by Nancy Warren
“Yes, of course. Just, please, none of you say anything about this.”
He didn’t need to worry. I’d like to wipe the gruesome discovery out of my memory. I certainly didn’t want to talk about it. I turned and then realized I was still holding the pieces of Sly’s ball. I had no idea if it was relevant, but I told DI Hembly about the shredded ball and that I was certain Peter Puddifoot had deliberately run over it with a lawnmower. “That’s why I was here,” I told him. “I was planning to give Mr. Puddifoot a piece of my mind.”
He held out his hand for the pieces of ball, and I gratefully handed them over. He looked down at the shreds of orange rubber in his palm. “Very fond of that dog, is Susan Bentley.”
I nodded. Was he thinking what I was thinking? If Reginald McMahon had been willing to kill Arnold Bentley in order to be with his wife, it didn’t seem implausible that he might kill Peter Puddifoot in revenge for his treatment of Sly.
Chapter 14
We walked back to the inn, and who did I find but my lovely Gateau, chasing a moth fluttering around a lighted window. She meowed when she saw me and came over to be petted.
“Hello, sweet thing,” I murmured. “Where on earth have you been? I haven’t seen you for ages.” She followed us back into the pub, and I returned Gaurav’s coat and told them I’d be down in a minute. I needed to wash up. Gateau looked tired, so I took her upstairs with me. Naturally, Gerry was there, pacing. “Oh, Poppy, I’m so glad to see you.” He looked me over critically. “You don’t look so good. Did the dog-hater attack you?”
“No. Someone got there before me. He was dead.”
He settled himself in the armchair while Gateau jumped onto the bed and immediately curled up and went to sleep. I wanted to do that too. With the covers over my head.
“Dead?” He looked around. “He’d better not hang around here. I didn’t like him in life, and I’m definitely not keen on being mates now.”
“I don’t think he’s still around. I haven’t seen him, anyway.”
“How did he snuff it, then?”
I told him about the poker to the back of the head. “So, did you hear anything eavesdropping in the pub last night?”
“Not much. Bob Fielding, the tire salesman, was boasting about a big sale to Lord Frome, but he has to wait until Monday for a check. That’s why he’s still here. He’s not wasting his time, either. Even though he should be in bed with that cold, he’s endlessly trying to flog his wheels. If not to the film crew, then to the locals.”
I nodded. I’d noticed that, too.
“Did you happen to hear anything about Reginald McMahan?”
“He wasn’t there last night. It was a funny night altogether. Jonathon was there, having a pint with the lads, but kept looking at his watch, then suddenly looked out the window and headed off. If you ask me, he’s got a bird in the area.”
Or a coven.
“It was mostly blokes in the pub last night. The women all seemed to be somewhere else.”
I freshened up as quickly as I could. I’d only touched Peter Puddifoot’s wrist, but the whole experience made my flesh crawl. I took a quick shower and dressed in jeans and a comfy red sweater that felt both warm and cheerful. I needed to pack up, as we had to check out, but I still needed dinner and, of course, there was my upcoming interview with the police.
By the time I got back down to the pub, most of the other contestants had left. Florence was pouting again and said that Evie had waited to say goodbye, but she had to leave to catch her train. In fact, they’d all gone but Florence, Gaurav, and Hamish, who were sitting around a small circular table by the fireplace, suitcases by their sides.
I was impressed to see that Hamish’s cold had completely disappeared. I wondered if Elspeth would teach me to make healing tonics. It seemed a better gift than being able to communicate with the dearly departed.
The sound of laughter and glasses clinking caused me to look around. Sitting around a large oak table, I spied Elspeth and Jonathon with Jilly, Arty and some of the crew, including Gina. Until I saw that big grin of hers, nattering away and playing with a strand of her hair, I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed my best friend this weekend. I’d been so caught up with the Bentleys and Elspeth’s magic circle that I’d only managed to see Gina when she was doing my makeup, and there had been too many people around for us to talk properly. I wished so much that I could tell her everything about my newfound witch status, but I didn’t know how or even if it was allowed. The last thing I wanted was to upset Elspeth or do anything that might get me in trouble with my new sisters.
Reginald McMahan and Bob Fielding were still talking cars with the two locals I’d seen them with earlier. Bob Fielding even had a racing cap on his head. It looked like the world’s most boring conversation to me, but they seemed riveted. “You won’t be sorry,” the salesman was telling Reg. “Those tires will last many years, even in this tough terrain. Top of the line.” He shivered and pulled his sweatshirt tighter around him.
I was torn. Florence, Hamish and Gaurav were on one side of the pub, Elspeth and Gina on the other. There was so much I wanted to share with all of them—and I needed Gaurav’s help. But my old friendship had to come first for a moment. I went to Gina’s table and wrapped her in a bear hug.
“Pops!” she exclaimed, laughing, “Where have you been all day?”
I couldn’t tell her about finding Peter Puddifoot or my suspicions about how Arnold had died. I needed to play this next scene carefully, so I only said I’d been out walking. It was true enough.
Gina frowned. “Pops. You’re so bad at lying. What aren’t you telling me? Is it a man?” She glanced over at where Hamish and Gaurav sat and then back at me with raised eyebrows.
“No.”
Then she grabbed my wrist. “Wait, I saw you head up the path to the manor earlier. You’re not ogling the lord of the manor, are you?”
“Who, Benedict? No.” As if.
She looked unconvinced. Then leaned closer. “If you were super rich, I’d say go for it, but his last girlfriend was Lady Ophelia Wren.”
I felt my eyes widen. “The celebrity doctor?”
Lady Ophelia Wren was famous for giving humanitarian medical aid all over the world. That she was also gorgeous and titled only added to her allure. The press loved her, and so did half the men in the UK. Probably the world. And she’d dated Benedict? “What happened?”
She leaned closer and dropped her voice. “I heard she wanted to get married and he shied away.” She shrugged. “You’d be surprised what secrets I hear in the makeup chair.”
Florence called me from across the room, so I was saved by the tinkle of her theatrical voice. “We’ll talk later,” I said to Gina. “I promise.”
When I reached Florence she said, “We’ve been dying to share Gaurav’s findings with you.”
He looked mildly pleased with himself. “I found the list of all the plaintiffs in the class-action suit. I’ve also got a list of how much money they lost.” He pushed his computer screen toward me. “You asked me to give you the geographical locations, and as far as I could, I grouped them according to how close they live to Broomewode.”
“Nice work.” I was impressed. Naturally, Lord and Lady Frome’s names were at the top of his list. They hadn’t been part of the class-action suit, interestingly enough. However, if Benedict had told me the truth, Arnold Bentley had warned Lord and Lady Frome to get out early and so they hadn’t lost much. Presumably, that resulted in his getting the farm for low rent.
I read through the list carefully. There was no McMahan listed. But then, he’d lived in London at the time. I began reading the names of those who’d lived closer to London.
I must have made a sound, for Gaurav said, “What? You’ve found something? I searched and couldn’t find a connection.”
“I’m not sure,” I answered him slowly. But I had a hunch.
The two detectives came in just then. Sgt. Lane was wearing dark denim jeans and a
crisp white shirt. His brown hair tumbled forward as he ran a hand through his locks and looked around the room. DI Hembly looked as formal as ever in pressed navy trousers and blazer.
“Ah, Poppy,” Hembly said, approaching our table. “Are you ready to give a statement?”
Florence looked like she’d choked on a lemon. “Statement? What kind of statement?”
Before anyone answered her, I said softly, “I think I know who did it. Would you let me try something?”
The two detectives exchanged a glance. Adam shrugged. It was obviously DI Hembly’s call.
I swallowed hard. It was a bit like baking under pressure. I had the ingredients, and I thought everything would go together all right, but at any moment, the whole structure could fall apart.
Susan Bentley came quietly into the pub, Sly at her side like a shadow.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” DI Hembly said. I took that as unenthusiastic permission. I hoped I knew what I was doing, too.
I stood up, feeling more shaky than when I’d flipped my upside-down cake yesterday. And that had turned out okay. This would too.
“Excuse me, can I have everyone’s attention, please?” I said it as loud as I could, but after a slight pause, the chatting and laughter continued.
“Hey,” a new voice bellowed. It was Eve. “The next person who interrupts Poppy will be banned from this bar until further notice.”
Well, that quieted them immediately. She gave me an encouraging nod and held my gaze long enough for me to feel her strength adding to mine. I turned, and there was Elspeth looking at me, calm and serene. Even Jonathon seemed to add to my sense of control.
“As you all know, Arnold Bentley died tragically yesterday,” I began. “And his death wasn’t an accident.”
There were mutters of surprise, disbelief.
“He was murdered, by someone in this room.”
Reginald McMahan stood. “Sorry, I’ve got orders to finish tonight. Somebody fill me in tomorrow.” He took one step toward the doorway.
“Stay where you are, Reg.” I hadn’t seen Benedict come in, but he sounded firm and commanding. My goodness, everyone was here.
The blacksmith hesitated, then sat and took another drink of his beer. His color was heightened.
I had not rehearsed this at all, and I was starting to choke under pressure. Hamish raised an eyebrow at me, and that gave me an idea. “Hamish, could you stand up, please?”
He did, looking completely mystified.
“Hamish is a contestant on our show, but he’s also a police officer in his day job.” I could feel a shiver of emotion. Curiosity, irritation, and the first stirrings of fear.
“I hate to ask for your help when you’re so sick with that cold, Hamish.” I said this so loud the bees at Broomewode Farm would hear me if they were listening.
He frowned momentarily, confused at the direction this was going, but he played along. “I’m not sick anymore. That medicine you gave me worked a treat.”
I could have kissed him.
I looked over at Bob Fielding, sitting beside Reg, still bundled up in coat and scarf and cap and looking downright miserable. “My magic healing tonic didn’t work so well for you, though, did it, Mr. Fielding?” I said, projecting my voice across the room.
He looked surprised to be addressed. “I’m not feeling as poorly as I did, thank you.”
This was the moment. I nearly lost my nerve, but Sly moved from beside Susan and rubbed his head against my calf. Elspeth regarded me with great calmness, and Jonathon looked supportive.
“But you’re clearly still feeling the cold, aren’t you? It’s very warm in here, with the fire going, and yet you’re bundled up like it’s zero degrees. I’m surprised you had any success, Mr. Fielding, selling your tires to Broomewode Hall yesterday. With that stinking cold.”
“You do take the most extraordinary interest in other people’s affairs,” Benedict said. Susan whispered something to him, and he rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorjamb. I wished he’d go away. He was making me even more nervous than the detective inspector, who was looking pretty annoyed that I was putting on this floor show. Still, DI Hembly obviously thought that the quicker he indulged me, the sooner he could get back to his Sunday tea.
“It’s a common name, Bob Fielding,” I continued. “A colleague did some research on you. He’s thinking of getting a hot car and some new tires, you see.” I pointed at Gaurav, who looked quite astonished to find himself in the market for new wheels.
“He discovered a Robert A. Fielding.”
The man flinched, tightening his scarf as though he were chilled, even though his face looked red and hot. “He was one of the people who invested their life savings into Arnold Bentley’s company. I believe that Bob Fielding lost nearly all his money.”
Gaurav corrected me. “Ten pence on the pound, that’s all they got back, the people who’d invested their life savings in Arnold Bentley’s company. Just ten pence on the pound. You’d have to sell an awful lot of tires to make that kind of money back.”
“Well, as you say, it’s a common name,” the man said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to be in Truro tomorrow, so I’ve a very long drive ahead. I must get on my way.”
“Would you take off your scarf, Mr. Fielding?” I said with a confidence I was faking so hard. The entire pub fell silent. All eyes were on me and Bob. I could feel the sweat gathering at the nape of my neck, but I needed to have faith in myself and stand my ground.
Bob rose, looking annoyed. “I don’t know who you are, but—”
DI Hembly cleared his throat. “Miss Wilkinson is cooperating with the local police, Mr. Fielding. Kindly do as she says, unless you’d feel more comfortable down at the station?”
Bob looked around the room with a beseeching expression. “Oh, this is ridiculous. Is it a crime to come down with a cold in Somerset?”
DI Hembly chuckled. “If it was, most of us would spend half the year in jail.” He paused. “Your scarf, sir? We don’t want to be all night.”
With an irritated shrug, Bob Fielding unwound the scarf from around his neck. I counted four angry red welts. “Hives,” he said before anyone else could speak. “It’s a nervous condition.”
“Not hives,” Susan Bentley said, stepping forward. “Bee stings. I know the look of them well.” She got closer. “They got in your hair, too. I can see the welts underneath your cap.”
Florence gasped. “Oh. My. God,” she said in a disbelieving tone.
“Take the cap off, sir,” DI Hembly commanded. “And your jacket.”
Bob turned beet-red. He began to mumble in protest, but then Sgt. Lane took a step toward. “Like the detective inspector said, we can continue this down at the station.”
Bob Fielding looked around the pub, but everyone was staring. He must have known he couldn’t argue his way out of doing as I’d asked. He removed his cap and, reluctantly, his jacket. Florence gasped again. Bob Fielding was covered in bright welts that perfectly matched the shameful expression on his face.
I turned and looked at Susan. I knew she wanted the mystery of her husband’s death to be solved, but I hadn’t planned to do it right in front of her. Why hadn’t she stayed quietly at the farmhouse? Because of me, Susan was now face-to-face with Arnold’s murderer. I couldn’t even imagine the emotions that must be coursing through her body. But her tired face had a neutral expression etched across it. She was watching the events unfold with an extraordinary calm. Sly moved back to her side. He seemed to always know who needed him most.
Bob Fielding tried to brazen it out. “All right. I got stung. I was up at Broomewode Hall, and when I walked past the farm, there was a great swarm of bees. Didn’t want to make a fuss, that’s all.”
Benedict spoke. “And yet, I was up and down that path all day. I didn’t get stung. Nor did anyone else.”
Susan Bentley gave Sly a quick stroke and then came toward Bob. “I can give you something that will soothe the pain o
f those stings,” she said, surprising all of us.
“What?” Florence cried out.
“He killed your husband,” Eve reminded her, leaning across the bar.
Susan smiled sadly. “I know. But my husband lost all his money. Everything he ever worked for. I know what it feels like to lose everything. It’s a very lonely place.” She slipped off her backpack and brought out a small pot of salve. She gave it to the red-faced man. “Dab it on the welts three times a day. It should do the trick.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. I feel. I feel—”
“You should feel terrible, you murderer,” Florence said, shaking her long tresses in disgust.
There was a silence. And then he spoke. “You don’t understand. How could you? I worked all my life. Saved like they tell you to. Invested for a comfortable retirement. And he lost it all.” He looked at Gaurav. “You’re right. Ten pence on the pound isn’t much, and we had to pay the lawyer out of that. But Arnold’s rich friends were all right, though. Their lawyers fought hard and dirty. Arnold made enough money off our backs to retire in luxury. Me? I’ll be working till I drop, and so will the missus.”
I caught Eve’s eye, and she shook her head. We both knew that Bob Fielding wasn’t going to be working another day for a long, long time. Not like he was used to, anyway.
“So I tracked Arnold Bentley down. I went to the farm to try and talk to him. Tell him he had to find me the money. I was only asking for what I was owed. Said he didn’t have it. That he’d lost all his money too. Liar. I was furious.”
“But how did you know Mr. Bentley was allergic to bees?” DI Hembly asked. Sgt. Lane was busily taking notes.
“I heard him and the old gardener going at it hammer and tong, having a shouting match right outside that window when I first arrived.”
It was the same fight I’d overheard, and Arnold Bentley had shouted to all the world how deathly allergic he was.
“I nearly laughed when I saw how easy it would be. I waited until his wife was out with the dog and then I knocked on the door, pretending to be the gardener. I’m not a bad mimic, and he was too angry to listen carefully. I called out that I was going to prune the hedges before he even answered the door.”
