Doom and Bloom

by H. Y. Hanna

  Doom and Bloom

  The English Cottage Garden Mysteries ~ Book 3

  By

  H.Y. Hanna

  Poppy is settling into life in an English village and gaining some green fingers at last as she restores the beautiful cottage garden nursery she’s inherited. When she meets a wealthy dog lover at the village fete and is hired to create a “canine scent garden”, the future looks rosy… until the day ends with a vicious killing and she finds herself spade-deep in a murder investigation again.

  Meanwhile Einstein the terrier has fallen head-over-paws for a pampered poodle and Poppy has her hands full keeping him out of trouble. With vandals attacking her cottage and orders for flowers flooding in, she barely has time for sleuthing! Then unexpected help comes from her eccentric neighbour Bertie and his crazy inventions, as well as crime author Nick Forrest and his talkative cat Oren, and before long, Poppy is sure she’s found the killer…

  The only problem is—with false clues and suspects galore, could she be barking up the wrong tree?

  The English Cottage Garden Mysteries

  Deadhead and Buried (Book 1)

  Silent Bud Deadly (Book 2)

  Doom and Bloom (Book 3)

  ~ more coming soon!

  Author’s Note:

  This book follows British English spelling and usage.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Book 4 in The English Cottage Garden Mysteries

  The OXFORD TEAROOM MYSTERIES

  The BEWITCHED BY CHOCOLATE Mysteries:

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Poppy Lancaster stared at her opponents. There were six of them lined up in front of her: small, brown, and hairy, each with dark eyes set close to a pinched hole of a mouth… She clenched her fingers around the wooden ball, feeling its smooth surface against the sweaty skin of her palm, and shifted her hold, trying to get a better grip. Then she swung her arm back and heaved the ball forwards as hard as she could.

  She held her breath. For a moment, it looked as if the ball might strike her target—then it sailed harmlessly between two members of the line and landed with a thud on the grassy ground behind them.

  “Aww… bad luck. You almost got one,” said the owner of the side stall with a grin. It was a coconut shy, a time-honoured funfair attraction where you could test your skill at aiming (or lack of skill, in Poppy’s case). “Not as easy as it looks, eh? Got all those fancy computer games and whatnot these days, but I still say these traditional games beat ’em hands down. You were very close that time though…” He held out three more wooden balls and smiled persuasively, “Would you like another go? It’s just a quid…”

  Poppy hesitated. She knew she was probably throwing money away. On the other hand, it was only one pound and the money was going to a good cause. Besides—she glanced once more at the six coconuts propped up on sticks and her expression hardened—she was determined to knock one off if it was the last thing she did!

  Several minutes later, Poppy was breathing hard, many pounds poorer, and in a very bad mood. She had thrown ball after ball, and still hadn’t managed to knock a single coconut off its perch.

  “Nothing like a traditional English country game to get the blood pressure up,” came an amused voice behind her.

  Poppy stiffened. She recognised that deep baritone and as she swung around to see the tall, dark-haired man standing behind her, she wondered why Nick Forrest always managed to come upon her when she was at a disadvantage. It was almost as if he planned it, just so he could always laugh at her!

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Everyone in the village has been invited to the fête.”

  “Yes, but I thought… well, I thought all you writers were anti-social introverts.”

  He grinned. “Oh, we can be persuaded out of our caves now and then. Especially when it’s in aid of a good cause. This is the biggest fundraiser of the year for SOAR—South Oxfordshire Animal Rescue.”

  He nodded towards the small podium a few hundred yards away from them, where a table held hampers filled with various donated items: from jars of home-made jam to hand-knitted toys, gourmet cheeses to carved wooden ornaments. And one of them was filled with books. Poppy couldn’t see their covers clearly from this distance but she could guess that they were all novels written by the bestselling crime author standing next to her.

  “I usually just make a personal donation but this year, when they told me that they were planning this fair, I thought a hamper of my books might make a good prize too. Encourage more raffle tickets.”

  “I didn’t realise you were such a big supporter of SOAR,” Poppy said, looking at him curiously.

  Nick made a wry face. “Yes, well, considering that I adopted that bloody cat from them, I suppose I feel a certain sense of loyalty—although God knows why. I constantly rue the day I brought that scrap of fur home eight years ago.”

  Poppy smiled to herself. She wasn’t fooled by Nick’s belligerent words. The “bloody cat” he was referring to was his talkative ginger tom, Oren, and while they seemed to spend most of their time bickering like two grumpy old men, she had seen enough to know that there was a deep affection between them. Nick might never admit it, but she was sure that he loved his irascible feline companion.

  “So… you need help?” Nick grinned and nodded towards the row of coconuts on the other side of the booth counter.

  “Uh… no, no! I’m managing fine,” said Poppy quickly. She raised her chin. “I… er… I was just warming up.”

  Nick glanced at the grassy area around the coconut stands, which was littered with missed balls, and his lips twitched but he refrained from saying anything. Instead, he folded his arms and stood back to watch, his dark eyes alight with amusement.

  Poppy turned her back and tried to pretend he wasn’t there as she lifted a wooden ball again and took aim. It was the last ball she had. She took a deep breath and lobbed it forwards. It sailed tantalisingly close to a coconut but didn’t make contact. From the corner of her eye, she saw Nick’s lips twitch again.

  “Give me another set!” she said to the stall owner, shoving a pound coin at him.

  He took the money and handed her three balls. They were dispatched with equal force—and an equal lack of results.

  “One more!”

  Another three balls. Another three misses.

  “Another!”

  The man hesitated. “Miss… er… not that I don’t like taking the money, but there’s no shame in giving up, you know—”

  “No, I’m not giving up!” Poppy cried. She plunged her hand into her pocket and pulled out a five-pound note. “Here! Give me the whole lot.”<
br />
  The man gulped, then took the money and deposited fifteen wooden balls in front of her. Nick started to say something, but Poppy ignored him and turned back to the coconuts. She hurled a ball at them, gasping:

  “Take that!”

  Thud.

  “And that!”

  Thud.

  “And that! AND THAT!”

  Harder and faster, Poppy flung the balls. She could see Nick from the corner of her eye, his hand over his mouth and his shoulders shaking, and the sight goaded her even more. Was he laughing at her? She’d show him! She began to throw even faster, her movements turning into a frenzy, her aim completely random. Balls flew wildly in all directions, bouncing and striking things.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” cried the stall owner, ducking as a wooden ball narrowly missed his head. “Miss… you have to slow down—”

  Gasping and panting, Poppy hurled her last ball. It struck the side of a coconut. She drew a sharp breath. The hairy brown fruit wobbled for a moment on its stick, then settled down again, but the stall owner lunged forwards and knocked it off its perch.

  “Hurrah! You got one!” he said brightly, turning back to Poppy and presenting her with her prize.

  “No, I didn’t—that wouldn’t have fallen off the stick. You swiped it off,” Poppy said indignantly. “I wanted to win it on my own!”

  “And you did, you did!” the stall owner babbled. “Best player I’ve had all day today. Here you are… here’s your prize. Well done. Now, would you like to go and try another game?” He mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

  Poppy took the coconut, slightly mollified, and scowled at Nick, who still looked like he was struggling not to laugh. “What’s so funny?”

  He chuckled. “Nothing. I just never realised how stubbornly proud and independent you are.”

  “What? I’m not—”

  Poppy broke off as the air was rent by a terrified scream. She spun around, trying to trace the sound.

  “It came from over there,” said Nick, pointing to the marquee beyond the coconut shy. His eyes were suddenly alert and watchful, and Poppy caught a glimpse of the CID detective he had once been.

  She dropped her coconut and rushed after him as he hurried over to the small crowd that was already beginning to form in front of the marquee. One woman’s voice rose shrilly above the babble.

  “Oh my God, he’s dead! He’s dead!”

  The crowd parted and Poppy stopped short at the sight of the man slumped on the ground. He was lying face-down, with his eyes closed and his face deathly pale, and there was blood smeared along his temple. Poppy heard a loud gasp next to her and turned to see the woman who had been shrieking also staring down at the body. She clamped a hand to her mouth and looked up at Poppy, her eyes wide with horror.

  “I knew this was going to happen! I saw a black butterfly this morning as I was leaving the house—it’s a terrible omen! It means death is near…” The woman’s voice rose hysterically again. “This is another murder!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  No, this can’t be happening, thought Poppy, her mind reeling. It had barely been a couple of weeks since the last shocking arrest—surely there couldn’t be another murder in the village of Bunnington so quickly? Even as she had the thought, the man on the ground began to stir and there were audible sighs of relief from the crowd.

  “He’s alive!”

  “Quick! Help him up!”

  Nick crouched down next to the man and put a gentle hand under his elbow, helping him rise to a sitting position.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I believe so… other than the most frightful headache,” the man said, massaging his bloody brow.

  He looked to be somewhere in his sixties; he had a lugubrious face, balding head, and a thin, almost puny figure, which was not enhanced by the dated brown suit he wore.

  “What happened?” asked Nick.

  “I… I don’t know…” murmured the man, still sounding dazed. “I was just walking along… and then something hard hit the side of my head…”

  “Something hard…?” Nick glanced at the ground around the man and his gaze sharpened. He reached forwards and picked something up. “Like this?”

  Poppy look at the item he was holding and let out a strangled sound. It was one of the wooden balls from the coconut shy that she had been hurling recklessly around! It must have hit this poor stranger as he walked past.

  Nick’s eyes met hers and he looked like he was struggling not to burst out laughing. Poppy squirmed with horror and embarrassment. She was just about to step forwards to confess and apologise when there was a commotion at the back of the crowd. She turned and saw a middle-aged woman with a round, kindly face trying to push through.

  “They said there’s been an accident? Has someone been killed?” the woman gasped. She was panting, as if she had been running, and her eyes were wide and anxious.

  “No, no—not killed, just injured,” someone in the crowd assured her.

  “Yes, it looks like something smacked him on the head and knocked him out for a moment,” someone else said helpfully.

  “Injured?” said the woman, still looking worried. “Oh dear! SOAR hasn’t taken out proper insurance for the fête; what if—oh!”

  She stopped short as she stepped through the crowd, arriving in the centre at last, and her eyes fell on the man who had been injured.

  “Norman! What happened? Your head! All that blood!” She rushed to his side. “Are you all right? If you stay still, I’ll call the ambulance.”

  “Goodness gracious me—there’s no need for an ambulance! I’m fine,” said Norman, attempting to stand up with Nick’s help. He swayed slightly on his feet, but Poppy could see that his colour was already returning to normal. “I was just stunned for a moment, that’s all.”

  “You’ve had a knock to the head and that needs to be checked out at the hospital. You could have concussion,” said Nick.

  “Nonsense, nonsense… I feel fine, I tell you! Perhaps just a nice cup of tea…?” Norman looked hopefully around.

  The kindly faced woman stepped forwards. “Oh yes, there’s some in the marquee. I’ll take you there—”

  “I’ll help!” Poppy cried, keen to do something to make amends.

  Leaving Nick with the crowd—many of whom had recognised him and were starting to badger him for autographs—Poppy took one of Norman’s arms whilst the woman took the other, and together they supported him as he walked shakily to the marquee. Inside the giant tent, a long trestle table had been erected along one wall and several ladies from the village were manning it, serving cups of tea and coffee, and little plates of cakes and buns.

  Poppy was relieved to see a familiar old lady with a mop of grey curls and round apple cheeks standing beside the teapot. It was her friend Nell Hopkins, who used to be her landlady back in London and who had recently moved to Oxfordshire to live with her.

  “Oh my lordy Lord, Poppy—what happened?” cried Nell as she caught sight of Norman and his bloody temple.

  She hurried forwards, followed by several of the other ladies, and they surrounded Norman, fussing over him. Poppy was amused to see Nell bossily directing the other ladies to bring her the first aid kit and make a hot drink for the injured man. Her old friend might have only arrived in the village a few weeks ago but it looked like she was already establishing her position as Top Hen in the local pecking order!

  Poppy stood back to let the other ladies tend to Norman and she heard someone talking next to her. It was the kindly faced woman, who had helped to bring Norman to the marquee; she was speaking into a walkie-talkie, and a minute later she shut off the receiver and gave Poppy a harassed look.

  “I know Norman doesn’t want any fuss, but I’ve called the paramedics anyway. He really ought to get his head checked out.” She sighed and looked anxiously at the injured man, who was now parrying several offers of tea and cakes from the well-meaning ladies around him. “I hope he’s all right. I don’t understand w
hat happened—”

  “It’s my fault actually,” said Poppy, shamefaced. “I think one of the wooden balls I was using at the coconut shy struck Norman on the side of the head. I… er… I got a bit too enthusiastic and my aim must have gone wild.”

  “Oh! I see…” said the woman, looking slightly relieved. “Well, I suppose accidents happen. At least that’s a simple explanation and it isn’t anything more sinister. When I heard that someone had been killed—”

  “I think the lady with the orange hair got a bit hysterical and jumped to conclusions,” said Poppy with a wry smile.

  The woman sighed. “Ah, yes… Sonia… she does tend to overreact. She’s very superstitious, you see, and often gets upset about things. Still, sometimes you never know with these public events. One does try to plan for all eventualities, of course, but it is so difficult, especially with an event that takes place outdoors.”

  “Are you involved in organising the fair?” asked Poppy.

  The woman nodded, holding a hand out and smiling. “Yes, my name is Ursula Philips. I’m on the board for SOAR and also part of the committee that organises the annual fundraiser. This year’s fête is probably the most ambitious thing we’ve ever attempted—although, I have to say, so far it seems to be the most successful as well.” She turned and looked out of the entrance of the marquee to the elegant landscaped gardens around them. “We’ve been very lucky to have access to such a beautiful location, of course. This estate belongs to my aunt, Muriel Farnsworth, and she offered SOAR the use of the grounds at no charge. Duxton House isn’t normally open to the public, you see, so that has been a draw in itself.”

  Poppy followed her gaze to the grounds outside and saw that the stalls and booths around the open lawn were surrounded by crowds of people milling about, all having a great time. There was the wonderful jovial atmosphere of an English village fête, with the colourful bunting that decorated the stalls fluttering in the breeze, and the sound of talk and laughter mingling with music and cheering. Several people were eagerly trying their hand at the traditional games on offer, from the hoopla and Hook A Duck to the infamous coconut shy—and others were admiring the entries for the Largest Fruit and Vegetable competitions, as well as the home baking, jams, and pickles on sale at the stalls.