The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1)

by Merryn Allingham

  ‘Then perhaps it wasn’t the cake that killed them after all. What I can’t understand is why anyone would want to get rid of Cyril.’

  ‘He might no longer be our suspect, but he could still be involved in the business in some other way,’ Jack said thoughtfully. ‘You believed he might know more about the legend than he was telling us, and remember, he considered himself entitled to a share of any fortune that might be unearthed. If he did know more and was trying to strike a bargain with the killer…’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘So Kevin Anderson looks for treasure,’ she mused. ‘In some way the killer learns what he’s discovered and gets rid of him, but there’s still information missing and it’s Cyril who has the answer. It’s plausible, I suppose, but I hate to think of Cyril making any kind of bargain.’

  There was a pause before she burst out, ‘It’s so frustrating. We have just a small part of the picture, while everything else is foggy.’

  ‘That’s detective work for you.’

  ‘Will it ever become clearer?’

  Jack gave a shrug. ‘Who knows? Just let’s hope we’re not wasting our time.’

  Hope I’m not wasting my time, he thought, seeing in his mind the covered typewriter waiting balefully for him. He looked up, noticing for the first time where Flora was leading them. ‘I thought we were going to the yard – we seem to be heading back to the kitchen.’

  ‘It’s to one side of the kitchen, directly opposite the main door of the Priory. There’s access to the yard from either the house or the gardens. It’s where Cyril had his base.’

  ‘And where he ended. That’s ironic – in a particularly nasty way.’

  ‘I know.’ Flora gave a small, sad sigh. ‘Alice suggested that when Cyril left her, he went to the yard for old times’ sake. I suppose it’s possible.’

  ‘It’s also possible that we’ll be spotted where we shouldn’t be. After the crossbow, I’m a tad nervous. If the killer is roaming the Priory estate, I’d rather not spend too much time here.’ He said it with feeling. His arm was still throbbing nicely and he really didn’t want any more of his anatomy punctured.

  ‘We have to be careful, sure, but there’s no one around at this time of day. The maids are busy cleaning, the waiters are in the restaurant, Polly Dakers will be at her desk, Vernon Elliot in his office, and there’s no head gardener now. Elliot pays an outside firm to keep the estate tidy.’

  ‘And if their employees are in the yard?’

  ‘They won’t be interested in us. If they think anything, they’ll think we’re part of the staff. Although,’ she looked at him critically, ‘you don’t look much like staff.’

  ‘And you do?’

  She didn’t answer, but instead steered him round a last corner, keeping close to the red brick screen that had been built proud of the main building. A few yards ahead, a gap appeared in the wall.

  ‘Here. We can go through here.’

  They approached the yard cautiously. Cobbles, Jack noticed, and swept clean. Several waste bins were lined up against the far wall and a number of empty cardboard boxes were stacked together, awaiting collection. A narrow gravel path, laid across the cobbles, led to a locked inner enclosure. The path was there, perhaps, to make the trundling of garden equipment easier than over the cobbles. Jack’s eyes fixed on the padlocked gate ahead, then switched back to the gravel.

  ‘Where exactly do you think Cyril was found?’ he asked.

  Flora looked puzzled. ‘Is that important?’

  ‘Look at the gravel. Something has been dragged along it.’

  She looked down to where he was pointing, then, tucking untidy waves of hair behind her ears, she said slowly, ‘You think it was Cyril who was dragged?’

  ‘I’m wondering. Everything else is neat and tidy, but the gravel hasn’t been raked over. Which means that whatever disturbed its surface must be fairly recent.’

  ‘If he was dragged, then he didn’t die in the yard. But where?’

  Jack looked again at the padlocked gate. ‘The tracks come from there. Was that his old territory? Perhaps he went in to look around, though it’s well and truly padlocked.’

  Flora went up to the sharp-pronged fence, trying ineffectually to peer over it. ‘He could have kept a key. See if you can see anything. You must be tall enough.’

  Even straining, he could only just see over the top of the barrier. ‘There’s a shed,’ he began.

  ‘That’s where Cyril kept his tools.’

  ‘A wheelbarrow to one side. Some bags – it looks like they’re full of leaves. Waiting to be burnt? Something has been burned, though. There’s a small circle of ash on the ground and…’ he stood on tiptoe, peering hard, ‘it looks very much as though it’s still smoking slightly.’

  ‘Evidence! The murderer has burnt evidence!’ He could feel Flora close beside him, bouncing with excitement.

  ‘Steady on – we can’t jump to conclusions.’

  ‘What else could it be? Is there anything more to see?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ His eyes roved around the square space. ‘Hang on, yes. On the other side, it’s half hidden by the shed, but it looks like a flowerbed. No flowers now, but the earth has been disturbed. There seems to have been an attempt to smooth it over, but there’s a definite dip in the soil.’

  ‘Something’s been dug up. Plants, do you think?’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘So a plant is dug up and burnt.’

  ‘It’s a reasonable conjecture.’ He turned away from the fence to face her. ‘Why would anyone do that on a morning when a dead man has been found just a few yards away?’

  Flora’s eyes were sparkling. ‘Because the plant was evidence. We’re closing in,’ she said, then spun around at the sound of footsteps.

  ‘Miss Steele? And Mr Carrington?’ Vernon Elliot’s voice had an edge to it. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ His spindly figure seemed to elongate with the strength of his annoyance.

  ‘Mr Elliot, good morning.’ Jack heard the false warmth in Flora’s voice. ‘We’ve just heard about poor Mr Knight. Alice told us.’

  Vernon Elliot’s cold eyes stared at them and she went on, sounding more flustered, ‘Alice was the one to find him, I believe. She thought she’d dropped her glasses in the yard, but couldn’t bear to come back to check. She’s very upset. Quite ill, in fact, and has gone home to rest. I said I’d come here and look for the glasses.’

  Jack was impressed. That was quite a story to concoct in a few seconds, as long as Alice Jenner did wear spectacles. He wasn’t sure this Elliot bloke had bought it, though. His thin form was as stiff as a sheet of cardboard. Despite his West End tailoring, the man was a bit like a scarecrow, Jack thought. Cyril had been right.

  ‘Did you find them?’ Vernon asked, his thin lips tight, his mouth no more than a narrow slash.

  ‘No.’ Flora gave an uncertain laugh. ‘Poor Alice, she was in such a state that she probably had them in her pocket all the time.’

  ‘Well, now you’ve made certain, I trust you won’t mind my asking you to leave. The Priory has suffered a sad event this morning. One of its oldest servants has died right where you’re standing. I think we should respect that.’ The ice in his eyes had barely thawed.

  A hypocrite as well as a scarecrow, Jack decided.

  ‘We were just off,’ he said quietly. ‘Very sorry to have intruded on what is a bad day for you all.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Vernon gestured to the gap in the brick wall, and more or less shuffled them out into the estate grounds.

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ Flora said savagely, as they walked down the drive towards the Priory’s wrought-iron gates.

  ‘Would anyone?’ Jack retorted.

  A sudden growl of an engine behind them had them jump to one side, seeking refuge on the grass verge. A white van sped past, churning the gravel as it rushed to the exit. It was the van from Katie’s Nook, and Bernie Mitchell was driving.

  ‘How many people
involved in this mad business do you trust?’ Jack asked, watching the vehicle disappear through the gates.

  Flora followed his gaze. ‘You have a point.’

  It was noon before they got to Katie’s Nook. The blinds were drawn and the café clearly shut. Flora knocked gently on the glass door. A blind was inched to one side, Katie’s tear-stained face clear through the glass. There was the sound of bolts being slid back and a key turning. Without saying a word, they walked in, Kate locking the door behind them.

  ‘Katie,’ Flora began, and put her arms round the young woman, hugging her tight. ‘I am so sorry.’

  There were tears and more tears before Kate recovered sufficiently to offer them tea.

  ‘You sit down. I can make it,’ Flora said quickly.

  ‘It’s OK. I prefer to be doing things.’ Kate bent to retrieve cups and saucers from beneath the counter and, as she did so, Flora saw what she was certain was a new blemish on Kate’s other arm.

  ‘Is Bernie around?’ she asked, incensed by this new evidence of brutality. Just where had Mitchell been going in the van?

  ‘He had to go out, but he’ll be back. I was best left alone for a while. I’ve been trying to grasp what’s happened – it seems so sudden. Dad was fine, I thought he was fine. He didn’t deserve to die like that.’

  ‘It’s dreadful for you,’ Flora said quietly, sipping the tea Kate had brought to the table. ‘I can’t imagine…’ Her voice trailed off.

  Imagining wouldn’t help Kate, and it was something she’d no wish to do herself. She tried never to think of her own parents who had died far too young. Flora had no memory of either of them. Occasionally a smell – tobacco smoke or the scent of jasmine – triggered a hardly recognised longing in her, but otherwise it was as though the couple had never existed. As a small child, she had faced an abyss. Until Violet had swooped to the rescue, she had been left completely alone in the world, and that was a fear the mind had always to suppress.

  Jack had moved silently to stand beside her, and she saw he was looking at the counter. Kate had noticed his glance as well.

  ‘Dad’s suit,’ she said with an effort. ‘The undertakers have just come over from Steyning and brought it back. The funeral will be a week on Tuesday, but I’m not having any kind of wake. I don’t think I could cope with it.’

  ‘Undertakers?’ Jack was wearing what Flora had decided was his inscrutable face. ‘Won’t there be a post-mortem?’

  ‘Dad was an old man. He took pills for his heart and he’d had a few scares in the past. The doctor said he suffered a massive heart attack.’ There was a long silence, several minutes ticking by. ‘At least,’ Kate said at last, ‘he died instantly. I can’t bear to think of him out there alone on a cold night…’ She stuttered to a close, unable to finish.

  ‘The authorities haven’t asked for a post-mortem then?’ Jack repeated.

  Kate shook her head, looking over at the counter. ‘Somehow I’ve got to get his suit clean. The undertakers want to dress him properly, you know, and this was the only one he had. He always wore it to go to tea with Alice.’

  Flora walked across and lifted the suit to what light there was in the café. ‘I see what you mean. Some kind of juice has dripped down the front, and there are yellow smudges on one of the sleeves.’

  ‘Goodness knows how I’m going to get rid of that.’

  A jumble of thoughts suddenly coalesced for Flora, dizzying in their clarity and their sheer rightness. ‘A dry cleaner’s? We could take it for you, Kate. We’re going to Steyning in the next day or so. I’ll ask the cleaners there to have it ready by Monday. I’m sure they’ll be happy to walk the suit round to the funeral parlour when it’s ready.’

  ‘Would you do that?’ Kate was pathetically grateful. ‘It’s people, you see. I feel I can’t face anyone I don’t know at the moment.’

  ‘It’s no problem. Lock up the café and go home and don’t reopen until you feel ready. And forget about making Jack’s cake. None of us are going to want to celebrate.’

  When they were once more outside the shop, Kate’s thanks still ringing in their ears, Jack turned to her. ‘Steyning?’ he demanded.

  ‘There’s a dry cleaner’s there.’

  ‘I’m sure there is.’

  ‘And several florists. If you were going to order flowers for a hotel guest, Steyning is the most obvious place to go to. It’s the nearest town. Look at the suit, Jack.’ She pointed to the bundle he was carrying. ‘Those yellow marks on the sleeve are pollen and the juice marks – sap maybe. Remember the pollen that was trapped in Kevin’s table? Could he and Cyril have died from the same thing? Could the murderer have used the same method, like you said?’

  Jack walked on for a few minutes without speaking. Eventually, he said, ‘Flowers as poison? It’s been done before. But no florist would use anything they knew to be dangerous.’

  ‘What if the bouquet was harmless when it left the florist, but by the time it reached Kevin’s bedroom, it included a poisonous flower or flowers?’

  ‘And Cyril?’

  ‘The plant in the enclosure. A plant that’s been newly dug up and burnt.’ She was trembling with the excitement of this new knowledge.

  ‘Yesss. Could be.’ He rearranged the suit on his arm, then dug his hand into the jacket pockets, one at a time. ‘And here we have a key. The key to the enclosure, do you think?’ He waved the glinting steel in the air.

  ‘You’re right. It’s the key to the padlock. Cyril must have used it to go inside. Do you think he picked the flowers?’

  ‘I reckon so and died right there. If so, it was death by misadventure, not murder, but still a trifle inconvenient for whoever planted those flowers.’

  ‘And that person was Kevin’s murderer.’

  ‘Quite possibly. Whoever it was must have dragged Cyril’s body out of the enclosure and along the gravel path to where Alice found it. Then dug up the plant and burnt it, hoping to remove any trace, padlocking the door again behind him. Or her.’

  They had reached the bookshop and Jack hadn’t quite finished with the subject. ‘I can understand, sort of, why Cyril might want to revisit his old haunt. But why did he pick those flowers? He was an experienced gardener. He would have known they were poisonous, surely.’

  ‘He may have been confused. He mentioned how fuzzy the new tablets were making him, didn’t he? And he wouldn’t have expected to find poisonous plants, not somewhere he’d worked for years. And he was keen to get flowers for his daughter. Desperately keen. He picked them to take to Kate.’ Flora’s voice broke at the thought.

  Jack waited for her to regain her composure before saying, ‘Will you take the suit or shall I?’

  ‘You.’ Flora’s voice didn’t waver this time. ‘When I offered to go to the dry cleaners with it, I wasn’t just being a good friend. The jacket has evidence that the police need. Once it’s buried with Cyril, the evidence will be destroyed for ever.’

  ‘And this concerns me how?’

  ‘You know the inspector in charge of Anderson’s case. You could take the jacket to him, ask him to have it analysed. There’s time before I need to take it to Steyning. The funeral isn’t for another week.’

  ‘All cut and dried, except that as far as the police are concerned, they’ve no need for evidence. Inspector Ridley is definite that there isn’t a case to answer. Anderson died of natural causes.’

  She smiled up at him, the hazel eyes spelling mischief. ‘Then it’s your job to convince him otherwise. This is where you use your charm, Jack.’

  ‘I have charm?’

  Flora stood back and considered him. ‘I think you do. It might be distinctive, but it’s there.’

  Jack stifled a sigh and bundled up the suit into a tight grip. ‘If I must, but I can’t think we’ll have any luck. If the jacket is to gain credit as evidence, it will need to be examined by a police pathologist which, as far as Ridley is concerned, means wasting precious resources – time, money and effort.’

&nbs
p; She reached out and gripped his hand. ‘Just try. It’s important. The police have the results of Kevin’s post-mortem. They need to do one on Cyril before he’s buried. The suit will convince them.’

  Jack quickly disentangled himself. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said, and walked away down the high street.

  Fifteen

  Jack wasn’t looking forward to contacting Alan Ridley, but he had promised and after yet another ham sandwich – he was beginning to tire of them at last – walked to the nearest telephone box and made the call. When Ridley understood what Jack was asking, the protests began.

  ‘We can’t do that, old chap. The Anderson case is closed and I know nothing about this Cyril Knight. Presumably the doctor was happy enough to sign a death certificate. It’s a wild goose chase, Jack, and I’d be using police resources unnecessarily. Juice on a coat – I mean!’

  ‘And pollen,’ Jack reminded him. ‘There was pollen in the crack of a table in Anderson’s bedroom at the Priory. The flowers these men encountered are poisonous and someone is using them to murder.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that someone deliberately poisoned the old man who died at the Priory?’

  ‘No. I’m suggesting that he may have picked the flowers, not realising they were dangerous, but whoever was growing them did know. They were growing them for a purpose. Cyril Knight’s death was a tragic accident that forced the perpetrator to get rid of the evidence. They dug up the plant and burnt it. I saw the aftermath for myself.’

  ‘Sounds a little too far-fetched to me – even for one of your crime novels.’ The inspector gave a guffaw. ‘If you want to kill someone, there are far easier ways of doing it.’

  ‘Like aiming a bolt from a crossbow at them?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s what happened to me yesterday. I was attacked in the woods, on my way home.’

  ‘Good lord! You weren’t injured, I take it.’

  ‘I have a ruined shirt and jacket, but fortunately most of me is intact. A flesh wound where the bolt grazed my arm.’