by H. Y. Hanna
Still, there was what Norman had said: about hearing Kirby in the old servants’ quarters… if he hadn’t been planting the murder weapon in Betsy’s room, then what had he been doing there?
Poppy realised that Kirby had looked up and seen her.
“Oh… there you are,” he said ungraciously. “I’ve been waiting ages.”
Poppy hesitated, then plastered on a polite smile and approached him. He might have been a suspect but he also represented her client and, until she had proof, she had to treat him as normal.
“Where’s Muriel—I mean, Mrs Farnsworth?” Poppy asked.
“Oh, she had to go down to London unexpectedly. She won’t be back until tomorrow evening, so she asked me to bring Flopsy over,” said Kirby, lazily stubbing out his cigarette in a nearby plant pot.
Poppy felt a flicker of irritation. “That’s not an ashtray,” she said.
“Oh? Well, it’s all organic, isn’t it? It’ll break down,” said Kirby, giving her an insolent smile.
Poppy felt her irritation growing but she took a deep breath and said, as coolly as possible, “Why don’t you walk Flopsy around so she can sniff the plants?”
Kirby moved off in a bored fashion, dragging the toy poodle behind him. It was obvious that Flopsy didn’t like him and didn’t want to go anywhere with him, and Poppy felt slightly sorry for the dog. She watched askance as Kirby made a half-hearted attempt to wander around the flowerbeds, barely paying any attention to the dog that he was pulling behind him.
“Look… you’re going too fast,” she called out. “You’re not giving her any chance to sniff anything! You should be following her, not the other way around. I want to see which plants she picks out on her own.”
Kirby heaved an exaggerated sigh and followed her instructions with bad grace, but Poppy was pleased to see that, after a few moments, Flopsy seemed to relax and begin to show some interest in the surrounding plants. The poodle wandered over to a large clump of yarrow and sniffed it with interest, then turned her attention briefly to a patch of chamomile, before trotting towards a small shrub which she seemed to become very excited by. She rubbed her face against its clusters of hairy, grey-green leaves.
Poppy frowned, trying to recognise the plant. It looked a bit like mint, although she knew it definitely wasn’t that herb. It had a few spikes of dirty pale-pink flowers, and overall wasn’t a very attractive plant. But whatever it was, Flopsy obviously loved it. Poppy hurried into the cottage and grabbed one of her grandmother’s plant books—a handy pocket guide with well-thumbed pages that suggested Mary Lancaster had often used it too. She flipped through the book as she walked back outside, searching for a plant that resembled the one Flopsy was nuzzling. No… not this… nor this one… hmm… it could be this but the leaves look different… or how about—
Poppy stopped in her tracks, her heart skipping a beat, as the page fell open to a photo of flowering hydrangeas. Underneath the image were the usual sections of information on the plant’s origins, ideal location, and watering needs, as well as other things to watch out for, such as pests, diseases, and toxicity. It was the last section that Poppy stared at. Her heart began to pound as she read the words:
“Many people know about infamous poisonous plants, like Datura and deadly nightshade, but few know that the common Hydrangea macrophylla, found in many home gardens, can be toxic to pets and humans as well. All parts of the plant contain cyanogenic glycosides—a poisonous compound which causes nausea and vomiting, stomach pain, sweating, diarrhoea, lethargy, and, in severe cases, convulsions and coma…”
“OH MY GOD!” Poppy gasped.
She dropped the book and ran past a puzzled-looking Kirby and Flopsy as she rushed out of the cottage garden. She raced across the village, running faster than she’d ever done in her life. Her stomach churned as her imagination conjured up images of sick and dying children sprawled around her flower arrangement, and distraught mothers wailing with grief.
No… no… no… how could I have missed that? I thought I was safe with all the flowers I’d picked… Oh God, what if a child ate one of the flowers? What if they all did? How am I going to face the mothers? How am I going to live with myself?
She arrived at Moira’s house gasping and panting, and had to support herself against the door jamb as she rang the bell. Her chest hurt and she felt as if she could hardly draw a breath, although she didn’t know if this was due to the gruelling run or to the panic swamping her. Moira opened the door and stared in surprise.
“Poppy! What on earth—”
“The… the flower arrangement…” Poppy gasped. “The hydrangeas… mustn’t let any child… poison…”
“Poppy, slow down—I can’t understand what you’re saying,” said Moira. “Here, would you like to come in and have a glass of water—”
She was interrupted by the sound of a scream and then a child wailing, followed by several cries of alarm coming from the end of the hallway.
Poppy’s heart leapt into her throat. She stumbled after Moira as the woman hurried into the living room, then froze as she stared in horror at the scene in front of her.
A little girl was clutching her stomach and hunched over, vomiting onto the carpet, which was covered with red stains. A woman was bent over her, trying to hold her up, whilst the other mothers were trying to soothe the rest of the children, who were crying and wailing as well.
“Oh God!” Poppy rushed over to the little girl and grabbed the mother’s arm. “What happened? Did she eat the leaves? Or the flowers?”
The woman looked at her. “I’m… I’m sorry?”
“The hydrangea!” cried Poppy, almost wild with panic. “Which part did she eat?”
“N-none of them,” said the woman, looking baffled. “She just had too much jelly.”
“J-jelly?” Poppy sagged backwards and stared at her. “You… you mean…”
“Oh dear—is it the food colouring?” asked Moira, coming to join them. “I did try to choose the one that had the least artificial ingredients but—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” said the mother, smiling. “Sarah always gets over-excited and eats too much jelly too quickly and then she’s sick everywhere… I probably shouldn’t let her have any, but she does love it so much…”
Their voices seemed to fade away into the distance. Poppy groped for somewhere to sit down. Her legs felt like jelly themselves and she thought she was going to vomit too. She lowered herself trembling onto a nearby sofa and took several deep breaths.
A little girl came up to her and looked at her curiously. “Did you eat too much jelly too?”
Poppy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Before she could answer, Moira appeared beside her and eyed her with concern.
“Are you all right, Poppy? You look a bit green around the gills yourself.”
Poppy stood up again with an effort and gave the woman a weak smile. “I’m… I’m fine… I just had a bit of a scare.” She took a deep breath, then looked around the room. “Er… where did you put the flower arrangement?”
“Oh, it’s over there,” said Moira, pointing to the dining table on the other side of the room.
Poppy saw her flowers having pride of place in the centre of the table, surrounded by several buffet-style dishes.
“I thought I’d keep it up, out of the way of little fingers. I didn’t want any of the children spoiling the flowers,” Moira explained.
“Oh… oh, thank goodness!” said Poppy, heaving a shuddering sigh of relief. “I’m terribly sorry—I chose the flowers so carefully this morning and I didn’t realise until after I got back home that hydrangea are poisonous. I was terrified some of the children might have eaten them or something—”
To her astonishment, Moira burst out laughing. “And you rushed back here because of that? Well, let me put your mind at rest…” She pointed to the large bifold doors on one side of the living room, which looked out onto the back garden. “We have hydrangea all over the garden ourselves! See?”
>
Poppy followed the direction of her finger and saw that there were indeed several large hydrangea bushes in the borders. “But… but aren’t you worried about Emma getting poisoned?”
Moira shrugged. “I suppose she could, in theory… but we had hydrangea in the garden growing up, and me and my sisters never had any problems. We had loads of other plants that were supposed to be dangerous too—things like daffodils and irises and poinsettia and, yes, even foxgloves,” she said, chuckling. “My parents just explained to us about plants being poisonous and taught us not to eat any leaves or flowers or berries, and to always wash our hands after we’d been in the garden. I’m doing the same with Emma.”
Another mother, who had been listening, leaned over and added, “Almost every common plant out there is poisonous if you eat it—you’d end up with nothing but grass in the garden if you tried to avoid everything!”
“Yes, and then your kids would probably get poisoned when they went out to the park or to a friend’s house or something,” a third woman chimed in.
Moira nodded. “Much better that you show them and teach them in your own garden.” She smiled at Poppy. “But it was sweet of you to be so worried. I’m sorry you had a scare, though.”
“No, it’s okay… I’m just glad that I was worried for nothing,” said Poppy, feeling her heart rate finally beginning to return to normal.
“Would you like a cup of tea? Or something to eat?” Moira gestured to the buffet.
“No, thank you. I’ve got to get back. I’ve actually got a… a sort of client waiting for me back at Hollyhock Cottage. But thanks very much for the offer,” she said with a grateful smile.
Still feeling weak with relief, Poppy walked slowly back home. She would make herself a strong cup of tea when she got back, she decided. With lots of sugar. And maybe some brandy too, she thought with a sheepish smile.
Arriving back at the cottage, she looked across the flowerbeds as she entered through the gate, searching for Kirby amongst the shrubs and flowers. She didn’t like the man, but politeness dictated that she offer him tea too if she was making a cup for herself. She couldn’t see him anywhere though… Poppy scanned the area twice. Perhaps he had taken Flopsy to the back of the property?
Then, as she walked farther up the path, she caught sight of the pet nanny. He was stretched out on the stone bench set against the far wall, smoking a cigarette, with his eyes closed and his face turned up to the sun. Poppy felt that familiar flicker of irritation. The lazy git was supposed to be taking Flopsy around the garden, not enjoying a spot of sunbathing!
She marched up to him and started to say something, then paused and looked around, frowning.
“Kirby—where’s Flopsy?”
“Eh?” He opened his eyes and blinked sleepily, then hastily sat up. “Oh… erm… she’s just over there.”
Poppy turned to look in the direction he was pointing. “Where? I don’t see her.” She flashed him an accusatory look. “You were supposed to be watching her.”
“Oh, don’t worry—she can’t wander off. I tied her leash to the sundial there.”
Poppy bit back the sharp words she wanted to say and stomped over to the sundial. But when she got there, she stared in dismay.
“She’s not here!” she cried.
Kirby got up and hurried over, looking annoyed. “What do you mean—she’s not there? I tell you, she was tied up—”
He broke off and stared as well. The leash was still securely tied to the sundial… but the other end lay limply on the ground, the jagged edges showing where the nylon had been chewed through. Kirby let out an expletive.
Flopsy was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Poppy stood self-consciously outside the garden gate of Hollyhock Cottage, waiting for Henry Farnsworth's red Porsche to arrive. After the day she’d just had, the last thing she felt like doing was going out for a romantic dinner—but it would have been too rude to cancel at the last minute. Besides, she needed to go ahead with her plan to check Henry’s phone records and see if he was the one who’d called Ursula on the day of the murder. It would be nice to feel like she was in control of something and making progress somewhere, after the disastrous events of the day.
She thought of her happy mood that morning as she had walked back from Moira’s house (the first time!)—how confident and content she’d been, feeling like everything was finally starting to go her way at last… and how quickly that had all changed. First that horrendous scare with the hydrangea in her flower arrangement—she still couldn’t think of it without shuddering—and then the horror of finding Flopsy gone.
She and Kirby had searched the whole garden, then the cul-de-sac outside and the surrounding lanes, but there had been no sign of the toy poodle. Of course, Poppy knew that it wasn’t technically her fault—after all, she wasn’t employed to watch the little dog and she hadn’t even been around when Flopsy had disappeared. It had been Kirby’s responsibility and it was he who would have to face Muriel when the old lady returned tomorrow.
Still, Poppy couldn’t shake off the sense of guilt, partly because it had happened on her property and partly because she had an uneasy feeling that she knew who had helped Flopsy escape. She knew one little dog who was smart enough to chew through that leash. In fact, her worst suspicions were confirmed when—after Kirby had left—she popped over to Bertie’s house and asked the old inventor where his terrier was.
Bertie had looked up distractedly from the elaborate coil of glass tubes he was heating and said: “Einstein? Isn’t he sleeping in the sitting room? He just seems to mope around all the time these days.”
But Einstein’s bed had been empty and Poppy was sure that the little terrier had somehow realised that his beloved was near, had sneaked into the cottage garden through the gap in the stone wall, and had convinced Flopsy to leave her life of pampering and luxury for one of smelly marrowbones and canine adventure.
Bertie had accompanied her on another search around the area but they had seen no sign of the two dogs. The old inventor had assured her that Einstein would come home of his own accord (apparently it wasn’t the first time the little terrier had gone AWOL) and Poppy hoped that he was right.
Well, I can’t do anything about it now, she thought with a sigh, trying to push her worries from her mind as she smoothed down the skirt of her dress. I have to concentrate on tonight. She looked down and wondered if she had picked the right outfit for the evening. She hadn’t wanted to look like she was making too much of an effort—in case that gave Henry the wrong ideas about her feelings for him—but at the same time, she didn't want to be rude by “under-dressing” for the occasion. In the end, she had opted for a cotton dress in a pretty floral print, which had ruffled sleeves, a fitted bodice, and a flared skirt which fell to just above her knees. It was an old dress that she’d bought from Marks & Spencer years ago, but it had lasted well and still looked good.
She had applied minimal make-up—just some mascara to highlight her blue eyes and a touch of pink gloss on her lips—and left her hair down to fall in dark brown waves around her shoulders. Nell had looked at her approvingly as she’d stepped out of the bedroom and had smiled, saying:
“It's so nice to see you dressing up and going out for a date, dear. It's about time you had a bit of fun with a nice young man.”
If only Nell knew the real reason I’d accepted Henry’s invitation, Poppy thought. She had decided that it was easier not telling her old friend the whole truth. For one thing, she felt uncomfortable admitting her mercenary motives. The idea of being a honey trap had seemed glamorous and exciting when Nick had first suggested it, but now she felt slightly uneasy about the whole thing.
Well, it’s too late to back out now, she thought grimly as a red Porsche came down the lane, its engine rumbling. She slipped a hand into the concealed pocket in the skirt of her dress and felt a slim weight press reassuringly into her palm. It was the device Bertie had made to bypass a phone’s passcode and she
reminded herself that as long as she had this, things should be easy.
“You just have to clamp it over the phone like this, my dear,” Bertie had demonstrated eagerly for her. “And it will hack into the phone’s system and unlock it for you. It should only take a few seconds.”
“It’s not going to explode or start singing a song or something, is it?” Poppy had asked. The one thing she’d learned about Bertie’s inventions was that they never performed as expected.
“Oh no! Although now that you mention it… hmm… the ability to play music simultaneously would be interesting—”
“Uh… never mind,” Poppy had said hastily, snatching the device out of Bertie’s hands.
She curled her fingers around the device now, squeezing it once again for reassurance, then withdrew her hand, plastered a smile on her face, and went forwards to greet Henry. He got out of the car and escorted her to the front passenger seat, opening the door with flourish. When she was settled, he returned to the driver’s seat, gunned the engine, and swung the car in a wide arc around the end of the cul-de-sac before pulling smoothly out of the lane.
“I say—you look marvellous,” he said, eyeing Poppy with open admiration. “I’m going to be the envy of every chap in the restaurant tonight.”
“Thanks,” said Poppy awkwardly. “Um… where are we going?”
“Oh, to this great place in Jericho," said Henry. “They've got a fantastic wine list—and some pretty good nosh too.”
“Jericho?” said Poppy, puzzled.
Henry laughed. “No, I’m not whisking you off to the Middle East. Jericho’s a suburb just outside central Oxford. It’s sort of hip and bohemian—there’s an arthouse cinema and several cocktail bars and some pretty good restaurants with eclectic menus.”
“Ah, right… sounds great,” said Poppy, trying to look enthusiastic.
All she could think about was that she hoped the restaurant had toilets quite far from the main dining room. Because the only way she could think of getting an opportunity to snoop on Henry’s phone was to wait for him to use the Gents (and hope that he left his phone behind on the table). When they arrived at the restaurant, she looked frantically around as they were shown to their table, trying to see the signs for the public toilets.
