by H. Y. Hanna
She paused and scanned the area again, wondering what to do about all the rocks and boulders scattered around the area. It would be much easier to work with the existing landscape, instead of trying to change too much, but there were definitely some rocks that needed to be shifted and rearranged. She would need the help of the estate gardeners to move the larger boulders but she could probably shift many of the smaller rocks herself. She bent down and began to experimentally move a few. Most of them came fairly easily, but there was one in particular which—despite not being that large—seemed to be deeply embedded in the ground. Poppy knew that she should probably leave it for the estate gardeners to handle as well, but once she’d started it became like a personal challenge for her to loosen it and get it out.
Perhaps if I dig a trench underneath it, then I can get a spade in and lever it up, she thought, dropping to her hands and knees and starting to scrabble in the soil around the rock. She was surprised to find that the earth was quite loose—almost as if it had recently been dug up and then pushed back. And she had barely started scraping the earth away when her fingers touched something hard.
Poppy paused, then went a bit more slowly. She groped with her fingers, finding a slim object buried in the earth. She wiggled it and pulled it out from underneath the rock, brushing aside the loose soil to reveal a dark brown wood handle, with a hinge on one side and the edge of a metal blade showing through a slot in the wood.
It’s the pruning knife, she realised suddenly. The one that had been in the box of items donated from Norman’s antique shop; the one that Sonia had had a screaming fit about and insisted would bring bad luck. The last time Poppy had seen it was when Ursula had picked it up and removed it from the raffle donations, to soothe the hysterical woman. In her mind, Poppy heard Mrs Peabody’s voice again, saying: “Oh yes, it’s very sharp. Cuts through most things…”
Her fingers trembling slightly, Poppy turned the knife over and carefully flicked it open. Then she froze, her heart pounding as she stared at the blade. It gleamed dully, its cutting edge marked by a rusty brown stain.
The police would have to test it to confirm, but Poppy knew that it was blood. The knife dropped from her nerveless fingers.
She had just found the murder weapon.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Poppy stared at the knife, wondering what to do. The obvious thing, of course, was to call the police and report it. Surely, now that Sergeant Lee had new evidence in the case, he would be willing to consider alternative theories? Then her mouth tightened as she remembered the way Lee had brushed her off. Somehow, she had a bad feeling that the arrogant sergeant would still insist on sticking to his original theory. He would simply say that the ex-robber had managed to bury the murder weapon in the old rock garden before he was arrested, or something similarly ridiculous. Poppy had seen before how the sergeant massaged facts to support his theories, instead of the other way around.
I should just bypass Lee and go straight to Suzanne, she thought. She had hesitated to do that so far because it seemed petty to challenge the sergeant’s authority on the case and it made her feel like she was telling tales to his superiors. After all, if Suzanne trusted her sergeant to handle the case, then who was Poppy to question that? Except that he’s not handling the case properly! fumed Poppy. He’s not considering all the alternative scenarios, the other potential suspects…
She stared down at the knife again. Perhaps there will be fingerprints that can be lifted, she thought, looking down at the rough, porous surface of the wooden handle. Or perhaps DNA fragments or some other kind of marker. The forensic technology available nowadays is amazing, and even if the murderer just brushes things with their bare fingers—
The thought of “fingers” brought the image of dirty fingernails suddenly to her mind. Betsy the maid… and her fingernails with soil embedded underneath... Poppy recalled the girl’s pale, frightened face and the way she had seemed so nervous and jumpy yesterday. And then she remembered the way Betsy had come running breathlessly into the kitchen. Where had she been? Poppy glanced down at the knife again. Outside burying the incriminating murder weapon?
On an impulse, she sprang up and hurried back to the manor with the knife carefully wrapped in her gardening gloves. She approached via the rear of the building and was pleased when she found the utility room door open, with Betsy just backing out, carrying a basket of laundry.
"Betsy?"
The girl jumped and whirled around. “Yes?” She relaxed slightly as she saw Poppy. “Oh, it’s you.”
Poppy said without preamble: “I was digging in the old rock garden and I found something strange…” She held up the knife for the girl to see. Betsy’s eyes widened and her face drained of all colour.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Poppy said, taking a step forwards. “You buried the pruning knife under that rock. That’s why you had soil under your fingernails yesterday. You were trying to get rid of the murder weapon—”
“NO!” cried Betsy, her face horrified. “I would never—I didn’t kill Miss Ursula! I couldn’t murder anyone—”
“But you did bury the knife?” insisted Poppy.
The girl hesitated for a moment, looking as if she was going to deny it, then she crumpled and nodded. “Yeah… I did… but I didn’t murder Miss Ursula—I didn’t! You have to believe me!”
“Then why were you burying the knife? Why did you have it in the first place?”
“I just found it—okay? It was pushed under my mattress. I dunno how it got there. On the day Miss Ursula got murdered, when I got back to my room that night, I found the door open. Someone had come in and shoved the knife under my mattress!”
“Are you saying that someone planted it there?”
The girl nodded vehemently. “Yeah, I think someone is tryin’ to frame me!”
Poppy frowned. “But… why would anyone want to do that?”
“’Cos I'm an easy target!" cried the girl. “I'm the maid, aren't I? People always suspect maids; they always think we’re stealin’ or things like that. Plus, Miss Ursula managed the household—she was, like, my boss. People are goin’ to say we had a fight and I was holdin’ a grudge against her or somethin’…” She paused, then gave Poppy a pointed look. “I’ll tell you who really had a fight with Miss Ursula: Henry!”
“Henry Farnsworth? Muriel’s great-nephew?”
Betsy nodded. “Real nasty it was too. He was furious, callin’ her all sorts of names, and then he stormed out and drove off.”
“When was that?”
“The night before the fête. He didn’t come back until the next afternoon, after… after it all happened.”
“What was the fight about?” asked Poppy.
“I was listenin’ through a door so it was muffled; I only got bits and pieces.” Betsy paused, thinking. “It was somethin’ about money… I heard Miss Ursula say: ‘I’ve been too soft with you, Henry—I should’ve told Muriel about this long ago, when I got that call from London, but I was feeling sorry for you—’ and Henry cut her off; he was beggin’ her not to say anythin’, but Miss Ursula kept insistin’ that Mrs Farnsworth deserved to know, as it was her money… and then Henry started gettin’ nasty and swearin’ and callin’ her names… Then he told Miss Ursula that if she said a word to Mrs Farnsworth, he’d make her sorry.”
Poppy stared at the other girl. The whole thing sounded almost too perfect to be true—like scripted dialogue for a movie. Was Betsy telling the truth? Or was she the one who was trying to frame someone else—namely Henry? After all, if she had been found out, the logical thing was to think on her feet and push the blame onto someone else as fast as she could.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Betsy looked at her tearfully. “You think I’m lyin’! You think I’m makin’ it up!”
“I… well, you have to admit, it sounds a bit too pat. I mean, do people actually say ‘I’ll make you sorry’ in real life?”
“That’s what I heard!” cried Betsy. “Hones
t! That’s what I heard through the door.”
“So why didn’t you tell this to the police?”
“I was goin’ to! But then when I found the knife, I panicked, right? I mean… it’s the murder weapon, isn’t it? And on telly and things, they always arrest the person who has the murder weapon… I didn’t know what to do! When that detective sergeant arrived yesterday mornin’, I was so scared. What if he decided to search the house?”
“So as soon as you’d shown him to the drawing room, you ran back to get the knife and bury it outside,” guessed Poppy, remembering the gap between the time she’d seen Betsy escort Sergeant Lee in and the time she met Betsy herself in the kitchen.
The girl nodded miserably. “Yeah… I thought I’d better get it out of my room fast. I was just plannin’ to stash it somewhere safe until I decided what to do with it—like, whether to turn it in… or… or get rid of it…” She heaved a shuddering breath at the memory. “Oh God, when Mrs Farnsworth mentioned the dirt under my fingernails, I nearly died! I thought the sergeant was sure to suspect somethin’ then!”
No such luck, thought Poppy sourly. Sergeant Lee wouldn’t know a clue if it came up and danced topless on his lap.
“I was so thankful to get out without him sayin’ anythin’.” Betsy heaved a sigh of relief in memory. “But I stayed outside the door to listen and see if you were all talkin’ about me, and I heard that sergeant say the police already arrested somebody—some bloke who used to be a criminal. So they were goin’ to wrap up the case anyway and I thought… well, I thought: why make trouble for myself? So I just decided to keep quiet and say nothin’ about the knife.”
“But in the meantime, Ursula's real killer would have got away," said Poppy accusingly.
Betsy gave her a sullen look. “Look, I know it was wrong, okay? But it’s easy for you! You can be all sanctimonious, ‘cos you're not the one who was a murder suspect! You didn’t have a murder weapon in your room! And you know, I picked up that knife before I realised what it was. Then I opened the blade and I saw the brown stains…” She shuddered. “But you see? It’s got my prints all over it now and that’ll make me look guilty too!” She reached out to clutch Poppy’s arm. “Please, miss… don’t say anythin’ to the police! It doesn’t matter if they have the murder weapon or not; they’ve already got their man—”
“But they haven’t!” protested Poppy. “That’s just it. Sergeant Lee is wrong. I’m sure Ursula wasn’t murdered by that ex-robber they arrested… and the fact that the pruning knife was found in your bedroom proves it.”
“But… but that ex-con could have put it there—”
“Aww, come on! Not you too!” said Poppy in exasperation. “That is so far-fetched that it’s ridiculous. A man who is out on parole for good behaviour suddenly decides to viciously attack a random woman he never met while out at a busy public event—just for a mobile phone in a fancy cover? And then he takes the time to run into the manor house and find the maid’s room to hide the murder weapon under her bed? And then… he stays on at the fête, remaining in the crowd while the police arrive—just so they can easily arrest him?”
Betsy bowed her head. She looked so miserable that suddenly Poppy felt bad. In her zeal to find Ursula’s killer, she hadn’t really thought about the girl’s position. It was true that seeking justice was easy when you weren’t personally affected by it. She softened her voice and said:
“I’m sorry, Betsy; we can’t hide this from the police. They have to know about the murder weapon—it’s just too important to the investigation. But don’t worry—I’m sure they’ll be reasonable. In fact, I’m going to call Inspector Suzanne Whittaker—she’s Sergeant Lee’s superior and I know she won’t jump to conclusions. And I’ll vouch for you and support your story.”
“It won't help,” said the girl bitterly.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Poppy swallowed her misgivings and went to call Suzanne. The detective inspector didn’t answer so she left a message and returned to work on the scent garden. She pulled out her notes again and tried to immerse herself once more in the planning of the new garden, but she found it hard to concentrate, and she pounced on her phone when it rang a few minutes later.
“Hello, Suzanne?” she said excitedly.
To her dismay, a familiar nasal voice came across the line. “No, it’s Sergeant Lee here. The guv’nor asked me to return your call.”
“Oh… I was really hoping to speak to her,” said Poppy.
“Well, you can’t,” said Lee shortly. “She’s at Scotland Yard, down in London, for an important conference.”
“Will she be back tomorrow?”
“No, it’s running all week. Now, what did you want to speak to her about? You can talk to me. I’m in charge of everything while she’s away,” he said importantly.
Poppy hesitated. It would be petty and childish—and downright wrong—to refuse to tell the police about her discovery just because she couldn’t speak directly to Suzanne.
“I think I’ve found the murder weapon,” she blurted out. “The weapon that was used to kill Ursula Philips.”
“What? What do you mean?” demanded Sergeant Lee.
She told him about her grisly discovery in the old rock garden, then reluctantly added her hunch regarding Betsy’s dirty nails and the maid’s subsequent confession. She was pleased when Lee seemed to take her very seriously, saying that he was coming to Duxton House straightaway. He arrived a short while later, with several constables and a Forensics team in tow, and Poppy quickly went to meet him. She was anxious to put in a good word for Betsy before he went into the house and got the maid’s statement. Before she could speak, however, one of the estate gardeners came rushing up to them.
“Sir! Sir! Thank God you’re here! ’Bout time the police took this seriously.”
“Eh?” Sergeant Lee looked at the man in confusion.
“Those vandals, sir—that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? Come an’ see what those little blighters have done this time!”
Without waiting for him to reply, the man grabbed Lee’s arm and hustled him around the east side of the manor house. They rounded the corner and Poppy gasped in dismay. Someone had taken a pair of pruning shears to the beautifully clipped topiary decorating the formal flowerbeds and hacked at them brutally. Tall, elegant spires had been chopped in half, perfectly rounded domes were now sporting ragged holes, and the centrepiece, which had been clipped in the shape of a graceful swan, had been attacked with such aggression that the swan’s head had been completely hacked off and lay on the ground, amid a pile of broken twigs and scattered leaves. Nearby, Poppy could see a pair of shears lying on the ground, as if someone had been interrupted in the act, tossed it there, and run away.
“It’s them bloody boys! Going around the village, spray painting things an’ damaging property. I caught ’em on the estate yesterday an’ I chased ’em off—but they must’ve come back sometime this morning. It looked fine when I walked past an hour ago!” The gardener stared at the damaged plants, his chest heaving. “How could they do this? Do they have no heart? It’s taken me years…” He broke off and choked, looking near to tears.
Poppy felt a surge of pity. It must have taken years of careful growing and training and pruning to produce these magnificent topiary specimens. Besides, even if it hadn’t, the sheer senseless destruction of beautiful, healthy plants was enough to disgust her. This seemed to be going beyond boyish mischief and into cruel vandalism.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” the gardener demanded of Sergeant Lee. “You need to find these boys an’ lock ’em up!”
“I am CID—we don’t deal with petty crime like vandalism,” said Lee disdainfully. “But I’ll send one of the boys from Uniform to come and take your statement. If we can get an ID or catch them in the act, then we’ll arrest them.”
“But—”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a murder enquiry to attend to,” said Sergeant Lee importantly.
He turned and marched away.
Poppy gave the gardener a sympathetic smile, then hurried after the sergeant. He had taken the alternative route back round the manor house, going via the rear rather than the front, and she caught up with him just as they were passing through the courtyard behind the manor.
“Sergeant! Sergeant Lee!” she shouted.
He swung around impatiently to face her. “Yes, Miss Lancaster?”
“It’s about Betsy—” Poppy broke off as she caught sight of something beyond Lee’s shoulder.
On the far side of the courtyard was an old stone outhouse, with a roof that was partially covered by the spreading branches of an oak tree. She realised that she could see figures through the leafy branches: teenage boys crouched on the roof, scrambling to climb over the courtyard wall and drop down the other side.
There were three of them on the roof… and struggling to climb up and join them was the same young boy she had seen trip and fall yesterday. He was lunging up, desperately trying to reach the edge of the roof and swing himself up, like the older boys had done, but he just wasn’t tall enough or strong enough, and the older boys weren’t helping him. They were too busy saving themselves, getting over the wall as fast as they could. In a minute, they all dropped over the other side and disappeared from sight.
The abandoned boy whirled around, his eyes wide with fright as he saw Poppy and Sergeant Lee. He stood looking scared and helpless, with his back to the outhouse and his hands splayed out on either side of him, pressing against the wall as if for support. He was trapped and if Lee turned his head in that direction, the detective sergeant was bound to see him. In fact, all Poppy had to do was call his attention and point. The police were on site. They could probably chase and still catch the older boys and they could certainly take the youngest one into custody…
Poppy met the boy’s eyes, pleading mutely with her, and she hesitated.
