by Morgana Best
Blake had already questioned us one by one, and warned us that he had called the detectives who would soon be here to take our statements, as well as the statements of all the boarders.
Constable Andrews was stationed outside Martin Bosworth’s room, and the forensics team was currently in there.
I set down my piece of carrot cake—I’d eaten the only part I like, the frosting—and rubbed my temples. “Blake’s assured me that he’ll ask the pathologist to test for hemlock. Do you think he really will?”
Mr. Buttons nodded. “Absolutely. The murderer left a note, and that had to be for a reason.”
“I think Blake has a soft spot for you, Sibyl,” Cressida said. She didn’t look up at me, but just continued to stir her tea.
Mr. Buttons and I exchanged glances. “Cressida, are you all right?” I asked.
“I took up his last meal,” Cressida wailed. “It must have had the poison in it. Lord Farringdon says they will blame me.”
I made soothing noises and looked down at the fat cat purring near Cressida’s legs. “Surely Lord Farringdon isn’t always right, is he?”
“Yes, he is,” Cressida screeched. “He is always right!” Her wailing grew louder. Even Lord Farringdon stopped purring and stared up at her in alarm.
I looked at Mr. Buttons for help, but he had left his seat and was sitting on the alternating beige and mustard floor tiles, dusting cat hair from Cressida’s black shoes.
It was then that a vision came upon me. Thousands of quail attacked me, and I fell to the ground as they pecked me. It was just like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s film, The Birds.
Chapter 3
I came to on the floor, with Mr. Buttons and Cressida leaning over me. “I’m all right,” I said. “It must have been the shock.” I hadn’t told Cressida or Mr. Buttons about my visions, and indeed, I’d never had a vision before that had caused me to pass out.
Thankfully, my explanation appeared to satisfy them. I climbed back onto my chair and rubbed my forehead where I had banged it on the edge of the kitchen table.
My thoughts stayed with my vision. Why quail? I knew Cressida had been collecting chooks, as we call chickens in Australia: some Silver-Laced Wyandottes, some black Frizzle hens, and even some quail. Were Cressida’s quail about to attack me? Surely not! There must be a different interpretation of the vision. But what?
I thought of the Delphic Sibyl, famed in ancient times for her prophecies. She was said to speak in riddles, and now I wondered if her visions were riddles even to her. I hoped my visions had not descended into confusion—this one certainly made no sense. Previously, my visions had been more literal.
I drank some more sugary tea, and accepted the vegemite sandwich that Mr. Buttons offered me on a gold-rimmed plate. “Aren’t you having a vegemite sandwich, too, Mr. Buttons?”
Mr. Buttons shuddered. “No, Sibyl. I have no idea how you Australians can eat that ghastly food paste!” His tone was melodramatic.
I shrugged, and promptly devoured my sandwich.
It seemed like ages before Blake returned to the kitchen, and Cressida stood up when he entered the room.
“Do you know what killed him yet?” Her voice was filled with anxiety.
Blake looked at me briefly, before turning back to Cressida. “The pathologist says that the symptoms are consistent with hemlock poisoning: respiratory arrest and paralysis of the central nervous system.”
Cressida seized the back of a chair. “Was it what he ate for dinner?”
Blake shrugged. “The forensics guys have bagged the dinner and taken it away for testing. We’ll know soon enough.”
“Did Martin Bosworth eat the same thing as we ate for dinner, Cressida?” Mr. Buttons asked.
Cressida bit her bottom lip. “Well, he was the only boarder I served meals to, and he always insisted on grilled poultry for dinner. He said red meat was bad for his heart.”
“And what did he eat for dinner, then?” Mr. Buttons looked at Cressida expectantly.
Blake looked distracted. I figured he’d already found out what the dinner was when taking Cressida’s statement earlier. I caught his eye and then looked away immediately. I would have been embarrassed if he had thought that I was attracted to him.
“He had a glass of red wine, the same wine we had,” Cressida said, “but while we had lasagna, he had a salad and grilled quail.”
“Quail?” I shrieked.
The three of them stared at me.
“What of it?” Blake asked.
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
Cressida fixed me with a steely look. “Are you sure, dear?”
I shook my head, but Blake spoke up. “I’ll take Sibyl home now. The detectives will want to question you all in the morning. I suggest you get a good night’s sleep.”
Blake hurried me out of the house. “I’ll walk you to your cottage.” He walked to his car first and retrieved a big a flashlight.
I was puzzled. “Do you need that? It’s a full moon.”
“Just watching out for snakes,” he said.
“Snakes? I thought snakes didn’t come out at night.”
Blake shook his head. “That’s an old wives’ tail. It’s spring now, and this area has plenty of Eastern Brown snakes, Copperheads, and Tiger Snakes, and all three are deadly.”
I clutched my arms around me and shivered. This was one of the drawbacks of living out in the country. It was bad enough that I had to shake out any shoes I’d left outside before I put them on, just in case red-back spiders had crawled into them. And don’t get me started about red-back spiders on the toilet seat—there was even a hit Aussie song about that! I turned my attention back to Blake. “I have a dog door in the back door for Sandy to come and go as she likes. I’d better keep her in the house at night.”
Blake swept the area with the light. “A good idea, and make sure you keep the grass short so you can see snakes. And be careful—an Eastern Brown snake can look like a harmless blue-tongue lizard when it hides in the grass. You can also buy snake repellers. They make a vibration at intervals, and that tends to keep snakes away. They’re solar—they look like solar garden lights, only bigger.”
“Do they stop snakes completely?” I asked hopefully.
Blake shook his head. “No, but they’ll stop them setting up home in the area. Some say lime and sulfur work too, but a snake will cross such things. Just be extra careful around your wood pile.”
I made a mental note to buy a stack of snake repellers. I hoped they weren’t expensive. At least when my property settlement came through, I would be able to afford to buy dozens of them. Better to be safe than sorry. Still, the property settlement was delayed because my ex-husband was in custody awaiting trial for murder. How he managed to turn that to his advantage was beyond me, but he always managed to fall on his feet.
“Sibyl, did you hear me?”
I jumped. “No, sorry, Blake, I was thinking about snakes.” The human variety as well as the reptiles themselves, I thought.
“I asked why you reacted so strongly to the mention of quail.”
I sighed. I had already told Blake about my visions, and he had been skeptical. I mean, I supposed that was a natural reaction, but it didn’t make me feel any better. “Remember when Alison poisoned my cereal, but I had a vision of me being poisoned and so I then avoided the cereal and thus didn’t get poisoned?” I said, all in one breath.
“Yes, go on,” Blake said slowly. I could already hear the disbelief in his voice.
I took a deep breath. “Well, when I was sitting at the kitchen table, I had a vision of quail. This was before I knew what was in Martin Bosworth’s last dinner,” I added.
We had reached my front porch, and the automatic light came on. Blake turned to me and raised one eyebrow. “And what were the quail doing? Did you have a vision of poisoned quail on a dinner plate?”
My cheeks grew hot. “Err, no, not exactly.”
Blake peered into my face. “Well, what were the q
uail doing, exactly?”
I fidgeted. “They were just flying around, attacking me. Look, visions aren’t always literal. They need to be interpreted.”
Blake crossed his arms over his chest. “And how would you interpret that vision?”
I opened the door and walked inside my cottage, with Blake following me. “I don’t really know,” I admitted, “but it must have been pointing to the significance of the quail. I’d guess that the poison was in the quail.”
Before Blake could answer, my sulfur-crested cockatoo, Max, screeched. “Pretty boy, pretty boy! Look at the hottie!”
“Max, be quiet.” I turned to Blake. “Sorry about that. My ex-husband taught him all sorts of insults and rude words.”
“Get a room, you two,” Max said, before letting out a string of words that made me blush even harder.
“I’m really sorry,” I muttered. “Blake, would you check all the rooms for me, please?”
Blake obliging went through the rooms. It didn’t take long. There were only three of them: my bedroom, the bathroom, and the open-concept kitchen and living room. “All clear.”
“Did you look under my bed?” As soon as I said the words, I tried to remember the last time I’d swept under there. I hoped there were only dust bunnies there, and not discarded items of underwear.
Blake dutifully went back into my bedroom, and returned seconds later. “There’s no one hiding under your bed, but your dog is fast asleep on it. I don’t think she’s much of a watchdog. Sibyl, I don’t think you have anything to worry about this time. Your ex-husband and his girlfriend, Alison, are both in custody awaiting trial. I’m sure what happened to Martin Bosworth has nothing to do with you.”
I nodded, trying to find some comfort in his words.
“You know,” Blake continued, looking at me, “we didn’t have any murders until you showed up.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Now that’s hardly fair…” I began, but Blake cut me off.
“Sorry, Sibyl. I didn’t mean it that way. It was just an observation. Now, I’m sure you’re safe, and you have my number if you have any concerns.”
I thanked him and showed him to the door. Just as I shut the door, two things happened: my stomach growled loudly, and I wondered whether I should have offered Blake a hot chocolate. Oh well, there was nothing I could do about the latter now, but I could certainly address the former.
I turned on all the lights in the house, made sure both doors were locked, put the latch across the dog door, and then went to the fridge and retrieved the pot of spaghetti. I warmed it on the stove, before ladling out a large pile onto a plate when it was ready. I ate it quickly despite the fact it was utterly tasteless.
I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep, partly because I kept all the lights on, and partly because I couldn’t stop thinking about my life since moving to Little Tatterford. I had been so excited, so hopeful to start a new chapter in my life, and here I was, unsure that I wanted to stay even another minute.
One thing’s for sure, I thought with relief, just before sleep overtook me, this murder case has nothing to do with me. I won’t have to have a hand in solving this murder.
Chapter 4
The following morning, after a hurried breakfast, I went back up to the boarding house to see how Cressida and Mr. Buttons were doing.
I saw Blake disappear through the front door just as I arrived, so I hurried to catch up. It was already a warm morning, and the scent of the eucalyptus trees hung heavily on the air. I usually considered eucalyptus to be a comforting fragrance, but I knew that today there would be no comfort to be found.
“I’ve come to take you to the station. The detectives want to ask you a few questions,” I heard Blake say to Cressida, just as I came up behind him.
“Me?” the woman asked, placing her hand on her chest. Her nails were long and bright pink, in stark contrast to her leathery, tanned skin. Cressida shook her head softly, and then she nodded. “Well sure,” she said. She turned and looked at me. “Can Sibyl come with me?” she asked, waving a hand in my direction.
“Yes, of course,” Blake said. “Well, not in the interview room, that is. Actually, the detectives want to question Sibyl and Mr. Buttons, too, as well as all the boarders, but they will start with you three down at the station.”
Cressida nodded. “All right, then. Let me go and freshen up my make-up.”
Blake nodded in turn as Cressida hurried up the stairs in the direction of her bedroom.
“Would you care for some English Breakfast tea, Blake?” Mr. Buttons asked.
“No, thank you.” Blake turned his attention to me. “And how are you doing this morning?”
“Fine, thanks,” I said. I noticed that Blake looked worried, and that, in turn, made me worried.
It was only minutes before Cressida came down the stairs, completely changed. I was grateful for the dim lighting in the massive entrance hall, for Cressida was wearing thick, powdered makeup, and had drawn two dashes of bright red blush under her cheekbones. Clearly, blending had not occurred to her. Her eyes were heavily made up, and the oversized glasses framed in bright red made her eyes look much bigger. She was wearing a scarlet floor-length dress, which matched her glasses as well as her hair. It was a dramatic effect.
I followed Cressida, Mr. Buttons, and Blake outside, and Blake led us to his squad car parked in the small lot. I sat in the back, and for the whole journey listened to Cressida telling Blake again about finding the body.
When we arrived at the station, I had to wait for Blake to open my car door from the outside. He winked at me, and I frowned. Was he flirting with me? I wasn’t much good with men, as should be obvious given the fact that I had married a murderer.
“Just wait here,” Blake said, as he disappeared behind a heavy door of frosted glass. He soon reappeared with two men in suits.
“We’ll take her first,” one of the men said, pointing at me. He introduced himself as Detective Roberts and the younger man as Detective Henderson.
The detectives took me into a small cold gray room. The walls were peeling and were painted in a horrible blend of yellow and gray, and there were old metal filing cabinets pushed up against one wall. The door trim was colored dark green, and it was obvious that the person responsible for the color scheme was colorblind.
I looked around to see if there was a one-way mirror, but there was simply a large window opening onto the main office. It was covered with old broken gray aluminum blinds that looked as though they could do with a good dusting. I wondered what Mr. Buttons would make of it, and hoped he would not be interviewed in this particular room.
“You moved here recently?” Detective Roberts said, and I nodded. He seemed to be in charge, and he asked most of the questions while Detective Henderson scribbled furiously in a notepad. “Why did you move here?”
I went over the whole story again of how my ex-husband had arranged for me to rent the cottage and had paid the first six months’ rent. I explained that at the time I had assumed this was on the advice of his lawyer, but found out later that he wanted me near his girlfriend, Alison Turner, a maid at the boarding house, so she could poison me after poisoning her own husband.
They exchanged glances throughout my story. Detective Henderson presently left the room and returned with three paper cups of coffee. He handed one cup to me. I sipped it. It was lukewarm and tasted like battery acid, so I set it aside with a grimace.
“Have you ever tended the garden or fed the poultry?” Detective Roberts asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
This was the bit I didn’t like about being questioned by the police: having to go over the same information again and again. I wondered if people ever confessed to crimes they didn’t commit, just to put a stop to the infernal round of repeated questions.
“Yes,” I said, somewhat tersely. “I’m sure. I think I’d remember if I did tend the garden or feed the poultry.”
“And did you
ever prepare food at the boarding house?”
I sighed. “Look, no, I didn’t prepare food at the boarding house, weed the garden, or feed the chooks—not ever, not once.”
“And why did you comment on the note affixed to the victim’s body?” Detective Roberts leaned forward, and even Detective Henderson stopped writing for a moment.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Why wouldn’t I? I knew what it meant. No one else seemed to know.”
“Not many people would know what the note meant,” Detective Roberts said.
I was affronted by the suspicion in his voice. “Anyone who has studied philosophy would know,” I pointed out, “and don’t forget, the boarding house was full of philosophy professors, all of whom were about to attend a seminar on Socrates.”
“And you studied philosophy at university?” Detective Roberts continued.
I said that I had, wondering where this line of questioning was going.
“And were you ever taught by Martin Bosworth?”
I shook my head. “No, I studied at Sydney University, not the local one. I only did philosophy for one semester anyway, so if Martin Bosworth ever came to Sydney University for a seminar, I knew nothing of it. I’d never met him before he became a boarder,” I said for the umpteenth time.
“Has Cressida Upthorpe ever mentioned him, or any of the other new boarders? As in having known any of them previously, before they were boarders.”
I thought for a moment. “No, not as far as I can remember.”
The questions droned on and on. I felt like I had been in that small, suffocating room for an eternity. I was tired right down to my bones from the relentless questions that were being asked of me time and time again. I felt like I was a criminal.
