*
As Eden had gone to a friend’s for tea and to watch a new release on Disney Plus, Blythe had dragged Vicky to the pub. Sitting in the bar with Vicky, Blythe tried to mentally tick off who in the village would know a bit more about Murray. Blythe had spent half her day ringing round local solicitors, trying to find out who was dealing with Murray’s estate, and she’d drawn a blank. She’d been reckless and stupid and now she had an excited buyer but potentially no way to sell him the house of his dreams.
Blythe held her head in her hands. ‘It’s a mess.’
‘Yep, it is,’ replied Vicky.
Blythe peeped through her fingers. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’m not being mean. I’m just agreeing with you. But it doesn’t mean you can’t sort it out.’
‘But if I can’t find who is managing Murray’s estate I’m screwed.’
‘I suppose they’ll have to sell the cottage at some point, so hopefully they’ll pick Happy Homes as their estate agent.’
‘I’m not that lucky,’ said Blythe. ‘But I will leave my details on the kitchen table in case someone comes to empty the place. Assuming there is someone.’
‘Somebody organised his funeral,’ said Vicky, making Blythe’s head snap up.
‘You’re right. If I can find out who that was then I would have the next of kin. You’re a genius.’ Blythe got on her phone but a few minutes later she realised there were no details about Murray’s funeral on the internet. It was another dead end. ‘Do you remember who told you that Murray was buried in Manchester?’
Vicky scrunched up her features in thought. ‘Could have been Sarvan. Not sure.’
Blythe looked at her empty glass and Vicky’s. ‘Do you want another drink?’
Vicky checked her watch. ‘Eden’s out until seven thirty. So, yes please. I’ll have a snowball.’ Vicky grinned at her.
‘You’re joking? When have you ever drunk snowballs?’
‘Never, but that’s why I want to try one. I’m branching out. Widening my horizons. I’ve lived in this village my whole life and it’s time to spread my wings.’
‘And a snowball will do that, will it?’
Vicky narrowed her eyes at her friend. ‘It’s a start.’
‘One snowball coming right up.’ Blythe took the empties back to the bar. It was busy and she had to wait.
One of the older regulars, Arthur, was sitting on a stool staring into his half-empty pint. ‘Hi, Arthur, how are you?’
‘I’m fine thank you,’ he said, although the deep sigh that followed told her otherwise.
‘You sure?’
‘Just feeling my age today. That’s all.’ Arthur was in his eighties but generally seemed in rude health. He strode around the village with the gusto of a much younger man. But tonight he did look deflated and frailer than usual. He pulled a smile from somewhere. ‘How about you?’
‘Not great.’
‘Oh dear, why ever is that?’ He turned his body towards her and looked genuinely interested.
‘I’ve sold a house.’
‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ asked Arthur.
‘Usually it is but I’ve done a really daft thing.’ She bit her lip.
‘Go on,’ he encouraged.
‘I found the perfect house for a buyer and the buyer is perfect for the house. He absolutely loves it. But I didn’t get the um… owner’s permission to sell it.’
