The Shattered Bauble by Rachel McLean, book 3 in the Jurassic Coast Mysteries series - Chapter 1

Annie Abbott danced from side to side on the pebbles near the breakwater as she addressed the group of swimmers. She might not have been their leader, but she liked things organised and was always happy to take charge.

“Brilliant!” she cried over a wind that threatened to whip away her voice. “You were all amazing!”

The group huddled in their dry robes, none of them paying any attention. Figgy muttered to herself, and Helen and Rosamund were exchanging grumbles.

Yes, it had been cold. Yes, swimming in Lyme Regis bay on the last day of November was possibly only for the foolhardy. But Annie was proud of herself, and of her friends.

Even if all she’d done was run in, flap her arms around a bit, then run out again. It was the cold-water exposure that counted.

“That will certainly be my last swim of the year,” Helen said as she shrugged on her coat. A deep shiver ran through her body, and she pushed out a shaking breath. “Freezing!”

“We’ll all be back here for the Lyme Lunge though?” Annie said, feeling suddenly sad. “We can’t miss that.”

The Lyme Lunge was an annual charity swim in Lyme Regis bay, on New Year’s Day. Even dipping a toe in counted as taking part.

“I’m up for it,” Figgy said.

Helen smiled. “Don’t worry, Annie. We wouldn’t miss that.”

“Good. Well then, if anyone does want to brave it between now and then, you know where I am.” She turned to Sally, one of two elderly twins who liked to join them. “It’s a shame Peg missed it.”

Sally shook her head. “She’s got a stinking cold.”

“Poor Peg.”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“I’ll give her a call later.”

Another eye roll. “Really. No need.” Sally looked around the group. “Anyone joining me for a warming drink in the Pilot Boat?”

Helen muttered her assent; the Pilot Boat was only a few doors away from the gallery she owned. The two women bid their farewells and made their way along the prom.

“I need to get home,” Figgy said. “Work to finish.”

Figgy did some kind of computer work that Annie didn’t understand. Most of her clients were American, so she worked odd hours.

“Let me know if you want to come out here again in December,” Annie said.

“Of course.” Figgy threw her a smile and turned towards Monmouth Beach and the caravan site beyond it where she lived.

Annie and Rosamund walked along the promenade together. The Christmas lights were up, and the pleasure gardens glowed with colour – reds, greens and oranges – uplighting the trees and lending them an otherworldly feel.

They reached Cobb Gate, where Rosamund still parked her car, despite the fact that when she’d parked it there earlier that year, a dead man had found his way inside. If that had happened to Annie, she’d be leaving her car somewhere else. But Annie’s home was close enough to walk. Even if a brisk wind was getting up, a wind she was glad had waited until they’d finished their swim.

Annie looked at Rosamund. Her friend had been quiet during the swim.

“Is your ex in town yet?” she asked.

Rosamund sighed. “David messaged me yesterday to say he’d arrived at the cottage he’s renting. He’s got his new girlfriend with him. Shari. I haven’t seen them.”

David had abandoned Rosamund and their teenage son Cameron the previous year for his much younger personal assistant. Rosamund had kept it from her friends for months but seemed better since opening up.

“How are you feeling about it?” Annie asked, watching her friend carefully.

Rosamund straightened, her face inexpressive. “My concern is just for Cameron.”

I bet. “Of course,” Annie said.

“It’s been difficult for him.”

“Well, you can at least give David a piece of your mind, now he’s here.”

Rosamund shook her head. “That won’t help Cameron.”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

Annie wondered what she’d have done if her Ted had done something like that when he was alive. She was pretty sure Tina and Naomi would have given him pieces of their own minds.

Rosamund pulled out her car keys and gave a theatrical shiver. “Anyway…”

Annie gave her arm a pat. “You take care, Rosamund love. I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks.” Rosamund hurried away to her car. Annie watched her drive off up Broad Street, a small waving figure inside the huge BMW SUV.

The Millside Pottery was just past Helen’s gallery, near Lyme Regis’s old mill. Annie headed towards it, admiring the Christmas lights swinging in the gathering wind. She walked up Coombe Street, little more than an alleyway, and took a left turn into Mill Lane.

As she turned the corner, she was blinded by approaching headlights. She stepped back and threw a hand up in front of her face.

“Turn them down, idiot!” she muttered.

The driver hadn’t seen her. She tucked herself in against the side wall of one of the houses as the car sped past, the driver oblivious.

“Slow down!” she cried, knowing her voice would be inaudible above the sudden onslaught of rain.

The car stopped at the junction. Briefly, the driver turned towards her. As he saw her, his eyes widened.

Annie grunted. “Idiot!” she shouted.

She’d seen the driver before but couldn’t place him. He was grey-haired, driving a silver BMW.

Annie didn’t know anyone who drove a silver BMW. But she didn’t know everyone who lived in Lyme Regis, at least, not by sight. This was probably someone who worked in one of the businesses surrounding the mill.

The car picked up speed as it turned the tight corner, showering her with mud.

“Thanks,” she spat. “Thanks a lot.”

She continued towards the pottery, blinking against the after-image the headlights had left behind her eyelids. “Idiot,” she repeated.

Once in the courtyard outside the old stone mill buildings, she forced herself to slow down. Peg didn’t need her turning up all grumpy like this.

“It’s just a bit of mud, Annie Abbott. Nothing you can’t cope with.”

The courtyard, a lovely place to sit in the summer, was desolate now. The windows of the brewery, café and sewing school were all dark.

Annie turned towards the pottery and its attached shop. There were green and red fairy lights around the display window, but no other lights visible inside. She tugged at the door. It rattled but didn’t open.

She knocked on the glass. Nothing. She pulled out her phone and dialled Peg’s mobile.

She looked up at the dark windows above the shop. “Peg!” she called over the wind as she waited for her friend to pick up. “I’m outside!”

Rain trickled down the back of her neck, making her regret not pulling up the hood of her dry robe. It was too late now; the inside of the hood would be a puddle. She wriggled to dislodge some drops.

Don’t be a wimp, woman. Just half an hour ago you were neck-deep in water.

The phone was still ringing out. Maybe Peg was asleep.

Or maybe…

Annie hammered louder, not caring if she cracked the glass with her fist. She moved to the window, lifted her hand and peered inside.

The shop was lined with wooden shelving displaying crockery, houseware and artwork. In the dim light, Annie could make out a central table, currently occupied by display pieces but sometimes used for demonstrations and classes. She’d been meaning to bring her grandkids down here.

The room was still. No movement.

Annie heard a bang from behind her.

A door slamming? Maybe a wheelie bin tipping over in the wind. Or had that car come back?

No. She hadn’t heard an engine.

She looked round. There were footpaths leading away from here in multiple directions, a rabbit warren of pathways. Charming in daylight, but ominous now.

She listened. Silence, apart from the wind and rain.

You’re imagining things, you daft old bat.

But she had to check on Peg. Her friend wasn’t responding to her phone calls or door-hammering, and that worried her.

Annie circled the building and stopped. The side door to the pottery was ajar.

The source of that bang?

She approached, swallowing.

“Peg! It’s Annie! I’m coming in!”

She eased the door further open and slid inside. In the dim light from outside, she could see stacked boxes and rough shelves. In the corner, lights winked on dark equipment. The way ahead was pitch black.

Annie felt around by the door and found a light switch. She pressed it, her heart thumping in her chest.

An overhead strip light flickered on, illuminating racks of bowls, plates and ornaments in various stages of production, and the kiln in the far corner.

Annie took a step forward. Her foot brushed against something. She clasped a hand over her mouth to keep from yelping.

She looked down. Someone was lying at her feet, slumped around one of the racks.

“Peg?” she whispered.

She dropped to the floor and grabbed her friend’s hand. It was cold.

No.

Annie pulled back. Something caught her eye, lying on the floor next to her friend.

A terracotta jug, smashed in two.

No.

“Peg,” Annie repeated, but it was little more than a squeak.

She shifted her fingers to Peg’s wrist, feeling for a pulse.

Nothing.

Was Peg dead?