Bunburry--Sweet Revenge

by Helena Marchmont

  “Quiet? I come back to find all the drama about the wedding that ended in disaster. By the way, is there any word of the poor man who ended up in hospital?”

  “Morgan Sutcliffe?” She sniffed. “Still hanging on, as far as I know.”

  Alfie took a sip of Brew and said as casually as he could: “I’d never heard of him before. What did he do?”

  “What do you mean, what did he do?” Her voice was sharp.

  “Someone said the family was very well off. I wondered how he made his money.”

  “Oh.” Was it his imagination, or did she sound relieved? “I’ll tell you how he made his money. By having a rich father. His dad made his money in the building trade in the Fifties and Sixties. There was a lot of talk about shoddy work and sharp practice, but he always managed to put the blame on sub-contractors.”

  “Morgan went into the family business?” There could be no end of people with a grievance against him: disgruntled owners, disgruntled tenants, disgruntled sub-contractors.

  “He went into it, and he took a lot of money out of it. He never had much interest in working. He used his status in the firm to join clubs, and he got on the council, although he never made it to mayor. He sold the firm after his dad died, and made even more money that way.”

  If Morgan Sutcliffe was now eighty, and had sold the company years ago, that surely reduced the range of people with a grievance.

  The things I could tell you, Edith had said.

  “You said he wasn’t a nice man,” Alfie prompted. “In what way?”

  Instantly, Edith’s expression was shuttered. “Just … a bit big-headed. Full of himself.”

  This didn’t square with the way she had talked about him earlier. She had been talking about something more serious than egotism. Maybe he could find out more from Liz and Marge.

  “He grew up in Bunburry, you said? Would Liz and Marge have known him?”

  “No,” she said curtly. “Maybe. I don’t know. I must get on.”

  She grabbed a cloth and went off to wipe tables, despite the fact that no customers had come in or gone out since Alfie’s arrival.

  He drank his half-pint thoughtfully. Marge had been shocked to find he and Emma were investigating the wedding debacle. Edith was backtracking completely on what she had said earlier. If the two things were linked …

  This wasn’t something he could discuss with Emma. He had seen how she bridled at the merest hint of Liz being somehow responsible. She definitely didn’t need to know the way his mind was beginning to work. His suggestion of the Bunburry Parallels was more apt than he had realised. He was going to have to carry out his own investigation.

  Edith had disappeared, presumably hiding in the kitchen to avoid any more difficult questions. He drank up and left, with a farewell wave to the other patrons.

  He walked back to Windermere Cottage and went directly to the bedroom, where he rang Oscar on Aunt Augusta’s old-fashioned telephone, conscious that he was adopting his friend’s eccentricities.

  As soon as the phone was answered, Alfie spoke. Oscar was in the habit of taking on the persona of “Lane the butler” in order to get rid of cold callers.

  “Oscar. It’s me.”

  “Alfie! My dear fellow! I’ve been worrying about you. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

  So much had happened since the dinner with Oscar that Alfie had forgotten until now how he had walked out. He had been angry: now he couldn’t even remember why.

  “Oscar, I’m sorry about the way I behaved in the restaurant. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “No apology necessary, dear chap. Just tell me you’re all right.”

  “I’m in Bunburry.”

  There was a pause. “I said no apology necessary. You seem to have made the most fulsome apology possible, by following my advice.”

  That was it. He had been angry with Oscar for telling him to go back to Bunburry, and implying that he was afraid to return in case he met Betty. Now that seemed completely irrelevant.

  “I wasn’t planning to come back. I was summoned by Marge.”

  “Not another murder!” said Oscar eagerly.

  “I don’t know,” said Alfie. “A man’s in hospital, seriously ill, and he may not survive. Oscar, I think Liz may have tried to kill him.”

  There was an incredulous laugh on the other end of the phone. “Alfie, you dolt. One of the dear ladies a would-be killer? Impossible. All that dreadful fresh air must be addling your brain.”

  Quickly, Alfie outlined what had happened.

  “I see,” said Oscar, serious now. “Have you noticed any change in Liz, any unusual behaviour?”

  Alfie realised that he had barely spoken to her since his arrival. She hadn’t been her usual self, no doubt about it. When Marge attacked Harold Wilson, Liz had almost been cowering in the background. She had been shaken, distressed. He had put it down to anxiety over the future of her business, but what if she was in a state of confusion?

  He hadn’t spent enough time with her to judge whether her behaviour had changed, but Marge, living with her, would be all too aware of any deterioration. Was that what it was? Marge was afraid that Liz had inadvertently botched the recipe?

  “I can’t tell yet,” he said. “I’ll spend more time with them tomorrow, and that may give me a better idea.”

  “Let me know what happens,” said Oscar. “And give the ladies my love. It goes without saying that if there’s anything I can do to help, you only have to ask.”

  “Thanks,” said Alfie. “I’ll be in touch.”

  The call finished, he lay back on the bed in the tranquil room with its lavender walls. When Vivian died, he hadn’t even had to ask for Oscar’s help. Oscar had been there, looking after him, coaxing him to eat, supporting him through the funeral, and all those days afterwards.

  Oscar had seen him, broken with grief. All he had done in the restaurant was to point out that what had happened with Betty was utterly trivial in comparison. This time, the only hurt Alfie was suffering was to his pride.

  At another time, he might have found himself dwelling on this. But right now, his concern was about Liz. He couldn’t forget Marge’s look of fear on hearing that he and Emma were going to investigate.

  And then there was Edith’s uncharacteristic reticence. But he kept returning to her earlier remarks, which now seemed so damning. Not a nice man … the things I could tell you.

  Liz was, as he had told Oscar, the sweetest, gentlest person you could ever hope to meet. But he had witnessed how angry she got about Sergeant Wilson when she thought he was treating Emma unfairly.

  What if she knew about something that Morgan Sutcliffe had done, something that turned her into an avenging angel?

  8. Morgan Sutcliffe

  Liz finished buttering her slice of toast and reached for the thick-cut marmalade.

  “It’s strange not having any fudge to make,” she said. “But I suppose I should make the most of this free time. I wonder, dear, if you would give me a lift?”

  Marge, cutting the top off her boiled egg, said: “Where to?”

  “The hospital. I’d like to visit Morgan Sutcliffe.”

  Marge’s knife clattered on to her plate. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Don’t you, dear? But I’m not asking for your opinion, I’m asking for a lift.”

  “I won’t give you a lift.”

  “In that case, I shall order a taxi.”

  “Clarissa, I won’t let you go to that hospital.”

  “Really, dear? How exactly do you propose to stop me?”

  “Liz, I’m begging you, please don’t go to the hospital.”

  Liz took a bite of toast and marmalade and chewed it thoughtfully.

  “I wonder why you don’t want me to go to the hospital,” she said. “What do yo
u imagine I’m going to do? Smother poor Morgan with a pillow? Cut off his oxygen supply?”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Marge muttered. “It’s no more than he deserves. But I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  Liz ate some more toast. “I don’t think I’m in any trouble, dear. But I noticed Alfie looking at you very strangely yesterday. You know Emma said they were investigating what happened at the wedding. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Alfie’s got you in the frame.”

  “Me!” exclaimed Marge. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “But you think I have, don’t you? You think I poisoned an entire wedding party to get back at Morgan Sutcliffe.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No, dear. I didn’t. And I’m a little disappointed that you think I did.”

  Marge thrust her spoon savagely into the egg, sending yolk spattering over the edge of the eggcup. “I’m not going to pretend I’m sorry that someone did.”

  “Margaret, that’s extremely unkind. A young couple’s wedding day ruined.”

  “At least they had a wedding day,” Marge muttered. “I’ll never forgive that man.”

  “It’s really nothing to do with you, dear.”

  “Yes, it is. You’re my best friend. Morgan Sutcliffe jilted you. He broke your heart. He ruined your life.”

  “Marge.” Liz’s voice was calm. “Look at me. Is this the face of a woman whose life has been ruined? It is not.”

  She picked up the teapot in its knitted cosy, and refilled both their cups.

  “Better to be jilted before the wedding than left at the altar,” she said. “And far better to be jilted by Morgan Sutcliffe than to be married to him, don’t you think?”

  Marge blinked behind her outsize glasses. “But … I thought … ”

  “Yes, dear, he broke my heart. But as we both know, it was a very long time ago, and my heart eventually healed. Don’t imagine I’ve been pining for him over the years, because I haven’t. And looking at his ridiculous social climbing and his vulgar displays of wealth, I think I’ve had a lucky escape. Do you really think I would have been happier if he’d gone through with it?”

  Marge’s egg sat abandoned. “Oh. I thought when you saw the big house, the fancy cars, the foreign holidays – neither of us has ever been what you’d call well-off.”

  “And neither of us has ever been starving,” said Liz. “Since you sold your place and moved in here, we’ve really been quite comfortable. And thanks to Alfie promoting the fudge to David Savile, the business has really taken off.”

  “Except now the business is ruined,” said Marge. “Harry Wilson warned us we’d be closed down.”

  “Only if I was found to be at fault, dear, which I won’t be. And now that Emma and Alfie are investigating, I’m sure we’ll soon know who the culprit is. While we’re waiting for that, I wonder if I could trouble you for the lift to the hospital?”

  “Why do you want to see Morgan?” Marge asked.

  “It sounds serious. He may not recover. While there’s still time, I’d like him to know that I don’t bear him any ill will.”

  “Oh, Liz.” Marge sprang up, hurried round the table, and flung her arms round her larger friend. “You’re such a good person. And it’s because I’m so bad that I thought you’d done something wrong.”

  Liz patted her arm affectionately. “I hope if I ever do commit a crime that I can count on you to do the right thing.”

  “Of course you can,” said Marge fiercely. “I’ll do the right thing. I’ll always stand by you, whatever you do.”

  She returned to the table and began stacking plates. “Let’s get the breakfast dishes washed. It’s still too early for hospital visiting. I think that right now we should have a chat with the Bunburry Parallels.”

  Half an hour later, Alfie and Emma were sitting on the chintz-covered sofa, with Liz in her usual armchair, and Marge rocking away.

  “Alfie McAlister, stop looking at me like that,” said Marge sharply.

  “Looking at you like what?” asked Emma.

  “He thinks I poisoned everybody at the wedding to get at Morgan Sutcliffe,” snapped Marge.

  “No, I don’t,” said Alfie hastily.

  “Don’t worry, Alfie, she’s doing that thing - what’s the word? – projecting,” said Liz. “She thought it was me who poisoned everybody at the wedding to get at Morgan Sutcliffe.”

  Emma gasped. “Aunt Marge! How could you think such a thing?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Liz, “and I’ve asked you here so that I can tell you it. I was engaged to Morgan Sutcliffe when I was twenty-one. In secret. The only other person who knew about it was my dear friend Marge.”

  She smiled at the diminutive figure on the rocking chair. “Marge warned me about him. She told me he was a bit of a flirt.”

  “I put it a lot more strongly than that,” said Marge.

  “You did, dear. You also told me he had attempted to flirt with you.”

  “I definitely put it a lot more strongly than that,” said Marge.

  “But I was in love,” said Liz to Emma and Alfie. “And I decided that my dear friend Marge was simply jealous, so I didn’t listen to her. In fact, I said some very hurtful things to her. All I wanted to do was marry Morgan. Fortunately, matters were taken out of my hands. Since we were only secretly engaged, his family had no idea, and his parents found another young lady who they thought would make a suitable wife for him.”

  She stopped, looking thoughtful. “Goodness, hearing myself talk about it, it sounds positively Victorian.”

  “You’re not quite as old as that,” said Marge. “Although it’s true you’re older than me.”

  “Not enough to make any difference,” came the quick rejoinder. “Anyway, faced with the choice of doing what his parents wanted, or marrying me and being cut off without a shilling, Morgan knew where his priorities lay.”

  Wordlessly, Emma went to sit on the floor beside her great-aunt’s chair, and stroked Liz’s hand.

  “Don’t worry, my dear, I got over it a long time ago,” said Liz. “Although the worst of it was that at the time, I couldn’t even tell anyone what had happened. But Marge worked it out.”

  “I couldn’t fail to,” snorted Marge. “The amount of weight you lost. And those dark rings round your eyes – you looked like a panda.”

  “Marge, dear, you were a true friend. You are a true friend.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” said Marge, whipping off her glasses and furiously polishing them.

  “Liz … ” Alfie sounded hesitant. “You said Marge was the only person who knew about Morgan breaking off the engagement?”

  “That’s right, dear. It’s certainly not the sort of thing I wanted to broadcast.”

  “It’s just … I think Edith may know.”

  Marge folded her arms defensively across her chest. “First of all it’s Alfie giving me funny looks because he thinks I’m a poisoner,” she said to Liz. “Now it’s you because you think I’ve been blabbing to Edith. Clarissa, this is not my story to tell, and I can assure you I’ve said nothing to anybody.”

  “Alfie, dear, why do you think Edith knows?” asked Liz.

  “I tried to get her to talk about Morgan, and she started off doing so, but then she just clammed up. After telling me that he wasn’t a nice man, and there were things she could tell me about him.”

  Liz and Marge exchanged glances.

  “I’m not saying a word,” said Marge to Liz. “I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

  “You may know how to do it, but you rarely do, dear,” said Liz. “However, in this case, I’m prepared to do the talking. Alfie, I know this won’t go any further. Edith was one of the girls Morgan - ” she paused briefly. ” – flirted with. She was dreadfully upset when she discovered he wasn’t serious.”

>   “He certainly was a smooth talker,” said Marge. “Told me my lips were like ripe pomegranates.”

  She brought the rocking chair to a sudden halt. “Clarissa! You don’t think Edith - ”

  “No, dear, I don’t think Edith poisoned everybody at the wedding because of a romance that went wrong half a century ago. Now, shall we get to the hospital? Time may be of the essence.”

  “Just one more thing before you go,” said Alfie. “David Savile said the fudge was covered in little bits of gold.”

  “Yes,” said Liz. “Edible glitter flakes. Pretty for a wedding.”

  “When did you put them on?”

  “I didn’t, dear. They work best if you add them at the last minute. I handed over the jars along with the fudge, and told the caterers to sprinkle the flakes on top once they’d arranged the fudge on the platters. Is that all you need to know, dear? We really must be on our way.”

  *

  The minute Liz and Marge set off, Alfie and Emma exchanged a complicit look.

  “The kitchen?” said Alfie.

  “The kitchen,” agreed Emma.

  Alfie had never been in its former incarnation, and had merely basked in the sugary scent that pervaded Jasmine Cottage. Perhaps it had previously been a typical country kitchen, with an Aga and a scrubbed wood table, but this looked like the galley of a space ship.

  There were tiles on the floor with a stainless steel work table in the middle. Round the walls were stainless steel cupboards, two massive fridges, sinks, a vast infrared hob with a stainless steel kitchen hood over it.

  Emma nodded to an anteroom. “That’s where the fudge gets packaged. Aunt Liz is fanatical about it all being done hygienically.”

  By the door was what looked like a white lab coat and a white net cap.

  “This is their kitchen?” Alfie asked. There was no sign of the normal kitchen paraphernalia. All the surfaces were clean and shining.

  “Of course not,” said Emma impatiently. “This is just for making fudge. Their own kitchen is at the back of the house.”

  She began opening cupboards. They found milk, cream and butter. Another cupboard contained white sugar, demerara sugar and golden syrup. In another was vanilla extract and a solitary jar of gold flakes.