a tad incredulous.
“Black on white. On an accessory that’s easy to see.”
“Let’s see what I can come up with. And if he’s well-behaved, bring the dog.”
My car is parked on the old boat ramp beside the boathouse. After checking the lane for suspicious loiterers, Raider and I race across and he jumps onto the backseat. Within fifteen minutes, I’ve navigated the narrow streets of Exeter with the charming old buildings I’ve come to love. Fancy Pants is a warehouse with several parking spaces out the front. The door says ‘Closed for Private Fitting’. She’s going to so much trouble, I remind myself to splash out and hire as many accessories as I can.
The woman who greets us introduces herself as Luna. One look at her multiple piercings and tattoos and I know I’m in good hands. Raider wins her over in a flash and settles on a stack of rags she’s made for him.
“We’re going to ignore the medieval pagan rack,” she says. “You’ll see yourself coming. Instead, I’ll pull things out from other collections to mix and match until we hit on the look you’re after.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I follow her across the vast space crowded with hanging racks to a rail along one wall. The sign above says ‘Wedding’.
“Don’t be shocked. If you want to match your dog, we need to start with white.”
“You do wedding dresses?”
“Who can afford to buy a frock to wear once? We rotate our stock so brides don’t double up. Feel free to take photos for your research.”
My research. Right. I pull out my phone.
“Basics first,” she says. “Spots later.”
She runs experienced fingers along the hangers, pulling out a selection of pants, both flared and tight, and tops, either sleek or frilly. Then she throws open the curtain to a large changing room, a shared space when the shop is busy.
When I’ve stripped off to my underwear, Luna notices my legs. “What happened to you?”
“Attacked with a whip, right outside my flat. He was wearing fancy dress. Like a demon. Mask and horns. They’re healing now and they itch like crazy.”
“That’s terrible. And you didn’t see his face?”
“Just his earring. A reptile. Silver.”
Luna says nothing more, and I start pulling garments off hangers.
We go for a streamlined look for the base layer: tight stretch pants that are soft against my welts, and a silky overtop with see-through sleeves and satin trim at the neck and cuffs. Next, a silver belt, its round buckle decorated with Celtic runes in gold and silver. Then a white feather bolero with a high collar.
“A snow queen,” I say, admiring myself in the mirror.
“Understated and classy. Shoes next.”
I had no intention of putting a dress-up scene in Piper’s latest mystery but this guided fancy-dress selection is already such fun, I change my mind. Thoughts of the dangers lurking for Nessa slip away.
In a box Luna finds a pair of silver ankle boots. They fit. I’m wondering about the essential polka-dots when the front door opens and a tall woman in an ankle-length coat and Isadora scarf sweeps in. She pulls off her beret to reveal a short spiky cut bleached as white as my bolero.
“A private fitting?” She looks from the sign to Luna, then to me. “Luna, we need to talk.”
“Kat, this is Antigone Jones, the mystery author who’s moved here from Australia.” Her voice is trembling. “She’s writing us into her next book, including this fitting.” That’s definite then. “Tiggy, this is my partner Kat.”
Kat’s tight mouth says she hasn’t thawed yet. She takes in my outfit. “Let me guess. The Ice Maiden?”
Luna snorts. “It’s a solstice party and she’s matching her outfit to her dog.” She points to the dozing Raider.
Kat turns to me. “Do you belong to the stalker outside?”
Chapter 7
Irrational panic tightens my throat until I see Rupert through the picture windows.
“Oh, he’s my friend. After a solstice outfit too. Can he come in?”
Kat strides to the front door and throws it open. “Welcome to Solstice Central.”
“Thank you.” Rupert steps inside. “Sorry to interrupt, Tiggy. I have a spare hour between house viewings. Looks like we had the same idea about getting in early for our costumes.”
I introduce him to the two women. Luna points to a chair where he sits down and shuts up.
She turns to Kat. “We need to accessorise Tiggy’s white-on-white with some spots like the dog.”
Kat goes to the shelf above the wedding rack and brings down a large box. She points at me. “Find a fascinator built on a simple headband. Luna can adapt it. Including spots.”
“That’s a lot of trouble,” I say.
“We do it all the time, Tiggy,” Luna gushes. “It’s why this job is so creative. A bit like yours.”
The wedding fascinators are white or silver. I look past the elaborate ones with pearls and tulle, hoping for something simple.
Meanwhile, Kat is lifting down another box. “Guinea fowl feathers,” she says to Luna.
Opening the box, Luna holds up a handful of feathers with black and white polka-dots. I suppress a squeal.
“I think they’re used for fly fishing,” Rupert says with a wink.
Luna asks Kat, “Feathers on both sides of the headband or just one side?”
“One side for the races, both sides for a pagan headdress. But don’t point them straight up or she’ll look like she’s going to a powwow.”
Kat is the expert and Luna is the charmer. A prickly but complementary team.
I’ve found a plain silver headband, with a twist of fine wire supporting a sprinkling of clear glass beads. Luna nods and I pass it to her.
“Add some grey twigs,” Kat says, “for antlers, the forest, whatever.”
Luna opens a box of useful twigs and gets busy with a bottle of glue. Meanwhile, Kat directs Rupert to the men’s corner.
While the glue on my headdress dries, Luna folds my costume and adds a can of white hair spray and some makeup.
“Use this pale foundation, and pink your cheeks with this blush. Use your normal mascara but build up extra layers. No lipstick. The bolero has zip pockets for your phone and keys.” She shows me the inner lining. “Safer in a crowd.”
“You guys think of everything.”
When I try on the final headband, the polka-dot feathers are striking against the grey twigs and the glass beads. Nessa will see them like a beacon.
As Luna calculates my hire fee, Rupert models his brown leggings, cape and chunky-knit beanie adorned with sticks for antlers.
Kat directs him to a chair in front of a mirror. “I’ll show you how to do your eyebrows.” She produces a brown mascara wand and sweeps it upwards across his eyebrows.
He tilts his head, admiring his slightly feral look.
“I’ll add this to the package,” Kat says.
“I really appreciate the personal touch, Luna,” I say. “How can I help you get some publicity?”
“Take a photo when you’re dressed to go. With the dog. And when you bring your costume back, let’s do up a mannequin for more photos, and both promote it on social media.”
Rupert and I head towards the exit with Raider. Luna overtakes us, but as she opens the door I glance towards the men’s section – and freeze. It’s my Krampus demon – on a mannequin – and in a flash I’m sweating as if he’s assaulting me all over again.
Rupert follows my gaze.
“It’s him.” I say. “My attacker hired his costume here.”
Luna’s smile has frozen too. When I described his ear-cuff, she recognised it.
“A group came in,” she says. “They looked a bit rough – dreadlocks – but otherwise OK. We didn’t have enough gorilla suits, so one of them settled for this coat with faux hair. I had no idea they were going to hide behind our costumes and … attack people.”
“They’re thugs,” Rupert says. “This one whipped Tiggy with a cat-o’-nine-tails.”
Luna’s on the verge of tears when Kat walks up. “We’re not social workers. We hire costumes and people return them. We don’t control what they do with them.”
But it was only a week ago and they’ll still have their contact details. Luna just took my phone number. The police can go from there. I sense Rupert having the same thought but after Kat’s stonewalling neither of us mentions it.
Now Kat’s holding the door open like a bouncer, allowing a gust of cold air to usher us out.
“Thank you both for your creativity this morning,” I say, failing to dispel the sour note ending our visit.
Outside, Rupert bundles the pooch into my car while I ring DC Beth Moore and leave a message.
Later, when I’ve parked beside the boathouse, I find a text from Luna with a photo of the Krampus mannequin.
They paid cash and left this number.
I forward the new details to the detective.
I spend the next few days jumping at every shadow in Punt Lane, wondering when he’s going to fulfil his threat to return to the scene of the crime: the place where my boot connected with his crown jewels.
He saw my face.
He knows where I live.
A couple of days later, Beth Moore updates me. Earlier on the evening of my attack, the Krampus group appeared on CCTV in a couple of places, but their masks prevent identification. The phone number from Fancy Pants is a prepaid and a dead-end.
“The silver ear-cuff is our best clue,” she says. “It sounds unusual.”
“But what if he comes back? He knows I live here.”
She thinks I’m paranoid. “I think it was random, Tiggy.”
I tell her about the note inside the boot decoration.
