Murder in the Village: A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery

by Penelope Sotheby

  “What a historic win. Now on to the other categories.”

  When Mrs. Beatrice Foster was given the award for best scone, there were audible shrieks coming from the direction of Mrs. Kendall. She tried jumping to see over the crowd and leaned into her neighbour to ask if she had heard correctly. A purple tinge spread over her cheeks, and one small fist balled and uncoiled repeatedly.

  Diane was distracted by Mrs. Kendall’s reaction that she only heard, “smoothest on the palate” from the Mayor.

  The biggest surprise of a good kind came in the crumpet category where the outsider Jilly Newman was given first place. The gasps of surprise held no malice, and a hearty round of applause clattered from the crowd as she accepted her prize. Her grin could have run a solar farm for a month and everyone bathed in it, letting it wash away their ill feelings towards Mrs. Gilbert.

  Diane found herself smiling too, and she clapped along with the contestants for the young girl.

  From the left stage, Constable Jackson ran up the steps two at a time while brandishing a bouquet of lilies and daisies. He almost hurled them at Jilly as he stumbled to a stop before her, his smile a match for her own. Both of their cheeks blossomed pink, and she shyly took the bouquet and nestled it in the crook of her arm. The Constable leaned in for a quiet word before retreating back off the stage and leaving Mrs. Gilbert to feel like she wasn’t the big winner after all.

  ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠

  Albert sliced the knife through a piece of roast lamb, smothering it in mint sauce before devouring it like a man held captive and starved by sheep. A bronzed roast potato followed it along with a fork-load of green beans. Diane watched the carnivore at work while she demurely worked on her roast chicken salad.

  While in a tent, Douglas Macdonald had brought in one of the finest catering services in Shrewsbury to work the restaurant. This gave the illusion of stale crisps and limp sandwiches while the reality was finely crafted dishes of precisely cooked meats and vegetables seasoned to perfection.

  Across the far side of the dining area, a larger table had been set and reserved and was now occupied by the judges and winners of the bakery contest. Douglas had set on a special spread for this elite group and, as a caterer reached over to pour fresh cups of tea and coffee, the Mayor was laughing heavily at a story he was still only half of the way through recounting. To the right of the Mayor was Mr. Macdonald, who had Mrs. Gilbert next to him, followed by Jilly Newman, the vicar, and Mrs. Foster. They were all smiling, though clearly not having as good of a time as the Mayor.

  The second course of food was being brought out, and plates were being cleared to make way for several platters. Neighbouring tables craned their necks to get a glimpse of the delights that were being lavished on the victors and saw glimpses of braised duck and sautéed potatoes in a white sauce.

  Martin Jackson leaned in behind Jilly to whisper quietly to her, and she handed him the bouquet that she had kept close to hand, resting them on her knees. The Mayor gave her a quick wink as the Constable stepped back and enjoyed her embarrassment as a taste of his distant youth.

  “Albert, what do you say we have one of Jilly’s crumpets?” enquired Diane.

  “Great idea,” Albert replied around a mouthful of lamb, and he pulled loose his napkin from his shirt neck and headed for the dessert table. He returned with two crumpets and some clotted cream and strawberries for one of Mrs. Kendall’s scones.

  “The poor old dear seemed apoplectic, so I would feel bad not buying one of her scones.”

  Diane buttered the warm crumpet and watched it dissolve into the pores before sinking her teeth into the light pillow and letting her taste buds savour the mix. She was sure the judges had made the right choice. It was buttery, sweet, light and a little firm, and took Diane back to her parent’s breakfast table where her mother had made crumpets every Saturday.

  She took another bite as someone coughed, the sharp noise cutting into her memory. Another harsher cough sounded and washed the wispy images away. Voices were rising as another cough backed out, louder still and followed by a laboured sucking for air. Chairs were clattering over as people got to their feet, and Diane saw Mr. Macdonald and Martin Jackson in motion. The breathing became more frantic, screeches coming from a throat unable to pull in enough air. Someone screamed and another voice was shouting orders, and all the while the attempts to breathe got fainter until they finally stopped.

  Diane was on her feet and rushing to see if she could help; her classes on CPR had been a while ago, but she remembered the rudiments. People stumbled away from the large table, its porcelain dishes going unnoticed now. Chairs were scattered in her path, but her exercise regime had kept her agile and able to twist and vault where needed.

  Another figure mirrored her path from a different side of the tent and Diane glanced over, spotting Inspector Darrell Crothers in uncharacteristic jeans and t-shirt making for the same table.

  They arrived simultaneously, acknowledging each other with a glance, and the Inspector pushed through what was left of the gawkers.

  Martin Jackson knelt on the floor, his hand cradling the neck of Vera Gilbert as her head rested on his leg. Her eyes were wide, her face a deep shade of blue, lips curled back in the last final spasm, the last attempt to cling to a life that had already left her.

  Chapter 3

  Inspector Crothers flashed his identification to the crowd and, pointing to three men, ordered them to stop anyone from leaving the tent. As they moved over to the restaurant tent opening, he already knew it was too little too late. People had been scurrying out of the tent through the wide open side that was of more use in venting the warm air of the tent than in stopping a fleeing suspect.

  “Step back everyone. Find a seat at a table somewhere. You’re contaminating the crime scene.”

  Constable Jackson lowered Mrs. Gilbert’s head to the floor and rose to usher people away from the area. Most people found a seat as far away as possible from the Inspector and the crime as though the further they were, the less likely they would be a suspect. A stubborn few had to be pushed by the Constable to get their legs moving, their heads turning to catch one more glimpse of the dead body as they were manhandled away.

  The Inspector reached for his phone and dialled the Shrewsbury station. Diane stood with the judges and remaining winners, her glasses amplifying the movement of her eyes as they scanned over the area, alert for any peculiarities of the scene.

  “No, it can’t be,” came a low voice behind her shoulder and Diane turned to see Mrs. Kendall, her frail hand over her mouth, staring at the edge of the group.

  “How can it be?” she muttered to herself, her eyes sparkling with suppressed tears.

  Diane didn’t know the two women had been close friends, but she had the feeling that wasn’t what Mrs. Kendall was shocked by. There was something in her voice. It wasn’t the horror at the ghastly death of a friend. There was almost relief mixed in with the surprise.

  As she turned to ask Mrs. Kendall what she had meant, the small woman shuffled off, heading for the farthest table still available with her eyes downcast, and she noticeably avoided contact with anyone.

  Inspector Crothers rose from his position over the body, pale blue gloves snapping off his fingers after running a cursory examination of the body. A scowl added contours to his otherwise youthful face, and he had let the furrowed brow run over the people remaining in the area; the people that had been at the table with Mrs. Gilbert and the catering staff that had served them.

  “I don’t want any of you discussing this amongst you, do you understand? I will be interviewing each of you in turn at that table over there.” He motioned to a deserted table that still had the remnants of a lemon sponge crumbled across the tablecloth. “Please try to cooperate as it will make this go a lot faster.”

  To Constable Jackson, he said, “Go to everyone in the room and take their names and addresses. Find out who they saw in the tent and who isn’t here now.”

  Wi
th a crisp salute, the Constable headed off to the outlying tables that were populated by most of the remaining patrons. As he stepped between tables, he unbuttoned a pocket and pulled out a small notebook and a pencil that dangled from an attached string.

  “Please, take some seats around this table,” he said directing the remaining group to a nearby table. “I need this area to be left clear. The coroner and a crime scene team are coming in from Shrewsbury.”

  Expecting no argument and not allowing anyone to even attempt to do so, Inspector Crothers pulled the mobile phone out again and moved away from the group.

  Diane took that as her cue to begin ushering the shell-shocked group to the chairs around the vacant table. The vicar, more used to death than anyone else at the table, had an arm around Jilly who was quietly sobbing and trying to speak through the tears. The vicar nodded and whispered consoling words to her as he followed Diane’s lead and moved Jilly to a chair.

  Douglas Macdonald slowly shook his head while his gaze never left the body of Mrs. Gilbert. Diane moved to take his arm, and she was able to guide him as if he was blind. Her touch seemed to release something behind his eyes, and he looked Diane in the face.

  “Was that for me?” he said with a quiver in his voice. “Was that…”

  His voice trailed off as the fugue once more took his mind and Diane pushed him into a seat where he stared blankly at the tablecloth.

  Mrs. Foster was shivering, and the Mayor had an arm around her waist that seemed to be the only reason she was still upright. Timothy Connors looked over at Diane, who beckoned him to a chair next to Douglas. He deposited her and stood behind her back with a hand upon her shoulder, fearing that she might topple to the ground without his contact.

  The catering staff, mostly young men and women, helped each other to another table and whispered heatedly amongst themselves, despite the Inspector’s insistence that they do otherwise. The catering manager moved around the table while whispering a few words to each of her crew, and their discussions dropped one by one. Exaggerated glances and nodding heads were the only communication left to them.

  Inspector Crothers chatted briefly with the catering manager and they disappeared out the back of the tent, returning a couple of minutes later with a crisp new tablecloth that they draped carefully over Mrs. Gilbert’s body.

  Old Doctor Hamilton pottered in with his tweed jacket draped over his arm, and Inspector Crothers beckoned him over to the body. They conferred briefly before the doctor pulled back the sheet and began to examine Mrs. Gilbert, his hands moving expertly from eyes to mouth to neck and wrist. He clicked his tongue softly as if admonishing the dead woman for being in such a state.

  “I can’t be sure Inspector, but I’ve known her for years, and there’s never been a heart problem once. That’s not to say there wasn’t an underlying issue. But a condition this severe, this dramatic, I don’t believe it’s natural. Not in all my days practicing have I seen anything like it.”

  “Thank you Doctor, that’s enough to hold everyone here until the city techs arrive. Would you mind staying in the tent for a while to tend to anyone that might be overcome by all of this?”

  “I’d be happy to,” said the doctor, and made for the crowded side of the tent.

  As Diane stood around the silent group, she looked over to Mrs. Kendall, who had just finished talking to Constable Jackson. She was nervously tapping her foot on the thin wooden floor and avoiding the attention of anyone that glanced her way.

  “It looks like we kept almost everyone inside,” said Albert over Diane’s shoulder. “I’ve been patrolling the entrance with the guys and watching for anyone making a break for it.”

  Had the situation been different, Diane would have laughed as Albert puffed himself up with assumed authority, his thin chest pushing out a little further than usual. His wiry frame didn’t scream for respect during a confrontation, though he had told her stories of his younger days in the boxing club. She was sure he could handle himself if the need arose, at least if dealing with someone of their age group.

  “So, one of the old biddies did for her over the cake win, eh. I’ve heard of cut-throat competition, but I never knew these girls had it in them. You did say baking was pretty serious around here.” Albert kept his voice low as the other winners were seated a few feet from them.

  “I need to talk to Mrs. Kendall,” said Diane, “I think she knows something, something important.”

  “You need to-” replied Albert. “No, no, no, Diane. Leave this to the police. They have the place locked down, and the killer could be in here watching you.”

  “She knows something, I’m sure of it. And the Inspector has other people to talk to. All of the other people. I’m just helping him really.”

  “Don’t get involved, Diane. These aren’t kids that stole some sweets from the tuck shop. There is someone around here that will kill a helpless old woman in public and they won’t think twice about doing it again.”

  Diane’s head nodded as if she was agreeing with him, but she had already made her decision.

  “Wait here for me, Albert.”

  Her legs were moving as she uttered the phrase, and Albert let out a hiss of breath through his teeth. She vaguely saw Inspector Crothers seated at his table with a young couple and their baby in a stroller. He looked up as she walked into his line of sight, frowned slightly, then returned to asking questions that were answered with denials, head shaking, and a lack of useful information.

  People started milling around, anxious to get out of the tent which was becoming stuffy as the day warmed, and the entrance flaps were lowered. They were supposed to be having fun at the fête, and now because they had wanted some lunch, they were stuck in a sweat lodge with a thousand other people and their whining kids. Constable Jackson had an increasingly hard time getting people to act in a civil manner, and their cooperation was becoming strained.

  Diane arrived at Penelope Kendall’s table just as voices were being raised among two groups of families whose children had gotten into a pushing match. The parents became heated and hands started moving more wildly just as the kids were forgetting the disagreement and were heading under a table to play a game. Constable Jackson came briskly across the room, stepped between the two sets of couples and tried to calm the situation with a stern word and the authority of his uniform.

  “This is quite a shock for you,” started Diane as she pulled a chair up next to Mrs. Kendall. “You two have been competing with each other for years.”

  “Hmm, umm yes. Hmm,” replied Penelope in a distracted manner.

  “I’m sure you two were good friends outside the competition tent,” probed Diane.

  “What? No, well, yes, but not really. We, umm, we…” Penelope’s voice trailed off as her gaze became distant, her stare passing into a realm only she could see.

  Diane paused and waited for Penelope to return to the room. As the seconds stretched out, she decided to clear her throat, and the sound jolted free the daydream.

  “I heard what you said,” stated Diane. “What did you mean by ‘it can’t be’? What can’t be?”

  “I, umm… I was in shock, I think. I wasn’t really thinking about anything, the surprise, you know. It was just such a shock. No one seemed to like her, but I didn’t see this happening. Not to her, at least.”

  “Why not to her?” Diane probed further. “Was there someone else you thought might end up this way?”

  “Oh, umm, no, no, of course not.” Penelope’s foot had started tapping on the floor again. Her eyes wouldn’t look directly at Diane, and she seemed to be looking for someone to get her out of the conversation. She found him, as Constable Jackson happened by.

  “Oh Constable,” said Penelope, rising from her chair and lightly touching the blue material of his sleeve. “I need to get home for my pills, my heart pills. Could you see if the Inspector will see me now, or maybe tomorrow?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Kendall. He looks like he is just finishing up with
that couple. Come with me and we’ll get you home in no time.”

  He took her lightly by the arm, her gait appearing feebler than usual, and led her towards the Inspector. Diane stared after her, their short talk raising all sorts of flags in her mind. She was sure now that Mrs. Kendall was hiding something. The evasive and stumbling responses to her questions left even more questions that needed to be answered.

  Inspector Crothers welcomed Mrs. Kendall to the seat opposite him, offering her a glass of chilled water that the catering manager had brought over. She accepted and with a shaking hand took the glass from him. Diane could tell that there was some frail old lady act going on, and the Inspector seemed to be falling for it.

  “Such a terrible day, Inspector. My dear friend, going like that. She wouldn’t harm anyone. Such a shock to us all. I’m not sure my heart can take this; I really need my pills.” Diane surmised the gist of the responses from the small spilling of the water as Penelope raised it to her lips, from the hand straying to the area of her heart, the Inspector handing over a handkerchief that was dabbed under the eyes. She could see that it was an act and a not very good one. But Darrell Crothers, for all of his gruff police exterior and stern face, was a kind and concerned man, and he was being drawn right into the charade.

  Mrs. Kendall finally rose, and Inspector Crothers moved swiftly around the table to take her arm and help the frail old woman from her seat. He personally walked her to the door where he nodded to the men that had taken up guard, and they escorted Penelope Kendall out into the fresh air.

  The interviews continued for another hour and the tent slowly cleared of patrons who made their way back to the fairground to erase the ordeal from their minds with candy floss and a game of Hook-a-Duck. One after another they told the same tale almost without variation, and it wasn’t helping the investigation one bit.

  Crothers looked over his notes and worked a rough timeline in his head including locations of important players. All of the Winners table party had been clear on their stories. No one had threatened Mrs. Gilbert; no-one had been seen slipping a powder or liquid into her food or drink. Then again, no one had really been paying attention to those things as the caterers passed around them with the meal and drinks; tales were regaled by the Mayor and small talk distracted everyone. Mrs. Gilbert had just started coughing, grabbing at her throat and collapsed onto the floor to die.