by JJ Marsh
Gabriel shrugged and shook his head. “No idea. I don’t have an alibi for Friday as I work alone in remote locations. No one can vouch for me. I was at the St Nicholas Day parade with my mother on Saturday afternoon and in Brixham the rest of the weekend. The police are checking my ‘story’ and ‘looking into my background’. They don’t intimidate me. I’m prepared to be honest with you and give you my view on what happened, DI Stubbs, because you treat me with respect. Just take this at face value. I hated Vaughan Mason’s guts. I’m glad he’s gone somewhere he can’t treat anyone else the way he treated my mother, and many other women before her. He was scum.
“But I don’t get to choose who lives and who dies. You said I have motive, means and opportunity. That is true. I could poison the old git with a mushroom, but will that give my mother her dignity back? Or any of the other women he treated as disposable? And...”
Beatrice waited, her nerves alert. “And?” she prompted.
His eyes flicked up to the rear-view mirror. “Part of my job is maintaining the ecological balance of the forests. That means chopping down trees and sometimes killing animals to control the population. If I have to kill something, I do it as fast and humanely as I can. No animal should suffer. Nor should any human. Poisoning is cruel and unnecessary, a method used by cowards who don’t stick around to see the agony they have caused. If I was going to kill Vaughan Mason, I’d have told him to his face why he deserved it, then shot the arrogant bastard in the head with my twelve-bore.”
Seconds ticked by as Beatrice laced her hands behind her neck, leaned back and stared at the torn fabric of the Land Rover’s roof, turning it all over in her mind.
“Mushrooms are a specialist interest. You’d know about them because of your job. Is there anyone else in the area who would know where to find and how to use that kind of toxic fungus you describe?”
Gabriel’s eyes unfocused for some seconds. “One or two at the university for sure. But not many locals, at least not any more. The last woman who knew everything in the forest was Hannah Gwynne but she’s been dead for two years.”
“Mrs Gwynne?” Tanya’s voice had a note of incredulity. “You don’t mean Susie’s mother? Wasn’t she a bit ... off the grid?”
“That’s the one.” Gabriel’s smile came from a distant place. “A formidable woman who could have taught us a lot if anyone was prepared to listen.” He looked out the window at the lengthening shadows and encroaching dusk. “DI Stubbs, I need to get on the road. If you have any more questions, give me a call. Tanya, cheers for lunch. See you around, yeah?”
Beatrice scooped up Huggy Bear and held out her hand. “Thank you so much for all you’ve shared with me. One last thing before you go. Could you tell me again the name of the poisonous mushroom?”
“Sure. Amanita virosa. Most people call it The Destroying Angel.”
Chapter Fifteen
It took Adrian twenty minutes to get Catinca to open the door and a further fifteen before she would speak to him. He used every means of apology he could think of and finally she hissed at him like a feral cat.
“Shut up! Shithead!”
He closed his mouth and looked at his shoes. His role was to take the tongue-lashing with humility. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Is not all about you! Beatrice been weeks working on arrangements, I spent loads of time making atmosphere perfect and Will found dream honeymoon! And all you can do is throw toys out of pram every time we have hiccups. Sick of it, mate! One more time and you can do crappy wedding on your own.”
“I know and I am truly sorry. It must be nerves. I don’t usually overreact like this.”
Catinca’s eyebrows shot up and she managed to look down her nose despite being a foot shorter than him.
“OK, OK,” he admitted. “I’m not the best at handling stress. I really couldn’t cope without your advice and help and Beatrice’s practical good sense. I’m lucky to have you on my side.”
“Lucky to have Will an’ all.”
“I am and I wake up every day grateful to have met the only person in the world who could put up with me. I do want to marry him and I will stop seeing omens where they don’t exist. The wedding is happening on Sunday whether we have a photographer or not, even if the snow melts, even if we have to put Beatrice in a burkha to avoid confrontation.”
“On Sunday, we don’t need no burkha. But what we doing about tomorrow?” Catinca demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“Rehearsal, mate. Five o’clock tomorrow, we meet Missus Harding and registry bloke. Beatrice is matron of honour. She gotta be there.”
“Oh my God, you’re right. Don’t panic, we can sort this out. Pam said she leaves at five-thirty. That’s fine. We’ll talk to her and the registrar first, and get Beatrice to arrive a bit late, maybe quarter to six. Then a quick walk through and no one will be any the wiser.”
Catinca twisted her lips sideways. “Cutting it fine, innit?”
“Yes, but we can pull it off. We just have to work together.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She sounded unconvinced. “But for photos, I got an idea. We get all guests to take own pictures and share online. We pick the best and make album.”
Adrian nodded, deep in thought, recalling all the dreadful drunken images shared on Facebook of friends’ weddings. “That might work. Perhaps if we ask people to upload to a shared folder and we can choose the ones we want made public.”
“You are such a snob. Whatever. I’m going to hairdresser in half an hour. You wanna call Matthew and plan tomorrow? I reckon team meeting tonight at six without Beatrice. Maybe not here either – too many gossipers. Know a different pub?”
“No, but I’ll find one. Yes, good point to keep Beatrice out. Otherwise someone will say something they shouldn’t. Why are you having your hair done this afternoon? The wedding’s not for three days.”
Catinca whirled around, her hands on her hips. “In case they cock it up! Still got two days to fix, innit?” She snatched up her satchel and with a shake of her head flounced out of the door.
Adrian sat on the bed for several seconds, her words echoing in his head. ‘Still got two days to fix, innit?’ He reached for his mobile and dialled Matthew.
At ten past six that evening, Adrian and Matthew entered the bar of The Star Inn to find Will, Catinca, Tanya, Marianne, Rose and Maggie settled at a large table in the bay window. Adrian’s surprise at seeing the septuagenarians present was nothing compared to his double take when he saw Catinca’s hair. Long platinum ringlets cascaded over her shoulders with a thin plait in the same gleaming silver circling her head. She caught his expression and grinned.
“They didn’t cock it up, mate. On Sunday, I’m The White Queen.”
“You look amazing!” Adrian breathed.
“She always looks amazing,” said Will. “Where’s Beatrice?”
Matthew heaved himself into a chair next to Tanya. “At home. I told her I needed to run a few errands and would be back for dinner at eight. I told no untruths, but may have alluded to visiting Mungo. I have to say, I find all this skulking around most uncomfortable and would prefer a degree of honesty. I really think if we explain the situation, Beatrice would keep a low profile until Sunday. Thereby upsetting no one but involving no deceit.”
“I’d vote for that policy,” Will added.
Marianne and Tanya both shook their heads.
“Nope, that’s not on.” Tanya’s tone brooked no argument. “If we’re telling lies to keep them apart, we tell them both lies. Otherwise we’re being unfair and favouring one over the other.”
Marianne chimed in. “It might not make sense to you, but Tan and I have grown up this way, trying to be equally balanced. We never spill secrets or share information with one and not the other. It’s a question of fairness.”
“Very well,” Matthew groaned. “So how do we manage tomorrow night?”
“Before we get to that, I have some good news,” Will poured two glasses of w
ine for Adrian and Matthew. “We have an official photographer.” He indicated one of the little old ladies, Adrian couldn’t recall her name.
“Really? That’s wonderful, umm...”
“Maggie. Maggie Campbell. I’m an experienced photographer, more of landscapes than weddings to tell the truth, but I will do my best to take a beautiful set of images to record your day. If I could have a wee peek at the venue first, it would be a great help. Could Rose and I come along to tomorrow’s rehearsal? Scope out the place and choose some backdrops?”
Her soft face with sharp blue eyes reminded Adrian of a mouse, with its slightly twitchy nose testing the air. He recalled their conversation on Monday, where both women swore a fierce loyalty to Beatrice. It wasn’t what he’d planned, but his instinct told him it would be very different to any of his friends’ wedding albums.
“That is incredibly kind of you, Maggie. Of course you should come to the rehearsal. We just need to keep quiet in front of...”
“Beatrice. Don’t worry yourself, Adrian,” said Rose. “We’ll keep out of her way. Maggie wants to go shopping in Exeter and now that Grace has returned to New York, Matthew has very kindly given me permission to have a look round Vaughan’s cottage. Just in case I want something to remember him by.”
Maggie gave a snort of disapproval but Rose ignored her. “Anyway, we won’t see Beatrice before we turn up at Silverwood Manor. And then we’ll all have far too much on our minds to chat.”
Adrian sighed and gave both women a huge, genuine smile.
“Our remaining problem is getting Beatrice to the rehearsal early enough for it to be worthwhile but late enough for her to miss Mum,” said Marianne.
“I suppose I shall have to get lost,” Matthew said, and took a sip of wine. “She’s always telling me I couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag, so I’ll head off in the wrong direction, take a few wrong turns, park up and study the map until I get a message from one of you saying the coast is clear.”
“Yeah, that sounds classic Professor Bailey,” Tanya smiled. “You didn’t bring the car tonight, did you? You know the police will be extra hot on drink-driving over Christmas.”
Matthew leaned over and patted her hand. “Taxi here and I’ll be driven back home with a real live policeman behind the wheel. Your old dad’s not half as daft as he pretends.”
Adrian glanced at Will, pleased to see an affectionate smile on his face. It was all going to work out beautifully.
The White Queen clapped her hands and opened her laptop.
“Good. That’s sorted. Right, let’s organise schedule from now till wedding. Synchronised watches timing. Who’s where, doing what and who needs to know? I got spreadsheet prepared and need few answers. Tanya, what we doing with Luke as ring bearer?”
Chapter Sixteen
Destroying Angel.
Beatrice slipped a shawl over her shoulders and continued scribbling at the kitchen table. If Hannah Gwynne knew poisonous mushrooms, so did her daughter. Susie may have become a respectable landlady, but for many years, she had been an unmarried mother, living on the charity of her surviving parent. Until she met Gordon Hancock.
Gordon Hancock. Like Matthew, he was eleven years older than his partner. Unlike Matthew, he was married and had a stepchild. He and Susie seemed happy enough, even if they argued about money. Their daughter Francesca couldn’t wait to get away from the village and ran off to college the minute she finished school. Nothing unusual there; bright lights attract country kids.
Susie had means and opportunity. Gordon had motive. Yet the idea of the pair working together to snuff out Vaughan Mason didn’t sit right. She, weary and hopeless; he, drunk and hopelessly optimistic. This was as far from Bonnie and Clyde as one could imagine. But if not a partnership, could either have acted alone?
Gabriel Shaw. Beatrice went through the motions, elbowing aside her gut feeling that anyone Huggy Bear adored could never be a killer. He admitted his hatred of Vaughan. He knew the exact time frame of the poison and the habits of the victim. His mother had been repeatedly humiliated by the man and his anti-cruelty statement could have been nothing more than an attempt to impress his old crush.
Heather Shaw. She knew Vaughan better than most and had an axe to grind. Motive, means and opportunity were obviously a given but what did she have to gain? If she was to be believed, she had expected him to come back.
Mungo Digby. Innocence claimed by best friends’ status. He’d lived in the region for his entire life so might have some knowledge of local flora. The thought of Mungo poisoning Midge for fear of some hypothetical book was ridiculous to Beatrice. But academic reputations were delicate creatures and...
The shrill ring of the telephone woke Huggy Bear, who sat up with a startled bark.
“Hello?”
“Beatrice. Gordon here, from The Angel. Susie suggested you might be up for a chat.”
“Hello, Gordon. Yes, happy to oblige. Shall I come to the pub?”
“Not much privacy here. What do you say to a quick snifter at The Star?”
“Suits me. What time?”
“How’s half six?”
“See you then. Thanks, Gordon.”
“Thank you.”
The car park of The Star, surprisingly busy for early doors on a Thursday, was riddled with potholes. Easy enough to avoid unless the ground was covered in four inches of snow. Beatrice chose one of the three spaces in the lane, in front of a mud-spattered Land Rover Defender she recognised as belonging to Gabriel Shaw. She sat in the car, wondering if she should call Gordon and relocate their meeting. She’d really rather not encounter anyone they knew, but that was close to impossible round here. Having their conversation in one of their vehicles was inappropriate, going for a walk would be unpleasantly cold, so she would simply have to acknowledge Gabriel and continue with her purpose.
A car pulled up outside the pub and Gordon Hancock emerged from the passenger seat. He leaned back in to speak to the driver, then slammed the door with a laugh and thumped on the roof. The driver gave a pip-pip of the horn and drove off into the night.
Beatrice opened her door to accost Gordon before he made for the pub. “Gordon? I’ve just this minute arrived. You are punctual.”
“Can’t keep a lady waiting,” he said, with an awkward bow. With a public bar between them, there had never previously been any kind of physical greeting.
She pulled on her gloves and locked the car. “Let’s go inside. Just a word of warning, I think that’s Gabriel Shaw’s Land Rover. Best we say hello to him then retreat to a corner.”
Gordon looked over his shoulder at the dirty vehicle, still warm enough to melt the snowflakes landing on its bonnet. “Nah, that’s not Gabriel’s. Not a local number plate. Hey, Beatrice, you all right to give me a lift home? One of the punters dropped me off, see, and Susie’s behind the bar on her own so she can’t fetch me. Is that OK?”
They began walking up the path to the pub. “Of course I can give you a lift. It’s a detour of no more than five minutes. But if Susie’s behind the bar, why didn’t you drive?”
“Can’t risk the breathalyser.” He opened the door. “After you.”
They entered the pub, its ambience full of warmth and voices, and made for the bar. Gordon held up a hand. “I’ll get the drinks. My way of saying thank you for a bit of inside knowledge. What’s your poison?”
She froze for a moment then her thoughts caught up. “A white wine spritzer with soda and ice. Thank you.” She looked around the room for a spare table and saw the party in the bay window. Adrian, Will, Matthew, Tanya, Marianne, Maggie and Rose all leaning in to listen to a silver-haired female in fancy dress. Not one of them saw her, so intent was their concentration, so Beatrice melted away to a corner table at the opposite end of the bar. She reached up to the sunken spotlights and twisted one from its socket. Good job she’d kept her gloves on. She sat with her back to the wall in the shadows, watching the group with a cynical eye. Gordon loomed over her, drinks i
n hand.
“You chose the darkest corner there is! Hope folk don’t get suspicious. People might think we’re...”
“Thank you for the drink. What other people think is their business. Now, let’s talk about Vaughan Mason. I’m going to ask you questions as if I were the investigating officer and you tell me the truth. If I think you’re incriminating yourself in any way, I may suggest rephrasing your response.”
Gordon took a large pull from his pint and licked his lips. “Ready when you are, Inspector Stubbs.”
“You may refer to me as DI Stubbs, just for the duration of this exercise. Mr Hancock, how long had you known Mr Mason?”
“Twenty-five years? Can’t recall exactly, but he’s been a regular at The Angel since we took over the licence. That was twenty-five years back.”
“Would you consider him a friend?” asked Beatrice, with a glance over his shoulder at the group in the bay window.
“Acquaintance, more like. He drank in the bar most weekends, we played cards occasionally, and moved in similar circles. You know the score.”
“Gordon, you’re not talking to me but a police detective investigating a suspicious death, remember? What are you prepared to say about the card games? And please don’t lie, they already know about the gambling. Be as honest as you can.”
Gordon drank deeply from his pint glass, his eyes downcast. Across the room, Beatrice saw the silvery goddess rise from the table and make for the toilets. The Converse trainers gave her away. Catinca. So the whole wedding party was present and she had been deliberately excluded.
“This is confidential, right?” Gordon asked, licking his lips.
“Gordon, please. I want to offer my experience as a police officer, not dig about for gossip. Whatever you tell me is in total confidence.”
