by H. Y. Hanna
Suzanne gave her an approving look. “That’s a lovely idea, Poppy. I’ll speak to Timothy’s mother and see what she says. I think she’d be very happy with the arrangement and it’ll be great for Timothy. Thanks.”
“By the way, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you too,” said Poppy. “It’s about Henry.” She glanced quickly around; she hadn’t actually seen Muriel’s great-nephew and she wondered if he wasn’t at Duxton House today. Still, she lowered her voice before continuing: “It’s been bugging me… Betsy the maid told me that she overheard Henry and Ursula arguing the night before the murder, and Henry practically threatened Ursula when she said she was going to tell Muriel something about him… Do you know what that was about? It was something to do with money, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, I questioned Henry myself last week, just to tie up all loose ends. Ursula had discovered his secret: he’s a compulsive gambler. He’d started gambling quite heavily during his travels around Europe and it had become a full-blown addiction by the time he returned to England.”
“Oh! Yes, of course, he mentioned that he’d ended up in Monte Carlo at the end of his travels,” Poppy recalled. “That’s one of the gambling capitals of the world, isn’t it? And now that you mention it, when we were out at dinner, he insisted on making this ridiculous bet over my father’s identity. I remember thinking at the time that it was a ludicrous thing to suggest, given that I might never find out who my father is and even if I did, Henry and I might not be in touch anymore to fulfil the bet… but he didn’t seem to care. It was almost as if he had an obsessive need to bet on something, anything. It all makes sense now!”
“Yes, I think it’s become a real problem and is dominating all of Henry’s time and energy now. He wouldn’t admit it but I suspect that he’s been visiting all sorts of dodgy gambling dens down in London, when he’s supposed to be at college—and constantly asking Muriel for extra money, of course, to cover his huge losses. Ursula found out about his gambling when she intercepted a phone call for Henry from a moneylender, by mistake.”
“And what about when he was hiding in the woods on the day of the murder? Who was he talking to then? Was that tied to the gambling as well?”
“Yes, that was another moneylender. I think Henry is up to his neck, to tell you the truth. He’s been borrowing money from all sorts of places in order to fund his habit and now he’s being hounded to pay a lot of it back. Apparently, that day he had been on his way to Duxton House to see Muriel but got this call and had to pull over to spend some time placating this person. And then he felt too unnerved to return to Duxton House, so he went for a drive to give himself time to think and come up with a plan for asking Muriel for more money. Of course, he didn’t expect to return home that evening to find the place a crime scene.”
“So does Muriel know now?” asked Poppy.
Suzanne sighed. “Well, that’s a difficult one. The police’s duty is to uphold the law, not solve domestic conflicts, and arguably Henry’s money troubles and gambling addiction are his personal business. If he chooses not to tell his great-aunt, it’s not really in my place to interfere with that.”
“But… but he’s lying to her and taking her money!” said Poppy. “I heard him! I happened to be outside the room when he was asking her, and he pretended that the money was for some textbooks he needed for university.”
Suzanne gave a cynical smile. “He probably isn’t the first to pull that stunt on a parent or guardian—and he won’t be the last. Lying to your family isn’t an official crime and how Muriel chooses to distribute her money is her business.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, this isn’t a Disney movie, Poppy, where everyone gets their comeuppance, and everything is wrapped up nicely with a bow. This is real life and in real life… well, you can’t always fix everything. People get away with bad behaviour. As long as they’re not committing an actual crime, there isn’t much the police can do about it.”
Poppy remained where she was long after Suzanne had left her and chewed over what the detective inspector had said. It really narked her that Henry would be able to continue his lying ways, but she knew that Suzanne was right. There were countless “men-behaving-badly” scenarios and injustices in the world that she could do nothing about. And maybe Muriel spending her wealth on her spoilt great-nephew was no different to the old lady spending her wealth on her spoilt dog, paying for things with questionable benefits like canine spa facials and doga sessions…
Then she heard Muriel’s loud voice carrying across the garden:
“…Flopsy? Oh, Kirby’s just giving her a last little groom. There’s a photographer here from Pampered Pooches magazine and I wanted her to look perfect for her photos. Kirby should be bringing her out any moment.”
Poppy smiled grimly to herself. Well, there might be things I can’t do anything about, but there is one man who I can make sure gets what he deserves. She slipped quietly away and headed back to the manor house. Inside, she made her way unerringly to the doggie playroom and grooming suite. As she drew near the half-open door, she heard a familiar impatient voice hissing:
“Hold still, you bloody little rat, or I’m going to slice your nose right off!”
Poppy slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out the item she had borrowed from Bertie, hoping she’d find a chance to use it today. Carefully, she removed the wrapping around the object, then bent and placed it on the ground, just outside the door. She wrinkled her nose at the pungent odour that wafted up from the slimy-looking brown pile. It was hard to believe it was all made of plastic polymers—it looked (and smelled) so realistic!
She tiptoed away as fast as she could and rejoined the party outside. She had left her knapsack by one of the boulders, and now she hurried over and rummaged inside until she found the wireless speaker. She took it out, placed it on top of the boulder, where it had unhindered reception from all sides, and switched it on. There was a loud crackling sound which made everyone stop talking and look around in confusion, then flinch as the speaker squealed with interference, searching for the signal from the hidden transmitter back in the house.
The next moment, loud and clear, Kirby’s irritable voice issued out of the speaker and filled the air.
“C’mon, c’mon… let’s get out there before that old bag Muriel starts bleating again… And if she gives me any more lip about your bloody mineral water, she can kiss my arse! Really, it’s beyond ridiculous what I have to put up with—AAGGGHH! FUC—”
There was a stumbling sound, like someone tripping, followed by a door rattling, then came Flopsy’s shrill yapping. Kirby cursed viciously and Poppy saw several of the older ladies in the garden wince and clap their hands over their ears.
“—you sodding dog! I can’t believe you did it here on the floor! Forget the bloody dog spa… what you need is toilet-training!”
There was a thump, then squealing from Flopsy, followed by the sounds of a struggle.
“Shut up, you little piece of—I’m going to rub your nose in it until you learn!”
Muriel gave a horrified cry and seemed to come alive from where she had been standing frozen. She rushed into the house and, a moment later, they heard her furious tones coming out of the speaker too.
“KIRBY!”
“M-Mrs Farnsworth! I… I didn’t see you ther… I mean… er…” A nervous laugh. “Sorry we’ve been delayed, but as you can see, Flopsy’s done a little accident on the floor, poor lamb. Maybe you’d like to take her out first while I clean up here—”
“Don’t try to pretend! I know the disgusting way you treat Flopsy behind my back!”
“What… what do you mean?” Another forced laugh. “You know I love Flopsy-pooh and I would never treat her badly—”
“You’re a liar! I heard everything you said just now, Kirby, starting from when you referred to me as an ‘old bag’.”
There was a strangled sound of horror. “But… but… how could you have—?”
“I don’t know how and I
don’t care. I’m just glad I finally know what a filthy liar you are.”
“What? No, I never—”
“You are hereby released from the tedious task of kissing my… bottom… or any other part of my anatomy.”
“No, ma’am… Please let me explain—”
“Have I not made myself clear, Kirby? YOU’RE FIRED.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The tea party to celebrate the new canine scent garden at Duxton House was a great success, not least because of the exciting drama with Kirby that would probably occupy the village gossips for weeks. As the afternoon drew to a close and people started leaving, Poppy also began preparing to return to Hollyhock Cottage. As she returned her teacup to the trestle table, she was pleased to see Betsy collecting the tea service and leftover scones. It was good to know that the maid was back at work.
“Hi, Betsy,” she said hesitantly.
The girl stiffened, then said with an effort at politeness, “Hello, miss.”
“Betsy, I just wanted to say I’m really sorry again,” said Poppy in a rush. “I’ve been feeling awful about it all. I know it doesn’t make up for the horrible experience you had, but I honestly didn’t think the police would arrest you. I thought Sergeant Lee would be reasonable and not jump to conclusions.”
The girl’s face softened slightly. “Well, I suppose you thought you were doin’ the right thing.”
“If you have any more trouble with the police or with Muriel, please let me know and I’ll try to do everything I can to help. I’ll vouch for you, I’ll stand up in court and swear testament to your good character, I’ll—”
“Ta, it’s all right,” said the girl, looking surprised but pleased. “Actually, Mrs Farnsworth has been really nice about everythin’. She said she never suspected me at all, and in fact, she’s even given me a promotion!” Betsy beamed. “She’s just told me that she’d like to give me the job of bein’ Flopsy’s next pet nanny.”
“Oh… er, congratulations,” said Poppy, wondering if commiserations would have been more suitable.
“Thanks,” said the maid. Then her gaze went over Poppy’s shoulder and she muttered, “Oh God, not him again…”
Poppy turned to look and was surprised to see Norman walking slowly towards them. He was stopping every so often to bend down and pick a flower as he passed various clumps of plants in the scent garden.
“I hope he’s not pickin’ those flowers for me…” said Betsy with a dark look.
“Norman’s been giving you flowers?” said Poppy in surprise.
Betsy nodded, her face creasing with annoyance. “Yeah. All week. He’s been hangin’ around the manor too, comin’ into the kitchen all the time… Keeps wantin’ to read some soddin’ poem to me—for God’s sake, I haven’t got time for that! I’ve got work to do, you know!” She grabbed the tray with the tea things. “I’m gettin’ out of here before he sees me.” And with another dour look in Norman’s direction, she hurried towards the manor.
The antique dealer arrived at the trestle table a few minutes later and looked around in disappointment. “Where’s Betsy?” he asked.
“Oh… um… I’m not sure,” said Poppy with a bright smile. She glanced at the little posy of flowers he was holding and said jokingly, “Are you stealing from my scent garden, Norman?”
He flushed. “It’s only a couple of flowers. I thought Betsy might like them—she’s all alone, you see, and after her terrible experience with the police, she needs someone to protect her… like Sir Lancelot did with Guinevere…”
Poppy eyed him with disappointment, surprised to find that after his passionate words about his romance with Ursula, he seemed to have forgotten her and moved on to someone else already. Then she wondered why she was surprised—she should have realised from the way that Norman had talked that he’d never had any real depth of feeling for Ursula. She thought of the way he had accused Sonia of “ruining his life” when he’d realised she was the murderer. He had been more selfishly aggrieved than genuinely grieving. The whole thing had been like a shallow schoolboy crush, which existed mostly in his sentimental fantasies. And now those fantasies had found a new object of worship…
Leaving him still searching for Betsy, Poppy hitched the knapsack over her shoulder and began walking out of the scent garden. Then she paused in surprise as a tall man joined her.
“I thought you’d left ages ago,” she said to Nick Forrest.
“Suzanne had to go first but I decided to stay on.” He reached into a pocket and withdrew a small, flat envelope. “Here… I got this back from my friend this morning. I don’t know if it’ll help much but he’s enhanced it the best he can.”
“Oh, thanks!” Poppy took the envelope excitedly and extracted the two photos it contained. One was the original faded picture that had been in her mother’s tin; the other was a copy—slightly enlarged and with the image brightened and sharpened. She peered closely at the latter, bringing it almost up to her nose, as she tried to make out more detail, particularly in the faces. But it was still too blurred to make out much and none of the men looked any more familiar than before.
She sighed and lowered the photo, giving Nick a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t know what I was expecting—it’s not as if he would have a label saying ‘Poppy’s dad’ on his forehead.”
“There might be other things, though, that could give you a lead,” said Nick, taking the photo from her. He narrowed his eyes and pointed to one corner of the picture. “See that sign in the background? That looks like a logo of a bar or a club—and the décor suggests that they’re in a nightclub of some kind. Perhaps some place that had bands playing.” He brought the photo closer. “And on this side… if you look behind this chap’s shoulder, you can see a bulletin board on the wall behind—see?”
“Yes…” said Poppy, leaning closer to look as well. “Yes, but I can’t really read any of the posters pinned on the board.”
He pointed at one of the rectangular shapes on the board. “No, but this looks to me like a Tube map. The London Underground,” he elaborated at Poppy’s blank look. “I’m willing to bet that this club was in London. So if you can track down the name of the place, you could contact them and see if they might have a record of the bands that played there around that time.” He shrugged. “I know it’s a very long shot but… it might be worth trying.”
“No, that’s a great idea. I’ll start researching London nightclubs and bars, and see if any of their logos match… thanks!” said Poppy, genuinely grateful. She grinned at him. “You know, you make a pretty good detective… and actor too. I was really impressed by the way you improvised with Henry that night at the restaurant—by the time you finished, I almost believed that his name was Stewart!”
Nick chuckled. “I have my moments.”
“I would never have managed to check Henry’s phone without your help. It was really nice of you to come that night,” added Poppy, feeling a sudden shyness come over her.
“Well… I wasn’t that nice when you came to my house the day before,” said Nick gruffly, running a hand through his unruly dark hair. “You caught me at a bad moment: I’d just got to the end of my first draft and realised that the motive for the murder doesn’t work, which means I’m going to have to do some major rewrites—and my editor is already breathing down my neck, demanding the manuscript…” His mouth twisted. “Anyway, the least I could do was check up on you…”
Poppy realised that Nick was trying, in his own way, to apologise for his grouchy manner, and she was touched. She was also surprised by the fact that even though he had been under a tight deadline, Nick had somehow made time to follow her to the restaurant that night to make sure that she was all right. She stole a look up at the tall man next to her. Nick Forrest was such a strange mass of contradictions!
He caught her looking and raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“N-nothing,” said Poppy, flushing and hastily dropping her eyes. “Um… that was really sweet of you to
come after me. And it was really nice of you to speak up for your father too,” she added.
Nick’s expression hardened and he scowled. “Crazy old goat… I should have let him be locked up. Best place for him. He’s a menace to everybody!”
Poppy didn’t say anything, but she smiled to herself. Somehow, she didn’t believe Nick’s harsh words and hard attitude anymore. He might try to hide it, but she was sure that deep down, he still cared about Bertie. Whatever it was that had caused the rift, she was sure there was some way to get father and son back together again.
She started walking once more and Nick fell into step beside her, but they had barely gone a few yards when he stumbled over something at the side of the path, hidden under foliage spilling out of the adjoining flowerbed. He bent down to pick it up and straightened again with a wooden ball in his hand.
“Must have been one of yours,” he said to Poppy with a grin. “You must have chucked this one so far, even the workers didn’t find it when they were clearing up after the fête.” He handed it to her, his dark eyes twinkling. “Shame they didn’t have a coconut shy here again today… that would have really livened things up.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Poppy, trying not to laugh as she tossed the ball away over her shoulder.
There was a muffled cry behind them, then a loud thump. Poppy whirled around and stared, mortified. GAH! Again? She rushed towards the man slumped on the ground.
“Oh my God—Norman! I’m so sorry…”
***
The gate creaked open at Hollyhock Cottage and Poppy sighed happily as she looked around, feeling the cottage garden work its familiar magic. It’s good to be home. She wondered if Nell was back yet and started towards the house, then, on an impulse, left the gravel path and plunged into the flowerbeds, wading across to where she had crouched down to pat Oren on the day she had returned from the fête. She found the same spot and sank to her knees again, enjoying the sense of losing herself in a profusion of shapes, textures, and colours. Just like that day, the sun was low on the horizon and twilight was falling, like a dark gossamer curtain drawing slowly across the orange sky, melding the colours into salmon pink and deep purple.
