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

by Lis Howell

  On the bench, Frank felt that he could kick himself. Of course, he shouldn’t have mentioned reeds. Tom Strickland had told him in confidence about the mess to Phyllis’s hand. But then why did it give Monica such a shock?

  He felt suspicion creep over him like the clematis on the sunny side of the house. Could she have things on her conscience too? A sense of fear grew with the shadows in the Bells’ garden.

  40

  Trinity season, continued

  . . . thou being our ruler and guide, we may so pass through things temporal, that we finally lose not the things eternal.

  From the Collect for the Fourth Sunday after Trinity

  The end of the term was suddenly round the corner. Suzy hadn’t allowed herself to think about it much, but she was still hoping she and Robert would go to London to see the Lachish frieze. She needed some adult company. But the trip was fraught with difficulties. She wasn’t sure how committed Robert was, and arrangements with the kids could be very difficult. Nigel wasn’t that reliable and she had heard nothing more about the proposed holiday in Spain.

  Then suddenly one evening he phoned her, confirming. He would be at a conference in Harrogate until the weekend, but would pick the children up on the following Friday, the start of the summer holidays, and take them away. Then she would be free to do whatever she wanted for a fortnight.

  Coincidentally, Molly seemed suddenly much better and Jake announced that he had passed all his exams — even English. A holiday mood prevailed. The kids started packing in advance for their Spanish trip.

  Nervously, Suzy called Robert who confirmed that he was still interested in going to London. He seemed a little bit distant but she put it down to their lack of contact.

  ‘Why not?’ he said, yet again.

  Suzy allowed herself a sense of anticipation, but, the day after she bought the tickets for herself and Robert to travel to London, Nigel called to say he couldn’t pick the children up until Saturday morning. ‘I’ve got to stand in for my boss and give a paper,’ he said shortly. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it.’ Suzy stopped herself asking what would have happened if it had been the other way around, but this was likely to wreck everything.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum.’ Jake had overheard. ‘Go on Friday like you’ve planned. We can stay by ourselves that night.’

  ‘No, you can’t. You’re too little.’

  Suzy called Sharon Strickland, who was rather awkward about saying no to babysitting. ‘I might be goin’ out that night,’ she said. Suzy felt embarrassed for asking. Briefly, she wondered why Sharon was being so coy.

  When Daisy knocked on her way back from Lo-cost with some sweets for Molly, Suzy tried her too. ‘Molly’s totally over chicken pox,’ she said. ‘She’s really OK now. There’d be no chance of infection.’

  ‘I don’t think I should, Suzy. You know how I love Molly. But I’ve got to think of Mum. Of course I’d do it if it was an emergency.’

  Jake was lurking, listening again. ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ he said. ‘I can look after us.’

  ‘No! I’ve told you, it’s not a good idea. You’re too young for the responsibility!’

  ‘Pants!’ he said, before skulking back upstairs.

  In desperation, Suzy went to ask Babs Piefield.

  ‘Well . . .’ Babs took her time. ‘It will mean staying at your house overnight.’ There was a long pause. ‘But I’ll do it,’ she said, after milking the silence.

  * * *

  The next weekend, just to please Daisy for being so kind to Molly, Suzy went to church, alone. Molly wasn’t quite ready for the manic activity of Sunday School yet and Jake wanted to work on the computer. She had noticed that he never went out on his own now. Instead he waited for his new friends to call for him. He was clearly scared of bumping into Matthew Bell. But Matthew hadn’t been seen around Tarnfield for weeks.

  The church felt different. Nick was waiting at the altar steps, beaming, while Kevin Jones ushered people into their pews. Suzy recognized nobody. The service order was printed out on a laminated sheet. Children ran about. The singing was very thin and awkward, with Nick on guitar. It bore hardly any resemblance to the Church of England services Suzy had known. But the most obvious change was that everything was channelled through Nick. He led the choruses, said the prayers, and preached an uninspiring sermon.

  On the way out, Daisy stopped her. ‘Thanks for coming, Suzy,’ she said. ‘Are you glad to be back?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, Daisy, it’s not for me. I like a grown-up relationship with God.’

  Daisy’s brow crinkled. ‘What about Molly?’

  ‘Oh, she loved Sunday School with you. But I’m not sure I want her getting involved again.’

  Perhaps it had been rather a mean thing to say, but the service had upset Suzy. The empty space in the choir pews where Robert and the others had sat, and the ugly plant where Phyllis’s flowers had been, depressed her. She had done a quick head count. There were fewer people at the church that morning than there had been six months earlier. This wasn’t about a revival. It was about Nick Melling’s ego.

  On the Sunday afternoon she took the kids into Carlisle to buy some more summer clothes for their holiday. In the Lanes shopping centre she was astonished to find herself looking at boys’ shorts in a sale, next to Joan Pattinson.

  ‘For our grandson,’ Joan explained.

  ‘Don’t you object to Sunday trading?’

  ‘No, though I haven’t told George I’m here!’ She smiled mischievously, like the old Joan, forbearing and good-humoured, the practical woman behind the larger-than-life cleric. ‘It’s about time I started taking an interest in our grandchildren again. But I’ve been so caught up in George’s illness.’

  ‘You look well,’ Suzy said.

  ‘I am well. We’re both a lot better. You know, I think it was a turning point at Easter when you came to see us. And how are you?’

  ‘Preparing for the holidays. The kids are off to Spain with their dad and I’m having a culture trip to a friend’s in London.’

  ‘Oh, London.’ Joan sighed. ‘We used to pop down quite a lot. We stayed with an old chum from our teacher training college days, in Islington.’

  ‘That’s where my friend lives!’

  ‘Really? Well, if you get the chance, go and see Michael. He lives off Gibson Square. I’m afraid we haven’t been in touch since . . . well . . . since George’s illness.’

  For a few seconds, she looked grey and haunted again. ‘I know Phyllis kept in touch with him but since her death, we haven’t made contact.’ She groped in her bag for a pen and a scrap of paper. ‘Here’s his address. He’d love to meet someone from Tarnfield.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Suzy stuffed it in her pocket guiltily, knowing she would never follow it up. To her surprise, Joan pecked her on the cheek before moving off down the aisle in search of a bigger size in shorts.

  Suzy was glad Joan Pattinson was happier. She knew Robert was angry on Mary’s behalf, thinking George had paid so little and Mary so much for their bittersweet relationship. But that wasn’t true. It had led to George having a breakdown through guilt, and Joan suffering terribly in turn. Deep down, Suzy thought Mary could have made her life turn around, with Robert’s help. She could only feel pleased that the Pattinsons’ lives were improving again. And it was salutary to think of Joan and George having friends in Islington. She had thought of them as purely Tarnfield people, but of course they had had lives beyond the village. Didn’t everyone?

  On the Friday she met Robert at the station. They were both awkward with each other and he looked anxious, she thought. The train left at half past one. Jane Simpson, who was dropping Russell off, saw them on the platform. She raised her eyebrows, but on the train Russell came and sat with them.

  ‘I’m going to Preston today to see the campus. There’s a course in agriculture and marketing at the West Lancashire Uni that I might apply for.’

  ‘Great!’ Suzy smiled at him.

  ‘Going to Lon
don, are you?’ he asked. ‘So are you guys an item?’

  They both said ‘No’ at the same time. Russell laughed.

  ‘So you are, then. Don’t worry; your secret’s safe with me.’ He laughed again. ‘In fact most secrets are safe now Yvonne Wait’s dead! I saw her go into the church really early on the day she died, you know. I bet she delivered that letter for me on her way there! I was on my way home after an all-night party in Ponteland. Those were the days!’

  ‘You won’t be going to too many gigs if you’re taking agriculture seriously,’ Robert said.

  ‘Too right! By the way, did you know my dad’s got to have a triple bypass op? Mum’s trying to persuade him to give up Tarnfield House. It’s too much for them now.’

  Then suddenly, with a lack of inhibition that was quite touching, Russell fell asleep, his head on one side. He looked like the angelic choirboy his mother had been so proud of, Robert thought.

  They watched the hills rise steeply beside them as the train nosed its way through some of the most dramatic scenery in England: valleys so deep, the hills rose like green and grey pillows in the bed beside them; then the track dropped down to Morecambe Bay and the wide sweep of the Lancashire plain. As more strangers boarded and Russell slept on, Tarnfield slipped behind them, and they felt less constrained without having to speak. It was easy to talk, but just as pleasant to be silent, watching the warm lush world out of the window.

  Russell woke suddenly, cleanly with no snorting or dribbling, as the train pulled into Preston.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ he said brightly. ‘Bysie-bye.’

  He grabbed his designer travel bag, moving away easily down the lurching aisle, and waved chirpily to them from the doorway.

  ‘He’s gone very camp,’ Suzy commented.

  ‘I think there’s always been an element of that in Russell.’

  ‘But does it go with his new rural image?’

  ‘Why not? Look at A. E. Housman. Or Alan Robie, for that matter. You can’t stereotype country people, you know.’

  ‘Ha! Tell me about it!’

  * * *

  Rachel met them at the station in London and they took a cab to her Georgian flat off Liverpool Road. It was months since Suzy had been out of Tarnfield. She stood on Rachel’s tiny balcony and listened to the rumble of traffic. So many people — and troughs of geraniums with no flower arranger.

  ‘We’re having a Jewish supper,’ Rachel said as the darkness thickened outside. ‘It’s sunset. Well, I’m not doing it perfectly of course, because it would be wasted on you guys. But . . .’ she lit the candles on the table and they flowered into flame, the acrid smell of the match making Suzy’s nostrils twitch, ‘. . . here’s the challah bread — that’s really soft and yellow and made with egg — and the chopped liver, with roast chicken to follow.’

  Robert joined them. He was sleeping in the spare room and Suzy was sharing with Rachel. He wore a crisp blue shirt and jeans. His hair was ruffled.

  ‘L’chaim!’ Rachel said raising her glass. ‘Great to have you here.’

  ‘Great to be here,’ Robert said. ‘I’ve never had anything kosher before.’

  ‘Not even with your Red Sea walking neighbours?’ Rachel laughed. ‘They haven’t asked you round? No? Well, I’m not surprised.’

  Suzy stopped, with her knife in mid-air. ‘What? Rachel, explain.’

  ‘Oh, you must know who I mean, Suzy. That woman we went to see. Nancy something. Didn’t I tell you at the time? I meant to. I was sure she was Jewish.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I should know! Of course, some people keep it hidden.’ Rachel shrugged. ‘But that’s their problem. More wine?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Suzy sipped. ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Two fridges: one for meat, one for milk. And a Passover night plate in the crockery cupboard. I saw it when I was making tea. We call it a Seder plate. It’s for all the relevant fruit and spices.’

  ‘How interesting! We’ll have to ask Daisy about it when we get back.’

  ‘I shouldn’t.’ Rachel got up to fetch the next course. ‘I have a feeling she might not thank you for it. Being Jewish isn’t universally popular. More chopped liver, anyone?’

  Suzy nodded, but yet again something was tugging in her head, something that Daisy had said. But the moment passed and the wine flowed and it was one o’clock before they realized it.

  In the bedroom, Rachel whispered, ‘Robert looks tastier this time.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I think being out of that village suits him. He’s done his hair differently. Come on, Suzy, admit it, he’s attractive.’

  ‘Well, he has got a rather nice variegated holly bush!’

  Suzy snuggled down on the sofa bed. It was surprisingly comfortable. She was safe in London. She had called Jake and all was well at home. The kids would be with their dad by Saturday lunchtime. She closed her eyes. Tomorrow looked as if it would be a really great day.

  * * *

  But three hundred miles to the north, someone was wide awake, and thinking about Suzy Spencer. The weather was on the turn, too. Over the Scar, thick grey clouds no bigger than a man’s hand were starting to gather.

  41

  The Week of the Feast of St James

  St James, leaving his father and all that he had, without delay was obedient.

  From the Collect for St James the Apostle, 25 July

  In the morning they set off for the British Museum, which was striking in itself with the glass dome stretching above them and the air of a Mediterranean courtyard in the heart of London. The frieze wasn’t a disappointment, either. Suzy was astonished at the realism of the figures carved in relief on the flat, honey-coloured stone.

  They had a late lunch in a gastro-pub on Barnsbury Road, and strolled back, slightly light-headed.

  ‘I’ve got tickets for the theatre as a treat,’ Rachel said.

  ‘Wonderful!’ Robert felt quite different here. Mary had always worried so much about leaving Tarnfield. She always feared she might bump into someone who knew her from the past. Or maybe she hated being too far from George. He blamed himself for going along with it. He should have made her expand rather than let her contract into herself.

  ‘Oh,’ Suzy said, rummaging in her jacket pockets. ‘Look, here’s that address Joan Pattinson gave me. It’s somewhere round here, isn’t it?’

  Rachel scanned it. ‘Yep, just round the corner. You’re not going to drop in, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not. We don’t have time . . .’

  But something was niggling her. This was a chance which had dropped into her lap. If he was an old college friend of the Pattinsons, mightn’t he also be an old college friend of Phyllis’s? Hadn’t Joan said they had lost contact since Phyllis died? In the kitchen, over a mug of coffee, Suzy pulled another piece of paper from her handbag.

  ‘I’ve been carrying this round since George Pattinson gave it to me. It’s Phyllis’s note to him. I just wonder . . .’

  ‘What?’ said Robert.

  ‘If we found a mutual friend, we could ask if he knew what Phyllis’s original worry was all about!’

  Rachel looked over her glasses. ‘So you want to go and see this old man who lives around the corner? And pump him?’

  ‘Do you think that’s wise?’ said Robert.

  ‘Look, I know how you feel about the Pattinsons. Don’t worry, I’ll go myself. I’ll only be half an hour. It’ll be my good deed for the day.’

  ‘OK,’ said Rachel. ‘There’s no rush, if you really want to. We’ll wait for you, won’t we, Robert? We can have a good old chat about politics!’

  * * *

  It was a dry, high, grey afternoon, but warm enough for people to be clustered outside pubs on the pavements, wearing skimpy vest tops and T-shirts. Suzy had forgotten there were so many twenty-something people in the world, having a normal time. Her fears seemed like murky over-complex dreams. She felt a surge of optimism. Perhaps the Pattinsons’ fr
iend, who must have been Phyllis’s friend, too, could supply some key fact that would make everything click into place like a stiff door lock which suddenly gives.

  Walking through the Georgian streets to Gibson Square, Suzy was reminded of Yvonne Wait and all the misery that she caused in pursuit of property. This place was beautiful in a totally different way. And the houses were four times more expensive, at least. If you needed property as greedily as Yvonne, you could never be satisfied. It could never be worth it, making everyone hate you just for a house or a field. What had Yvonne really been about? Power, probably. Property was power and money was power.

  She looked at the flat number on the paper. Joan’s writing was big and clear. I’m sure the old chap won’t be at home, Suzy thought. But when she rang the bell, a fruity voice bleeped metallically only inches away through the intercom, and immediately invited her in. When she arrived at his flat the front door was open. She entered, following the sonorous voice. She wasn’t too surprised to find that the Pattinsons’ friend from college was a clergyman.

  * * *

  In Tarnfield, Jake put down the telephone, and went into the garden. Molly trotted behind him. It had been his father, calling to say he was delayed at his conference in Harrogate, and would collect them on Sunday morning.

  That’s all right, Jake said. We’ve got a babysitter. He didn’t mention that Babs Piefield had already gone because she needed to sit with Nancy Arthur, and that they would be alone that night if Nigel didn’t come for another twenty-four hours. But it didn’t matter, Jake thought. He wouldn’t go and ask Babs to come back. He was still embarrassed about asking her to mind Molly when he went off with Matthew Bell. He could look after Molly for one night. It would be easy.

  We’ll be fine, Jake thought. I’m virtually a grown-up.

  ‘C’mon, Molly,’ he said. ‘I’ll make your tea.’