by H. Y. Hanna
“No, nothing,” she admitted.
“Well then, in that case, I suggest that you stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and let the professionals get on with their work,” said Sergeant Lee, putting heavy emphasis on the word “professionals”. He gave her a curt nod. “Good day.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Poppy made her way slowly back to the drawing room, feeling humiliated and frustrated. She knew that Lee was right in a way—it was none of her business, she was just a civilian, and she should forget about Ursula’s murder investigation and get on with her own life. But it was so hard to stand by and do nothing when you could see things that might make a difference!
She arrived at the drawing room doorway and was just about to step in when she heard Henry’s voice saying in a wheedling tone:
“…it would be just a little loan, Auntie Muriel—just a few hundred quid to get me out of a spot of bother.”
“Didn’t I give you two hundred pounds last week, Henry?”
“Oh… no, you must be remembering wrong, Auntie. Perhaps you intended to give me the money but then you forgot.”
“But I was sure…” Muriel sounded confused.
“In fact, I think that’s probably what happened,” said Henry smoothly. “You know how forgetful you are these days.”
Muriel sighed. “I suppose so. Although Ursula did warn me… she said—”
“Yes? What did Ursula say?” Henry’s voice was suddenly sharp.
“She thought that I was spoiling you. She said that you get a very good allowance as it is and it should be more than ample to cover your needs, so there was no need to give you more money.”
“Ah…” Henry’s voice softened and relaxed again, taking on a playful tone. “Well, I am your only nephew, Auntie Muriel—in fact, I’m your only family now. Who else can you spoil, if not me? Anyway, this is for some extra textbooks. They’re not on the official syllabus but one of the other students told me that they’re fantastic—he’s sure they helped him get a First in his final exams.”
“Oh… well, certainly, if it’s something to help your studies, my dear boy. If you bring me my chequebook later, I’ll write you a cheque… two hundred pounds, did you say?”
“Well… actually, if you can spare a bit more, Auntie Muriel—”
The sound of nails clicking on the stone tiles made Poppy turn around and look up the hallway; she saw Flopsy approaching. She shifted uneasily as the toy poodle trotted past, remembering those sharp teeth from the meeting at the fête, but thankfully the little dog showed no interest in her. She went straight into the drawing room, and a second later Poppy heard Muriel cry:
“Flopsy! There you are! Mummy has been missing you! Come… come and give Mummy a kiss, Flopsy-pooh…”
Deciding to follow the dog’s cue, Poppy stepped into the room and returned to her seat. She saw a look of annoyance flash across Henry’s face as he eyed the dog, then it was wiped clean, to be replaced by his familiar charming smile as he turned to her and said something flirtatious. Poppy picked up her teacup and sipped the now-cold brew, nodding and making polite conversation, and wishing that the whole thing could be over. Still, she was very pleased when Muriel mentioned the scent garden and learned that the old lady still wanted her to go ahead. In fact, she wanted Poppy to start work the next morning.
“You can ask the estate gardeners to help you with any heavy lifting or digging,” instructed Muriel. “There are quite a few large rocks in those beds which you might want to remove.”
“Oh, I might be able to just plant around them,” said Poppy. “I’ve been doing some reading and a lot of the herbs and scented plants like dry, well-draining soil—things like lavender and thyme—so an old rock garden is actually an ideal spot to plant them in.” She smiled at the old lady. “Actually, I wanted to ask you: have you noticed Flopsy gravitating towards certain plants when she’s out in the grounds? I read that dogs often self-medicate when they’re given the chance to do so and it would be good to know what sort of plants Flopsy likes, so I can make sure that I include those.”
“Well, let me see… Flopsy does like lavender, but I don’t know about thyme… Hmm… I’ve noticed that she loves marigolds—she’s always running up to sniff them when she sees them… And chamomile,” Muriel added. “We have some growing in the vegetable patch behind the kitchen and Betsy tells me that Flopsy is always sniffing and rubbing herself on the chamomile leaves.”
Poppy took out her phone and consulted the list she had made. “Yes, apparently dogs with skin irritations or stomach upsets will often be attracted to chamomile.”
Muriel gasped. “Skin irritation? Stomach upset? Does that mean Flopsy needs to see the vet?”
Poppy glanced at the poodle sitting on the old woman’s lap. With her bright black eyes and thick woolly coat, Flopsy looked the picture of health.
“I’m sure Flopsy is fine,” she reassured Muriel. “Perhaps it was just a small thing—you know, like we sometimes get a bit of indigestion after a big meal and have a cup of peppermint tea to settle the stomach? Maybe Flopsy was doing the same with the chamomile. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
“Oh… and she loves that plant with the tall stalks of little white flowers…oh, dear, what is it called?” Muriel furrowed her brow for a moment. “Ah yes—valerian.”
“Oh, Valerian officinalis! You know, in medieval times, it was known as ‘all-heal’ because it was used to treat so many things, like headaches and insomnia, and it’s supposed to calm nervous animals too. Although… it’s supposed to smell awful when it’s dried, like old socks or the sewer,” added Poppy, laughing. She sat up. “Hey, you know—I’ve just had a thought: Hollyhock Cottage has several scented plants growing there already. Would you like to bring Flopsy down to have a wander around and see how she reacts to them? Because we don’t want to pick something that she might absolutely hate.”
Muriel nodded approvingly. “Ooh yes, wonderful idea! I’m afraid I’m busy tomorrow—I need to see my solicitor in Oxford and I also have a meeting with the undertakers regarding Ursula’s funeral…” Her voice shook for a moment, then she steadied herself. “But the day after that, perhaps?”
Ten minutes later, Poppy finally managed to excuse herself, retrieve Einstein, and leave Duxton House. She walked slowly back to Hollyhock Cottage, trailing Einstein behind her. The terrier had not wanted to leave the estate and she’d had to practically drag him off the property. Trying to get a terrier to do something he didn’t want to do was a challenge at the best of times and Poppy found her patience wearing thin as Einstein alternately lay down and refused to walk, or braced his hind legs and pulled backwards. She had to resort to a mixture of cajoling and stern reprimands to finally get him moving again. Even when they were no longer within sight of Duxton House, he kept looking backwards and whining, straining on his leash and wanting to return.
“Oh Einstein—I'm afraid Flopsy’s out of your league,” said Poppy, giving him a sympathetic look. “You have to give up this hopeless romance of yours.”
“Ruff! Ruff-ruff!” barked Einstein indignantly. Obviously "give up" was not in any self-respecting terrier’s vocabulary.
Poppy sighed and gave him another gentle tug to encourage him forwards. They made slow progress across the village and, as she chivvied Einstein along, her thoughts returned to Ursula’s murder and her experiences at Duxton House that morning. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but something bothered her. And she was positive that the murder wasn’t as straightforward as Sergeant Lee believed.
***
Bertie looked slightly bemused when Poppy turned up on his doorstep with Einstein in tow. She had a feeling that he hadn't even noticed that his dog had been gone.
“Oh, that was very good of you to go after him, my dear.” Bertie tutted and shook his head. “I really do not know what has got into Einstein! He has been misbehaving dreadfully these few days. First running off into the woods yesterday and bothering th
at nice young man with the sportscar, then breaking out of the terrier racing, and now this—”
“Wait, Bertie…” Poppy caught his arm as his words made her think of something. “This young man with the sportscar that you’re talking about—what kind of car was it?”
Bertie frowned. “It was a Porsche, I believe.”
“And it was red, you said?”
“Oh yes, lovely colour.”
"And I don't suppose you remember the number plate?" asked Poppy without much hope.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I do. It was SQZ 9970. I noticed it, you see, because it reminded me of the square root of two—also known as Pythagoras's constant—which is expressed as √2 = 99/70. Isn’t that a marvellous coincidence?”
Poppy chuckled. How lucky—or unlucky for him—that Henry's number plate should happen to resemble a famous mathematical constant.
“What did the young man look like?”
“Oh…” Bertie seemed a bit nonplussed. “Like a nice young man.”
“What colour was his hair? Was it quite long? Did it fall over his eyes like this?” Poppy demonstrated.
Bertie looked at her in surprise. “How did you know? Yes, that was exactly how he had his hair.”
“And was he very good-looking?”
“Yes, I suppose he was. He certainly looked like a gentleman. He was dressed very smartly. In fact, I was quite mortified that Einstein got muddy pawprints all over his nice cream trousers.”
Poppy frowned and said, half to herself, “I wonder what he was doing in the woods…”
“Oh, he was talking on his phone,” said Bertie. “Although I did wonder why he wanted to speak there—woods and forests are notorious for having dreadful mobile phone coverage as the dense foliage blocks cellular signals. In fact, it has been shown that most homes and offices receive much better reception in autumn, simply because many trees have dropped their leaves.” He held up a forefinger and said excitedly: “I did have an idea once for a portable mobile phone signal booster—like the kind used by forestry technicians—which would amplify 3G and 4G signals, although my invention would not need to rely on an existing mobile phone signal in a separate location…”
Poppy was hardly listening. Instead, she was recalling, with a quickening of excitement, that Ursula had received a phone call just before she was murdered. In fact, it was because of that call that Ursula had gone back to the marquee alone.
“Bertie!” She interrupted his rambling (he was still going on about boosting phone signals) and asked eagerly: “Do you have any idea who Henry—I mean, who this young man might have been talking to?”
Bertie frowned. “I couldn’t hear very well—he had a hand over his mouth, you see, and was keeping his voice low. I think he might have been arranging to meet someone—I did hear him say: ‘I’ll see you soon.’”
“That’s all he said? He didn’t mention a name?”
“No, well, you see, Einstein ran up to him then and he ended the call.”
A few minutes later, Poppy let herself out of Bertie’s garden and walked back to Hollyhock Cottage, mulling over what the old inventor had told her. She was sure the young man that he had seen was Henry Farnsworth. It was just too much of a coincidence otherwise to think that some other young man, with similar hairstyle, dress sense, and looks, could have been driving his red sports car. But if it was Henry in the woods behind Duxton House estate yesterday, then he had been lying when he told her that he’d spent the whole day in Oxford. So why had he lied?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When Poppy arrived back at Hollyhock Cottage, she was delighted to find a man in green overalls at the back of the cottage. He was carefully painting over the ugly graffiti that had been spray-painted on the wall and Poppy realised that Nell must have lost the battle with soap and water, and decided to call in reinforcements.
“Joe! How nice to see you,” she cried, smiling at the spry old handyman.
With his grey hair tied back in a low ponytail, and his stern, weather-beaten face and laconic manner, Joe Fabbri came across as intimidating, even frightening when you first met him. But Poppy had quickly realised that the old handyman was wise and kind, with a wealth of knowledge that he was happy to share—providing you could decipher his one-word answers!
“I’ve been deadheading all the roses and other flowers like you said,” she told him proudly. “It’s really helped to keep everything blooming. And you know those bushes that you cut back? It’s amazing how much new growth has appeared already! Thanks for doing those. I would never have known how to prune them.”
Joe nodded approvingly, then he jerked his head at the gravel path and said, “Lop.”
Poppy followed the direction of his gaze in puzzlement. What on earth was he talking about? Then her eyes alighted on the clumps of lavender lining the path. They were just coming to the end of their flowering, their purple flower spikes fading and drying now, and she made a guess.
“You mean the lavender? They need to be cut back too?”
“Summer prune. Woody and leggy else.”
“Oh…” Poppy walked over to one of the clumps and crouched down next to it, putting out a hand to touch the grey-green stems. A wonderful fragrance was released as she rubbed the soft, feathery foliage, filling the air with a sweet, woody aroma that was somehow soothing and yet invigorating at the same time. Poppy breathed deeply. She loved the smell of lavender. All the store-bought essential oils in the world couldn’t compete with the smell of freshly crushed lavender sprigs.
“Hidcote. English lavender,” Joe said, watching her. “Best perfume. Hardy.”
“Do you just trim the flower stalks?” asked Poppy, fingering one long, slender stem.
“Naw, bush too. One third.” He motioned with his hands. “Round.”
Poppy thought of the front door of the cottage. There was a terracotta pot there, with another lavender growing in it. “What about the one by the door? You know, with the tufts on each flower spike, like little rabbit ears?”
“Naw. French,” Joe said dismissively, then he returned to his painting without another word.
French? Poppy frowned in confusion. It wasn’t until she had gone inside the cottage and fired up her ancient laptop to research “lavender pruning” that she realised what Joe had meant. The clumps of lavender by the path were Lavandula angustifolia, known as “English lavender” (although they came originally from the Mediterranean), and they were the easiest to grow, although they did need annual pruning to keep them in good shape and flowering well. The one in the pot, though, was a different variety—Lavandula stoechas, otherwise known as “French lavender” (Strangely enough, this plant actually originated in Spain! Early lavender growers obviously needed geography lessons.)—and this one didn’t need anything more than deadheading because it flowered right through the summer.
“I’ve just been reading all about lavender,” she told Nell excitedly as she collected her secateurs from the greenhouse. “I’m going out to prune them.”
“Don’t you think you should wait for Joe?” asked Nell, looking doubtful. “You haven’t done any proper pruning yourself yet and everyone says lavender can be quite tricky. Maybe you should let Joe do it once, so you can watch? He’s gone now but I’m sure he can pop back round tomorrow.”
“No, no, I want to do it myself. Don’t worry—I’ve read all about it online. I even watched some YouTube videos,” said Poppy, grinning. “I’m a lavender expert now!”
She spent the next hour happily tackling the lavender clumps along the side of the path, humming to herself and falling into a relaxing rhythm of cutting, snipping, collecting, and stacking the cuttings in little piles. The perfume that wafted from the trimmed foliage was glorious and Poppy was surprised to find that she really enjoyed pruning. There was something incredibly therapeutic and satisfying about the act of cutting away the old brown stems and removing shrivelled, dry sections.
As she worked, her mind wandered back to the murder and, i
n particular, to Henry Farnsworth. Once again, she wondered why had he lied about his whereabouts that day. Well, one reason could have been to provide himself with an alibi. By approaching the estate from the rear, it would have been easy for Henry to slip onto the property unnoticed. She had done it herself that morning via the gap in the hedge without being seen by anyone—and she guessed that those teenage boys had used the same route. Things would have been even more chaotic during the fête yesterday, with so many strangers milling about and all the attention centred on the main lawn at the front of the house. Henry could have quietly made his way to the marquee where he’d arranged to meet Ursula, killed her, then sneaked back out. Then he could have “arrived” at the main gate later that evening pretending to have just come back from Oxford.
But what motive could Henry have for wanting to murder Ursula? Money, thought Poppy. One could see at a glance that Henry Farnsworth was used to a lavish lifestyle, with his designer clothing, his luxury sports car, and his carefree travels at the expense of his studies. Then there was the conversation she’d overheard… it sounded like Henry made a habit of asking Muriel for extra funds. Money was obviously something that the handsome young student craved and needed.
But we all want and need more money, thought Poppy with a frown. We don’t all go around murdering people! Besides, why should Ursula’s death make a difference? It’s not as if—
“POPPY!”
Poppy came out of her thoughts and looked up in surprise to find Nell standing beside her, staring aghast at something. Poppy followed her gaze and her heart gave a lurch of dismay. Where billowing mounds of lavender had once lined the side of the path, there was now a row of bare twiggy stems.
“What have you done to the lavender?” gasped Nell.
