THE FLOWER ARRANGER AT ALL SAINTS a gripping cozy murder mystery full of twists (Suzy Spencer Mysteries Book 1)

by Lis Howell

  ‘There was an accident in the church,’ she said bleakly. ‘Yvonne Wait fell off a ladder and was killed.’

  ‘That’s what people have been saying!’ said Babs, who had spent most of the afternoon on Suzy’s phone.

  Though she knew it was silly, Suzy felt guilty. If she hadn’t suggested the Whitsun Flower Festival, this wouldn’t have happened. She had felt confused and light-headed by the time the police had questioned her. She and Robert had been separated to give statements at the vicarage, and he had gone by the time the police had finished with her. She had tried hard to explain to the officer that she thought there was a link between this death and poor Phyllis Drysdale’s. The policeman had seemed unmoved.

  ‘You say her hair was cut off?’ he asked. ‘How do you know she hadn’t had a haircut earlier in the day? There wasn’t a trace of hair near her.’ Suzy had felt silly and then tearful, which annoyed her. She suspected that the policeman thought she was making a fuss about nothing.

  When the children had settled down and were laughing at some comedy film, she called Robert.

  ‘I told the man from Mid Cumbria police about Phyllis and the reed,’ she said. ‘He seemed to think I was a bit loopy.’

  ‘I mentioned it too. The chap I was talking to said they’d take it into account. He did seem to think that two deaths in the same church in seven weeks was a bit surprising.’

  ‘But I couldn’t get them to take me seriously about Yvonne’s hair. He kept saying that she could have had it cut before the accident. Whoever cut it off had cleared up really well around her.’

  ‘Did you mention the pattern of hellebore leaves?’

  ‘No. I was going to, but he already seemed to think that I was raving mad. And after all, we don’t know that there was a message. It could have been a coincidence.’

  ‘But it wasn’t, was it, Suzy? Hang on . . . there’s something I want to look up . . .’

  Suzy waited. She heard Robert’s footsteps and thought of him walking around his house, alone. He must be as shocked and upset as I am, she thought. More so, probably, given that he’d known Yvonne for so long. Maybe he hated her, but that was very different from wanting her dead. But at least this time I can’t suspect him, she realized with relief. Yvonne had probably died in the morning, when they were meeting. Or later, in which case Robert wouldn’t have had time to get to the church, kill Yvonne, and go home again, in between drinking coffee and getting back to All Saints in response to Daisy’s call. It was impossible, even if he had a motive for killing her. But then who didn’t? Everyone in Tarnfield loathed Yvonne.

  She heard him come back to the phone.

  ‘I’ve just been looking in that old Language of Flowers book, Suzy. And I’ve found hellebore.’

  ‘You have? What does it signify?’

  ‘You won’t believe it. It’s calumny. Scandal and calumny.’

  ‘Exactly what Yvonne stood for in Tarnfield!’

  ‘Yes. So it must have been deliberate. And there was definitely writing in the leaves. But why?’

  ‘Who can say? All we know for certain is that there’s someone very weird and very dangerous out there. Come over to Tarn Acres, Robert. We need a drink.’

  21

  Whit Saturday, continued

  We beseech thee, leave us not comfortless.

  From the Collect for the Sunday after Ascension Day

  Monica Bell stood in her front room, the phone frozen in her hand. Jane Simpson’s strained vowels rang in her head.

  ‘I could see the police cars and the ambulance from my window,’ Jane said. ‘I called Nick Melling and there was no reply. So I went down the drive and saw Tom Strickland going past in a hurry. Nick had summoned him, apparently. And he told me. Yvonne had fallen off the ladder in the church, and been killed outright. I was astonished. I mean, that wasn’t what we planned, was it?’ Jane’s brain seemed to be turning like a rusty old mangle. Monica could almost hear the process.

  ‘Of course not!’ Monica was shocked.

  Three weeks earlier, Monica had arranged a discreet lunch party. The Bells and the Simpsons didn’t meet much socially, and the atmosphere had been strained at first. Monica needed to tread carefully. She wanted to discuss what to do about Yvonne. Jane appeared to have no idea that her husband had been Yvonne’s lover, so they couldn’t be too open about her scurrilous influence over him! Yet despite her apparent naivety, there seemed to be an unscrupulous side to Jane. Once she grasped the situation she was far more uncompromising than the rest of the group.

  But at first, Jane had wittered on, making conversation about Monica’s new three-piece suite. She had obviously been impressed by the pristine condition of the Bells’ modern house, but was ever-so-slightly condescending about the lack of family heirlooms. Monica’s idea of good china was John Lewis’s best, and her curtains were from Marks & Spencer’s Home Range, so she was way behind when it came to competing with the Simpson family Spode and cut glass. But her dishwasher was state-of-the-art.

  The two men had assumed chumminess, with Jeff Simpson trying not to be too grand. He was wearing a blazer, and cream trousers with a razor-like crease. Frank wore a bottle-green fleece and crumpled jeans. Monica had a bright aubergine polo shirt underneath a shapeless mustard jumper, while Jane wore a rather dated two-piece in beige cashmere, and very high-heeled shoes. The only thing we really have in common, Monica had thought grimly, is that the vile Yvonne Wait is persecuting us.

  A white wine from Tesco, and then the claret that Jeff had brought from the cellar at Tarnfield House, followed generous gin-and-tonics. The roast was good. Jeff began to relax and even enjoy himself. His tummy seemed to be calmer, and it was rather nice to have gravy and Yorkshire puds, he thought. Not a lettuce leaf or cut tomato in sight. By the time they had all finished sticky toffee pudding — from the supermarket, Jeff noticed, but never mind — the atmosphere was almost cheerful.

  With coffee and liqueurs — God only knew how Jeff would drive home! — Monica thought the time was right to broach the subject of Yvonne. She was just about to start when her son’s cheeky face appeared around the door.

  ‘Mum, Dad, hi!’ Matthew beamed. ‘Can I borrow your motor? I’m low on gas.’

  ‘Well, bloody well fill it up yourself, lad,’ growled Frank. ‘And round here, we call it petrol. You’re not in America. You’re in Cumbria.’

  ‘Yeah, tough shit,’ Matthew grimaced. ‘Hi, Jane, hi, Jeff.’ Jeff Simpson tried to look comfortable with their hosts’ nineteen-year-old son, while Jane simpered at him. Matthew breezed on: ‘I’m just going to see if your Russ is up for a trip to Carlisle before he goes back to Newcastle tonight. D’you reckon he’d like a spin?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he would,’ twittered Jane. She was clearly a little bit tiddly and, despite being very arch, she seemed slightly flirtatious.

  Matthew gave her a grin like a split melon. ‘I’ll go and get him then,’ he said, and disappeared.

  ‘That lad!’ Frank snarled. ‘He’s a menace. I don’t know where he gets it from.’

  ‘Russell’s the same,’ Jeff added. ‘I don’t know where he gets it from either.’

  Monica was suddenly aware of a silence. Better move swiftly on, she thought. ‘Look, everyone,’ she said, taking another after-dinner mint, ‘what are we going to do about Yvonne Wait?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Jeff, eyes narrowing aggressively.

  ‘That’s what I really wanted to talk to you about. She’s been having a go at Frank and me about those floors over in Tarn Acres. Jeff, it’s no good protesting, we all know that Yvonne pressured both of you two men into doing a deal for over-expensive parquet, and in return, Frank was stupid enough to do her floors for her. Be quiet, Frank . . .’

  Both Jeff and her husband had started to splutter.

  ‘But does it matter?’ said Jane. ‘It was a long time ago. And they are lovely floors. I just wish we could have had them at Tarnfield House. But Jeff prefers wall-to-wall carpet, don’t y
ou, dear?’ Her husband ignored her, but his face took on a social grimace. ‘Anyway . . .’ Jane went on, her brain grinding slowly but thoroughly, ‘why did Yvonne pressurize you?’

  ‘She could be very persuasive,’ Monica said quickly.

  ‘She talked me into it,’ said Jeff at the same time.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jane, slowly. ‘So why is it a problem now?’

  ‘Because she’s started to talk to people about it,’ Monica explained patiently. ‘She referred to it after that awful Bible study meeting. And she didn’t keep her voice down either. I think she might be going to make an issue of it.’

  ‘Won’t that land her in it too?’ asked Jeff, with a superior little laugh.

  ‘Why should it?’ Monica sounded sharp but shrewd. ‘If she tells the board at Tarnfield Homes, they don’t need to know she had her own floors done for free. All she has to do is to ask them why they paid so much, and hint that there was a carve-up between the two of you, and we’re done for. You know what she’s like. It would be a quiet word in the ear of Malcolm Ridley at some county cocktail party. She’s got her fingers in everything.’

  ‘She’s got to be stopped!’ Jeff Simpson suddenly stood up. His pretence at urbanity was over.

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ Monica had said calmly. ‘Of course she’s got to be stopped. The question is, how?’

  All four looked at each other. Then Jane said, ‘It’s a pity she doesn’t drop dead. Like stupid Phyllis.’ The words sounded spiteful rather than sinister.

  ‘She’s hardly likely to drop dead,’ said her husband ruefully. ‘The trouble is that no one’s tough enough to tackle her head on. Bullies usually cave in when you play the same game.’

  ‘There must be some way we can threaten her,’ said Monica.

  ‘Why bother?’ said Jane in her prissiest voice. ‘One of you men should just tell her you’ll smash her face in.’ Monica spluttered into her coffee, but the words seemed to energize Frank.

  ‘I think you should leave it to me,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’ll tackle her. You’re right, Jane. I should have been tougher about this sooner. I feel responsible for this mess, and I’ll sort it out.’ He flexed his big, workman’s hands. ‘But we have to pledge to cover each other’s backs.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Jeff had said. It sounded good to Monica, too. Although the alcohol had helped, she knew Frank meant what he said. She felt a weight lift from her shoulders and, for the first time in ages, she was proud of her husband.

  ‘What will you do, Frank?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll speak to her, face to face. There’s no point being subtle with a woman like that. I’ll tell her we had a deal and that if she thinks about ratting on it, I’ll be round there taking up her tongue and groove quicker than you can say laminate!’

  He sounded full of confidence. It may have been the Bailey’s Irish Cream, but suddenly Frank was twitching to sort Yvonne out. And this time, he told himself, if she went to Monica and told her about the pathetic shag they’d had on the sofa, he’d just deny it. But, with luck, he could warn her off before it came to that. It would do everyone a favour. It just meant that Jeff and Jane had to back him up. If Yvonne thought she could divide and rule they’d be worse off. The Simpsons and the Bells had to stick together. This lunch of Monica’s had been a bloody good idea. He’d had his reservations but as usual Monica was right.

  ‘But you two have got to tell us everything, understood?’ he said. ‘If she tries to approach you, or make contact in any way, report it to me. OK?’

  They had all nodded, and Monica had poured out more coffee and liqueurs. It seemed as if everything was going to be all right. Frank might be a bit hasty sometimes, she thought, but when it came down to it, he really was tough enough to take action. And she’d be there to ensure he kept it all under control.

  But three weeks later, listening to Jane, Monica suddenly thought that it wasn’t under control at all. What had Frank done? Jane had blithely assumed Frank was capable of murder. Would other people think so too? Was her husband capable of killing? Frank got angry and he lacked judgement sometimes. There had always been a self-justifying side to him, and he’d been the one who’d got involved in the dodgy deal in the first place. Monica felt ill. Frank had told her he was going to the church that morning, to deliver a ladder for putting up the Whitsun decorations. And now Yvonne was dead, having fallen off the blasted thing. Monica gabbled her goodbyes to Jane and ran to her impeccable downstairs cloakroom, where she was sick.

  22

  Whitsun Eve

  Almighty God . . . who desireth not the death of a sinner but rather that he may turn from his wickedness and live . . .

  From the Absolution at Morning and Evening Prayer

  ‘OK,’ said Suzy, handing Robert a glass of wine, ‘so we think there was a message in the greenery, but we don’t know what it said.’

  ‘Exactly. Have you got any paper?’

  ‘Of course I have. I’m a journalist, aren’t I? Here’s some A4 and a pencil.’

  ‘Thanks. I thought it might help if we wrote down what we think we saw in the leaves.’ Robert took the pen and wrote 133116. ‘I can’t see any sense in that,’ he said.

  Suzy went and knelt on the floor beside his chair. It was a strange sensation, being so close to him. In the modern living space at Tarn Acres, with her soft lamps and battered sofa with the colourful throw, this seemed more like a puzzle to be solved than a clue to a violent crime.

  ‘The way you’ve written it, it looks like a weird mobile phone number.’

  ‘Well, perhaps that’s it,’ said Robert excitedly.

  ‘Yeah, right. Yvonne lies dying and writes a phone number in hellebore leaves, which have magically appeared from the vestry. I don’t think so, Robert. Anyway, it didn’t look like that to me. It looked like this . . .’ She took the pen from Robert and wrote 18Wb below his letters. ‘But I must admit that makes even less sense,’ she said. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t a full 8 I saw. Or at least, it was an 8 which was broken up a bit.’

  ‘But hang on a minute,’ Robert added, ‘if you saw one thing and I saw another, let’s write yours on top of mine and see what it looks like. For example, how big were the figures you saw? Given that we both saw the same thing, let’s try to keep the letters the same size. Look . . .’ He wrote 133116 once again on the paper.

  ‘OK. But it will just be a muddle.’ Laughing, Suzy took the pen and put a 1 directly on top of Robert’s writing, then a larger 8 which she superimposed on Robert’s first 3.

  ‘That’s a point,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The bottom of my first 3 wasn’t really so clear. The second 3 was really plain to me, but I’m really not sure about the first one . . .’

  ‘But if they don’t have to be numbers,’ Suzy said thoughtfully, ‘perhaps the first 1 is really an I. And look — your bottomless 3 and my topless 8 make something which is more like an S.’

  Then she added her W on top of his following 11, followed by her small B and his 6, which could go either way. They both looked at the result. It was still meaningless.

  ‘But it’s not quite what I saw,’ said Suzy. She got up and went over to the desk where Molly had left her pink pencil case. Inside she found an eraser. She came back to Robert’s chair, and took the paper. Then she rubbed out the third stroke of her W and straightened it out to look like a backwards N.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘That’s what I saw. Still just a mess.’

  But Robert said nothing. He stared at the page. Then he took a sip from his wine. ‘Suzy,’ he said slowly, ‘have you got a Bible?’

  ‘Yes, somewhere. It’s not exactly bedtime reading in this house.’

  ‘I want to check something.’

  ‘OK.’ Suzy got up and went over to the bookshelves by the computer, and rummaged till she located Jake’s battered Good News Bible stuck behind his Geography files.

  ‘I think,’ Robert said very carefully to her back, ‘that this refers to a book, chapter and vers
e in the Old Testament.’

  ‘What?’ Suzy turned around, the Bible in her hand.

  ‘Look, Suzy. IS3V16. Does that look like what you saw?’

  Suzy squinted at the paper. It was like looking at a map, not knowing which was sea and which was land, and then suddenly seeing the shape of a familiar coastline and everything falling into place.

  ‘Yes, I can! You’re right. Isaiah, chapter 3, verse 16. Oh God, Robert, this is creepy. Isaiah again. Like with Phyllis.’

  ‘Read the verse. What does it say?’

  Suzy felt she was taking an age flicking through the pages. Then she found the place. As she read, her scalp prickled. ‘The Lord said, “Look how proud the women of Jerusalem are! They walk along with their noses in the air. They are always flirting. They take dainty little steps, and the bracelets on their ankles jingle . . .” Oh God, Robert!’

  ‘This is it, Suzy. Remember Yvonne’s ankle bracelet? This is a real message, left by the person who found her dead.’

  ‘Listen.’ Suzy read on. ‘It gets weirder: A day is coming when the Lord will take away from the women of Jerusalem everything they are so proud of, and then in verse 24: instead of having beautiful hair, they will be bald. Oh my God.’

  ‘That explains her hair being cut.’

  ‘Yes. It couldn’t be a better description. There’s no way Yvonne would have had her hair hacked short at the front like that. She had mounds of glossy hair and loved flicking it about. But why pick Isaiah?’

  Robert stood up and put the paper on the table. ‘The Old Testament is about blame and the New Testament is about forgiveness. Quite different. We’re dealing with someone who has a special relationship with the Old Testament here. We must call the police and tell them. This is really important. Either Yvonne fell and someone cut her hair off afterwards and left us this message—’

  ‘Or,’ Suzy broke in, ‘the person who left the message pulled Yvonne off the ladder. What are the chances of Yvonne falling backwards like that? Pretty remote, I would say. We’re dealing with someone really violent here, Robert.’