by H. Y. Hanna
“How do you know all this?” asked one of the older ladies.
“My hubby had a job at the technology park up in Cowley and he met this chap who used to work with Norman at one of the big academic publishers. He said Norman got in trouble for stalking this girl who also worked there.”
“The same Norman?” asked the postmistress sceptically.
The young woman nodded. “My hubby remembered it when we passed the antique shop yesterday and he saw the name ‘Smalle’—it’s not a very common name, is it? I mean, with that spelling. And we were just chatting about the murder and I was telling him all the talk about Norman having a crush on Ursula—”
“And what did he do? Norman, I mean. What did he do to that girl he was stalking?” asked one of the other ladies eagerly.
The rest of the group gathered closer, their faces avid.
“Did he get violent with her?”
“Did he try to force himself on her?”
The young woman frowned. "No-o, I don't think so… I think he just kept sending her love letters and cards and flowers… and making all sorts of excuses to pass by her desk or be hanging around just as she was leaving the office, so he could walk her home…”
Poppy thought it all sounded rather sweet and pathetic, rather than sinister and dangerous, and the postmistress obviously shared her thoughts because she waved a hand and said dismissively:
“That just sounds like a bit of old-fashioned courtship to me.”
The young woman shook her head. “Yeah, but he wouldn’t stop! Even when the girl told him that she didn’t like him that way, Norman still wouldn’t give up. He just kept sending her even more cards and flowers… until she got frightened and reported him to the police.”
“That’s how it always starts with these stalkers,” said one of the other ladies, nodding knowledgeably. “You see it in movies all the time. They start out being sweet and harmless and then they turn into psychopaths. Just look at that film—the one with Glenn Close—”
“Oooh! Fatal Attraction!” several of the other ladies chorused.
“Yes, I saw that!”
“Ugh—horrible! I couldn’t bear to watch the part with the bunny boiling in the pot.”
“Me too! I’ll never forget that film”
“Yes, but that’s just the point—it was a film,” said the postmistress impatiently. “Real people don’t behave like that. Besides, I saw Norman yesterday, you know, and he’s absolutely heartbroken about Ursula's death. He looks as if his world has ended. I just can’t believe that a man who is so devastated could have killed—”
“Ah! But you can never tell with people, can you?" said one of the other ladies. "He could be putting on an act.”
The postmistress shook her head firmly. “This wasn’t an act. You should have seen him—he looked dreadful.”
The other ladies didn’t look convinced. Poppy found herself wondering which side was right. It was true that people could fake emotions to cover up their real feelings. Still, she found it hard to imagine the timid antique dealer as a vicious psychopath…
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The scene at the post office shop left Poppy very troubled. As she walked over to Duxton House, she couldn’t help wondering if Nell and all the village gossips might be right after all. Could Norman Smalle have been the murderer? She wondered what his alibi was. The last time she’d seen him had been in the marquee, just before she left to fetch his box of donated items, and she remembered Ursula persuading him to go to the manor house to lie down and rest. Was that where he had been at the time of the murder? With everyone busy at the fête, no one would have known if Norman had sneaked out of the house and returned to the marquee—where he could have met Ursula and killed her.
But why would he want to kill the woman he loved? Poppy still struggled to believe the stalker-turned-psychopath theory. Norman seemed like such a mild-mannered man. And while any kind of obsessive, repetitive behaviour was a bit creepy, Norman’s actions seemed more like those of a shy, pleading lover than the kind of aggressive homicidal maniac who could stab someone as viciously as Ursula had been attacked.
When she arrived at Duxton House estate, Poppy found the place heaving with activity as a team of people dismantled the stalls, marquee, and other structures from the fête. It was a job that had been delayed because of the murder investigation, and now staff and hired workers were hurrying to and fro as they restored the grounds to their original state.
Poppy saw Mrs Peabody standing in the middle, bossily giving orders, and she paused to say hello. She wanted to thank the older woman again for her encouragement and to tell her about the great response from the villagers to the flower arrangements idea.
“Ah, good, good,” said Mrs Peabody, nodding with satisfaction. “Things will spread by word of mouth, I’m sure, and you’ll soon be inundated with orders.”
“That would be amazing, but I hope I’ll be able to keep up with the supply,” said Poppy worriedly. “I mean, I’m not really a flower farm and I haven’t got a proper cutting garden—so I don’t know realistically how many arrangements I’m going to be able to provide from what’s currently growing in the beds.”
“You can cross that bridge when you come to it,” said Mrs Peabody calmly. “People like the idea of ‘seasonal’ things—look how popular the local farmers’ markets are. You never quite know what’s going to be available week to week but that’s part of the fun: to see what’s fresh and growing at the time.”
“Yes, I suppose in my case, ‘this week’s special’ really will be special, since I’m unlikely to get the exact same flowers in the garden again,” said Poppy with a laugh.
“And that’s just like a real garden,” said Mrs Peabody. “Which is what makes your arrangements different and charming. If people want to get the standard roses or carnations on order, they can just buy them from the big chain florists. With you, they’re getting something interesting and unique.”
Poppy looked at the older woman, impressed. She was beginning to think that Mrs Peabody had missed her calling—she could probably have had a high-flying career as a marketing executive in the city!
“I saw your friend, Mrs Hopkins, in the village yesterday,” said Mrs Peabody, changing the subject. “She was looking for Joe the handyman… something about painting over graffiti on a wall?”
Poppy pulled a face. “Yes, someone spray-painted offensive pictures on the back wall of the cottage. We think it was probably that gang of teenage boys—”
“Ah! Those boys are getting worse by the day,” said Mrs Peabody, her mouth tightening. “Did you know that one of the shops in the village high street had fresh sheep manure smeared all over its windows? It was absolutely disgusting. That section of the street stank to high heaven! Everyone was so upset, especially the ladies at the tourist information office. They work so hard to promote Bunnington as a great place to visit and this kind of thing completely ruins their efforts.”
Poppy grimaced. “I’m surprised the police haven’t done anything.”
“I’ve called the police several times but they just don’t seem to treat it as a serious problem,” said Mrs Peabody angrily.
“Well, I suppose compared to murders and assaults, it probably isn’t—”
“And where do they think those murderers and violent criminals come from?” demanded Mrs Peabody. “It’s boys like these—ooh, yes, you mark my words. They might start with malicious pranks but if no one stops them, they’ll soon move on to more serious crime.”
“What about the parents? Can’t you speak to them?”
“They’re not from the village. No one has been able to identify those boys. I imagine they’re from one of the nearby towns. They seem to come to Bunnington and sneak onto properties during the night. What we need to do is catch them red-handed! Anyway, I hope Mrs Hopkins was able to find Joe to sort out your graffiti?”
“Oh yes, he came over yesterday afternoon and painted over it in a jiffy. He was so ki
nd—he said it was just a small job and refused to take any money for it. Nell insisted that he take some of her Chelsea buns, though—”
“Ah, Mrs Hopkins bakes, does she?” said Mrs Peabody with grudging approval.
“Yes, she really enjoys it. When we lived in London, her cleaning jobs were usually in the evenings, so she was free in the daytime and used to do a lot of her baking then.”
“And I understand she’ll be working for your cousin, Hubert Leach, and cleaning his office, as well as all the rental properties that his company manages?”
Poppy blinked. How did this woman know everything? “Er… yes, that’s right.”
She didn’t add that she was still dreading the day Hubert would demand his “pound of flesh”. When Nell had lost her cleaning contract in London, it had seemed logical to approach her cousin and ask if he could help find work opportunities for her friend. And when Hubert had offered a permanent cleaning job that Nell could walk into as soon as she moved to Oxfordshire, it had seemed a small price to pay to agree to an unnamed “favour” for the future. Still, although Hubert hadn’t contacted her yet, Poppy had been wondering uneasily what it might be.
“Well, perhaps when your friend has settled in more, she might like to consider joining the church committee,” said Mrs Peabody. “We often hold fundraising events and someone who can bake well would be very helpful. In fact, she could even—” Mrs Peabody broke off as her eyes alighted on a couple of men dismantling the bunting strung across the stalls. She raised her voice and said in exasperation: “No, no, no—you need to concertina the flags so that they lie on top of one another! If you just dump them in a pile, it will take forever to untangle them!” She rushed over and snatched the tangled bundle from the men.
“Where is Sonia?” Mrs Peabody asked, looking irritably around. “She was supposed to be here to help and me supervise those men!”
“I just saw her in the village post shop,” said Poppy. “Perhaps she’s still on the way?”
“Oh, no, she was here—she was ranting and raving about that knife again, and saying something about finding Ursula’s real killer… To be honest with you, I stop paying attention when she becomes like that. I asked her to fetch something from my car, but she should have come back by now.” Mrs Peabody heaved an exasperated sigh. “I only asked her to come help me with the take-down because all other members of the committee were busy, but now I’m wishing I hadn’t bothered! Really, I don’t know what to do with that woman. She is completely unstable. Did you know, last month she nearly made us stop a committee meeting because Greg—that’s the treasurer—accidentally broke the hall mirror in my house? It was loose anyway, you see; I’d been meaning to fix the hook for ages… Anyway, Sonia started wailing about seven years’ bad luck and insisting that we drop everything to pick up the broken pieces and break the curse.”
“Is there actually a way to counteract the curse?” asked Poppy, curious in spite of herself.
Mrs Peabody rolled her eyes. “Oh, several apparently. According to Sonia, you can bury the pieces in the moonlight or throw them into running water or pound them up so that they can’t reflect anything again… Frankly, it’s all a load of twaddle if you ask me! I refused to stop the meeting just to humour her ridiculous superstitions and Sonia stormed out.” Her mouth twisted. “If it had been up to me, I would never have had her on the committee, but Ursula felt sorry for her, you see. Sonia has been out of work for a long time and hasn’t been able to get another job yet. I suppose Ursula felt that it would help her self-esteem to have some kind of official role on the board of SOAR. We’re all volunteers, of course, so it’s unpaid, but it was supposed to give her some sense of purpose and identity.”
“That was really considerate of her.”
“Yes, Ursula was always so kind and thoughtful that way.” Mrs Peabody shook her head sadly. “I just don’t understand why anyone would want to kill her!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There was no sign of Muriel anywhere when Poppy finally left Mrs Peabody and went into the house. As she walked farther down the hallway, however, she heard the sound of a dog whining. It sounded like Flopsy and it was coming from the end of the hallway. Thinking that Muriel might be in a room at the other end with her pet, Poppy made her way down the hallway, following the sound until she came to a door that was slightly ajar. She was about to knock when she heard a yelp from inside the room, followed by the sound of a man cursing viciously. She froze with her hand in mid-air, then leaned slowly forwards so that she could peer around the corner of the partially open door.
Through the gap, she saw a room that had probably once been an elegant morning parlour but had been converted into a combination of a dog-themed playroom and a canine grooming parlour. Framed portraits of Flopsy decorated the walls and a luxurious dog bed in the shape of an overstuffed bone occupied the centre of the room, surrounded by piles of dog toys, rubber chews, treat balls, cushions, and blankets. Beside the window was a raised table and a rack filled with an assortment of scissors, grooming brushes, nail clippers, conditioning sprays, and even a hair dryer.
The toy poodle herself was standing on the table, being groomed by Kirby. She didn’t look like she was enjoying it, squirming and wriggling and then letting out another yelp as he ran the grooming brush roughly down her back.
“Oh, shut up!” Kirby snarled, yanking the brush even more viciously.
Flopsy growled and jerked her head around, as if to bite him, but Kirby clamped a hand around her neck and grabbed her by the scruff. He gave her a shake, leaning down and sneering:
“Don’t try anything with me, you little bitch! Your ‘Mummy’ isn't here now—it’s just you and me—and I’m going to show you who’s boss!” He gave her another shake.
Flopsy whined again and writhed in his hands, but Kirby tightened his cruel grip, forcibly holding her squirming body down on the table.
“Stop that! Stop that or I swear I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!”
He grabbed a pair of scissors from the rack and Poppy gasped as she saw the light glinting off the sharp edges. The sound made Kirby freeze and look up.
“Who's there?” he asked sharply.
Poppy stepped into the room. The pet nanny hastily dropped the scissors and let Flopsy go.
“Oh… it’s you.” He relaxed slightly, then gave a forced laugh. “You probably heard darling Flopsy and me having a little spat. I was just giving her a groom—her coat gets horribly tangled, you know, and needs constant attention to maintain it at salon perfection. But Flopsy and I love our grooming sessions together… don't we?"
He gave the poodle an exaggerated look of affection, then reached out a hand to pat her head. Flopsy bared her teeth at him and backed away.
“Ah… haha—look at her playing games with me,” said Kirby quickly, giving another high-pitched laugh. “She can be so naughty sometimes… but, of course, I do love her and all her little antics.”
The poodle growled at him and lifted her lips, showing tiny gleaming white teeth.
Kirby cleared his throat, then turned back to Poppy and said: “Was there anything I can help you with?”
“I was just looking for Muriel,” she replied. “I wanted to ask if she had any final instructions for me before I started digging up the old rock garden.”
“She’s gone to Oxford,” said Kirby.
Poppy was surprised that the old lady hadn't taken her precious poodle with her. Kirby must have guessed her thoughts because he added smoothly:
“She was going to see her solicitor and then have lunch with some friends at one of the posh restaurants, but they don't accept animals, so she decided to leave Flopsy at home. In any case, she knew that Flopsy would be in good hands, here with me… don't you agree, Flopsy-pooh?” he cooed, puckering his lips and blowing a kiss at the poodle.
Poppy turned away, disgusted by his hypocrisy. "Oh, right… thanks. I'll just head out and get started then," she said shortly, not want
ing to stay in the man's company for any longer than necessary.
Outside, she headed for the secluded area around the side of the house, away from all the activity at the front, and surveyed the old rock garden. From her pocket, she pulled out the paper with the list of scented herbs and plants that she’d made. Poppy had been determined not to make the same mistake from her first gardening job a couple of weeks ago—where she had done no research, naively assuming that all that was required to produce a beautiful garden was to dig a hole, pop the plant in, then add some water. She had paid for her naivete and newbie arrogance, and had nearly lost the whole flowerbed, not to mention her good name. This time she had made a great effort to not only research the plants but also note down their growing requirements, such as what kind of soil they preferred and how much sunshine they needed.
Now, armed with this knowledge and feeling much more confident, Poppy walked around the area, consulting her notes and mentally placing plants in different positions. I’ll plant lavender here, along the side of the path, just like at Hollyhock Cottage—that way you can smell their gorgeous fragrance when you walk along the path and brush against them, she thought, following the route where she intended to lay the gravel. And over here, where the ground slopes upwards, I’ll plant clary sage and thyme together, since they both like really well-draining soil. The little pink flowers of the thyme will look really pretty with the spikes of purple flowers on the clary sage… Poppy smiled as she imagined the scene. She turned around to survey the opposite side of the path. And I’ll plant some marigolds here, beside these rocks—their bright orange and yellow flowers should really pop against the dark grey rock… Oh, and this spot would be perfect for a chamomile lawn—oh wait, maybe it’s too shady—maybe that area instead? I could put some marsh mallow here instead—they’re supposed to be happy in some light shade… Hmm… what about the valerian? It’s supposed to grow to a metre and a half tall, so it needs to go somewhere at the back… maybe next to those rocks there?
