Expose!

by Hannah Dennison

  “Oh, God!” Douglas Fleming hurried over to my side and put his arm around my shoulders. “How could I be so insensitive?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your parents! That car accident in Africa and . . .” He squeezed my shoulder. “The lions . . .”

  I squirmed in my chair, wishing with all my heart I hadn’t cooked up such a gruesome demise for my poor parents, who were obviously still very much alive. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “So, you must understand why I can’t, either?”

  I nodded. Douglas Fleming slammed his fist onto the desk, making me jump. “If only I’d gone with her, she’d be alive today! Why didn’t I stop her? Why? I’ll never forgive myself.”

  He turned away from me and went back to his post by the window, thrusting his hands savagely into his jacket pockets.

  “How did you learn of the accident?” I said timidly. “Was it through the F.C.O.?”

  Douglas Fleming looked momentarily confused. “The what?”

  “The British Foreign and Commonwealth Office.”

  “I don’t remember. Wait. Yes. No. It was the Spanish police. Señor something or other.”

  “The Spanish police?” I couldn’t disguise the surprise in my voice. “Are you sure?” This was unheard of—especially over something as routine as a car crash. I didn’t mean to sound callous, but the roads in Spain were treacherous and fatal accidents were an everyday occurrence. Even though the Policía Nacional collaborated with our police forces and Interpol all the time, any incident involving a British citizen always went through the F.C.O.

  I made a note on my pad—find name of yoga retreat, airline, car hire firm, and Spanish copper.

  “Why are you writing all that down?” Douglas Fleming said, jingling his keys in his jacket pocket. “I’m not a suspect, am I?”

  “Of course not. These are just routine questions,” I said. “When did you fly to Spain?”

  “I didn’t fly to Spain. I—I have an alibi,” he said suddenly. “I was with Olive Larch all Saturday afternoon and most of Sunday. We were discussing the Gastropod Gala. I have been appointed the new Chief Marshal.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. I got to her house at nine in the morning and left around five. You can check if you like.”

  What an extraordinary thing to say! Why would he need an alibi? If Scarlett Fleming had not been killed in Spain, I would have felt extremely suspicious.

  “Any idea why you chose Go-Go Gothic?”

  Douglas Fleming began pacing around his office. “Reverend Whittler was away. I wanted it over and done with. They were the first company I called.”

  “You called Go-Go Gothic?” If Neil Titley hadn’t given me his business card, I’d never have found their number. “Was it a referral?”

  “Yes. No. Yes.” Douglas Fleming was beginning to get flustered. He clutched his head as if in pain. “I forget who told me. Actually, Vicky dear, I’m not feeling so good. I need to go and lie down.”

  “I am sorry,” I said, getting to my feet. Honestly, sometimes, being a reporter is a thankless task. “We can talk about this another time.”

  “Thank you, dear. I know you are just doing your job. Scarlett always said you were a journalist with a heart.”

  I followed him to the door. “Oh, but there is just one thing . . .” I’d almost forgotten about Topaz’s request. “A friend of mine wondered if she could have a look around Headcellars.”

  “What on earth for?” Mr. Fleming looked startled.

  “She’s interested in the supernatural, and apparently Headcellars harbors a famous ghost.”

  “Ghost? Utter nonsense.” Douglas Fleming added a deep Vaudeville-sounding laugh. “Ha-ha-ha-ha.” He really did need to lie down. The man was close to hysterics.

  “Doesn’t Headcellars have secret passages and priest holes? Remnants from the Reformation?”

  “I’m afraid your friend is misinformed. I’ve lived at Headcellars for years and I can promise you, there is no ghost.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  There came a cry of outrage from reception. “I’ll call the police again!” yelled Melanie.

  “I only want to give him these, you silly bitch,” snapped a familiar voice. My heart sank.

  I caught a flicker of alarm in Douglas Fleming’s eyes. He took a deep breath and threw open the door to reveal Melanie’s legging-clad bulk filling the frame. She gripped the doorjamb for dear life.

  Over Melanie’s shoulder I could just see Eunice’s hand, waving madly. “Dougie! Dougie!”

  “No need for that, Melanie. I’ll take care of this,” Mr. Fleming said wearily. “Hello, Eunice.”

  Melanie stood aside and cracked her knuckles—I recalled she often played with the Gipping Growlers when they were a man short.

  “Hello, Vicky.” Eunice had changed her clothes since I’d seen her at St. Peter’s church this morning. Dressed in a pale lemon suit and matching pillbox hat. Eunice looked as if she was going to a garden party at Buckingham Palace. In her hands was a plate of chocolate chip cookies covered with plastic wrap. “I baked these myself.”

  “Very kind of you,” Douglas Fleming said, taking the plate. “I’m a bit busy at the moment talking to Vicky.”

  “I can wait,” Eunice said.

  “He said he’s busy,” Melanie snarled. “You know you’re not supposed to be here.”

  “It’s none of your business,” Eunice hissed. “Anyway, with Scarlett gone, it doesn’t matter.”

  “You heartless tart,” said Melanie. “Mrs. Fleming isn’t even cold and—”

  “He’s not feeling too well.” I took Eunice’s arm and drew her to one side, whispering, “Why don’t you go home and I’ll tell you all about it tonight.”

  “You’re right. Of course, he’s still in shock.” Eunice nodded, then spun round to Melanie who was studying her with ill-concealed contempt. “I can see myself out.”

  Head held high, Eunice left without even a backward glance.

  “Thanks for coming to my rescue,” Douglas Fleming said. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to do about Eunice. But she seems to like you. Would you mind having a word with her?”

  “About what?”

  “We were childhood sweethearts, you know,” he said. “I think she’s under the impression that . . .” He shook his head sadly. “It was so long ago. People change.”

  Men! How typical. I distinctly remembered his reaction only a few weeks earlier on being told that Eunice was still besotted. He’d been flattered. Now that Douglas Fleming was available and free to marry again, his fantasy of the “one who got away” was over. Poor Eunice, she’d kept her flame burning for forty years in the hope she’d get another chance.

  As I sped back to the Gazette on my moped, my mind was awhirl with theories.

  Yes, Scarlett Fleming had died in Spain and even though Fleming had a cast-iron alibi in the timid Olive Larch, his reactions to some of my questions were just plain suspicious.

  Had Fleming hired a hit man to murder his wife? The more I thought about Neil Titley and his broken nose, the more I was positive he was just the hit man type. But the question was, why kill Scarlett?

  Mum always said that no matter how happy a couple seemed to be, no one knew what went on behind closed doors. But in this instance I was lucky enough to be able to call upon someone who might—my very own landlady.

  I checked my watch. It was well past four. Mrs. Evans was bound to be back at Factory Terrace by now. Since I wasn’t expected at Dairy Cottage until six, I might as well pop home and ask her a few questions.

  8

  I let myself in the front door and tossed my house keys into the basket on the hall table along with Mrs. Evans’s lucky rabbit’s-foot key ring.

  Apart from a strange creaking sound coming from the ceiling above my head, the house seemed eerily quiet.

  “Mrs. E!” I shouted out. “Hello?”

  I walked into the kitchen. T
wo plates of half-eaten Victoria sponge sat on the table along with a full cup of untouched tea. A second cup contained just a splash of milk. Both chairs had been thrust back, as if someone had left in a hurry. On the floor, lay a red fluffy mule. I stared at it, not sure if I should be alarmed.

  Halfway up the stairs, I saw the second mule, lying on its side. Muffled voices were coming from behind Mrs. Evans’s closed door. My face turned hot. Good grief! Was my landlady having an affair?

  I wouldn’t blame her. Her husband Leonard was hardly the life and soul of the party. I’d lived here for a good six months and discovered he spent all his days doing something—God knows what—in the shed at the bottom of the garden. When he joined us for breakfast or dinner, he rarely uttered a word.

  Good for you, Mrs. E.! As my mum would say, “Who should begrudge her a bit of love in her twilight years? ”

  As I tiptoed past her bedroom door, it suddenly flew open. Mrs. Evans stood there dressed in a red satin robe embroidered with dragons, fiddling with the sash. Her face was flushed—though whether from her physical exertions or acute embarrassment, it was hard to tell.

  “Oh! It is you, Vicky.” Mrs. Evans retied her robe allowing me a glimpse of pale flesh. I hastily averted my eyes. “Lenny thought he heard your voice.”

  Over her shoulder I saw a sight I hoped never to see again. Leonard Evans was standing there in nothing but a pair of bottle green socks. Our eyes met. We both looked mortified. I looked down at my feet trying to forget what I’d seen. He was a scrawny man in every sense of the word.

  “Sorry.” I searched for something suitable to add, but drew a blank. Frankly, I felt a bit betrayed. Mrs. Evans was always complaining about her husband. In fact, she was often downright nasty—especially when it came to their wayward daughter Sadie—yet, here she was, indulging in rampant sex on a Thursday afternoon.

  Mum was right. No one did know what went on behind closed doors—though in this case, I had a very good idea.

  “We were just about to enjoy an afternoon cuppa—” Mrs. Evans stepped out onto the landing, neatly blocking my escape. “When Lenny said—”

  “‘How about a bit of crumpet?’” He hooted with laughter and grabbed Mrs. Evans from behind. She squealed with delight as he jiggled her spare tire that was clearly visibly through the tightened fabric.

  Mrs. Evans clicked her dentures. “‘Crumpet!’ said I. ‘You’ll be lucky.’ Because I’d just made a Victoria sponge. So he said—”

  “‘Fancy a bit with jam!’” The two of them cracked up at some secret joke.

  “Really? How funny,” I said with a forced grin. Honestly, had they no shame? What seems hilarious to the young sounds utterly perverted coming from a pensioner, although I got a quick flash of the coquettish young woman Leonard Evans married all those years ago.

  “Please, don’t mind me.” I gestured to their bedroom. “Carry on.”

  “No, no, we’re done for now.” Mrs. Evans herded me ahead of her. “Come downstairs and have a slice of sponge. The tea will still be hot in the pot.”

  “Just like my Millie,” quipped Mr. Evans.

  I shuddered. If I hadn’t needed to talk to Mrs. Evans about the state of the Fleming’s marriage, I would have made my excuses and fled but truthfully, her Victoria sponge was legendary. I was also pretty certain that tonight’s culinary feast at Dairy Cottage would end up in the small plastic bag I intended to take in my pocket so as not to hurt Eunice’s feelings.

  We sat at the kitchen table. Mrs. Evans stayed in her red satin robe though, thankfully, Mr. Evans donned his usual corduroy trousers and blue checked shirt. Every time she walked past him, he’d slap her firmly on the rump. She’d shriek, then, pinch his cheek, cooing, “You’re a devil, you are!” It was absolutely horrible but luckily short-lived.

  “I’ll be off, Millie.” Mr. Evans drained his cup and got to his feet. “Have you got it?”

  Mrs. Evans handed her husband a large plastic bag filled with lettuce and shooed him out the back door.

  “Lettuce?” I said.

  “For his snails, dear.” She sat down heavily in the chair. “He exhausts me at this time of the year, but I shouldn’t complain.”

  “I didn’t realize he was a snail fan.”

  “Not just a fan and a competitor, but this season’s bookie, too!” Mrs. Evans said proudly. “Bullet’s a favorite.”

  “Bullet?” Rambo? Seabiscuit? Bullet? I tried not to giggle.

  “Oh, yes. Lenny’s pride and joy. He’s in with a real chance this season. More cake?”

  I nodded. It was delicious. “Of course, he’s got a few youngsters in training. They’re all in that garden shed. I’m sure he’d love to show you his boys.”

  The garden shed! Ever since I’d moved into chez Evans I’d puzzled over what he did in there day in, day out. Now I knew.

  “Lenny isn’t an easy man to be married to,” Mrs. Evans chattered on. “But for the next three months, he’s almost human and of course, with Sammy Larch dead, he’s in very good spirits.”

  “I’d heard Sammy Larch wasn’t very popular,” I said, recalling the jubilation and festive atmosphere in Albert Square on the day he was buried.

  “Dreadful man. Rich as Croesus, but they lived in squalor. That poor Olive . . .” She shook her head. “Treated her like a slave, he did. She practically froze to death last winter when we had that cold snap.”

  “She does seem very frail,” I said.

  “Her father didn’t believe in central heating unless it was for his snails. Lenny told me there was no expense spared especially when it came to Seabiscuit.”

  “I heard Mr. Fleming was racing him this season.”

  “No!” Mrs. Evans sat back in her chair with her arms folded. “Lenny is not going to be happy about that.”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the Flemings.” I took a sip of tea. “Did you know that Scarlett Fleming died?”

  “Scarlett Fleming? Dead?” Mrs. Evans jaw dropped so low her dentures almost fell out. “No! When?”

  “Last Sunday. She had a car accident in Spain.”

  “Spain? Spain?” Mrs. Evans cried. “How can she afford to go to Spain?”

  I shrugged. “She was going on a yoga retreat.”

  “Yoga? Another of her fads that wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.” Mrs. Evans’s eyes flashed with fury. “Well, that’s very nice isn’t it? She tells me they can’t afford to pay me anymore and then clears off on some fancy holiday to Spain.”

  “Perhaps she’d already paid for her holiday ahead of time?” I suggested.

  “I’ve never known anyone live so high on the hog.” Mrs. Evans seethed on. “That new Range Rover cost a bomb, and of course she wouldn’t let anyone else drive it. Not even Mr. Fleming.”

  “When were you asked to leave?”

  “Last Wednesday. I’ve cleaned Headcellars ever since my Sadie was five years old. Scarlett used to bake butterfly cakes just because they were Sadie’s favorite,” she said, adding in a hard voice. “It was a horrible house. Haunted, you know. And what’s more, I left my best ostrich feather duster with the mahogany handle in the upstairs guest bedroom. When I went back on the Thursday morning to get it, they’d changed the locks! Imagine!”

  “Really!” This came as no surprise. Mrs. Evans’s clients always changed the locks when she left. No doubt Douglas Fleming had caught her snooping and they’d tactfully decided to get rid of her by pretending they were economizing.

  “The reverend isn’t back until next Tuesday,” Mrs. Evans said. “They’ll have to wait for the burial. It’ll be a big flashy do, money or no money, you mark my words.”

  “Actually, she was buried at St. Peter’s this morning,” I said. “Douglas Fleming hired some cut-price freelance funeral service called Go-Go Gothic.”

  “No!” Mrs. Evans shook her head with disbelief. “That’ll put the cat amongst the pigeons. Those old biddies from the Women’s Institute aren’t going to be happy, and what about he
r relative from Atlanta?”

  “I didn’t know she had family.” Douglas Fleming certainly hadn’t mentioned it. Taking out my notebook I scribbled down, Relative. Atlanta. “I’m writing the obit. What was their marriage like?”

  “Scarlett definitely wore the trousers,” Mrs. Evans declared. “She bossed him around, but he liked it. They seemed happy enough, though she was always complaining that they didn’t have enough money—but who does in this day and age?”

  “I hear they did a lot of amateur dramatics.”

  “That’s right. You should have seen them in Antony and Cleopatra,” said Mrs. Evans. “They were just like Lawrence Olivier and Vivien Leigh. The death scene with the asp was very realistic. One of Barry Fir’s kids loaned them his mechanical snake.”

  Mrs. Evans got to her feet and gave an almighty yawn. “Well, I think I’m going to nip upstairs for a quick nap. I take it you’ll be home for liver and onions tonight?”

  “Sorry. I’ve actually got plans.”

  “A date?” Mrs. Evans cried. “Is that why your eyes are all made up?”

  “No. It’s work.” Even if I had a date I’d never tell her, though it was gratifying to know that Annabel’s makeup skills had been noticed.

  Upstairs in my bedroom, I changed into a clean pair of jeans and long-sleeved sweatshirt. Mrs. Evans’s insights on the Fleming marriage had only thrown up more questions.

  It was highly likely that Scarlett Fleming had a hefty life insurance policy that Douglas Fleming now stood to inherit. Wasn’t murdering for money one of the oldest motives in the books?

  I left a third message on Neil Titley’s answering machine, but this time, I mentioned I wanted to write a day-in-the-life of a limo driver for the newspaper, which sounded innocent enough—and true. Wilf wanted the lowdown on these blokes and he was going to get it.

  Thoughts of Titley brought me back to Eunice’s coincidental arrival at St. Peter’s and the evening ahead.

  If Eunice had made that phone call, why would she ask me to go to the church?

  As I headed for Dairy Cottage, I resolved to get the truth out of her—one way or another.