False Accusations: Nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide... (Willowgrove Village Mystery Book 1)

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Hay fever,’ she lied.

  ‘Poor you,’ he said amiably and then, to her huge relief, he disconnected.

  Just sips of water, Flora said to herself as she lay down in the bed and pulled two duvets over her.

  Even sips of water were too much, she decided and she resolved to take nothing; just to sleep as much as possible.

  Chapter 32

  By midday on Wednesday, Flora was lucid, free of a temperature, in fact her temperature was quite alarming low, but she assumed that was a reaction after the dizzy heights of the first day. She still had a bad pain in her left side, though. That pulled muscle, or whiplash injury didn’t seem to have got any better; if anything, it was worse.

  The cough, to her great relief, seemed to have stopped. Flora got out of bed, feeling very weak, but that was not surprising. She would have a bath, she thought. She felt as if she needed one. She had been alternately sweating and shivering for the last day and a half. Perhaps she would pop in and see the doctor. He had an afternoon surgery on a Wednesday. She could ask him for some painkillers. She didn’t think that she could cope with Rosie and her needs while she felt like this.

  Flora turned on the tap and went back and sat on her bed for a few minutes and tried to think. She would have to hurry if she were going to make the surgery before three o’clock. Somehow another hour had gone by.

  And then she went back into the bathroom and found that the water was stone cold. She had forgotten to twist the hot tap, nothing but cold poured through the mixer. The bath was overfull, the water flooding out through the overflow. Well, she thought, it’s summer. A cold bath would probably do her good, clear her mind of the heavy, strange mist that seemed to be clogging up her brain.

  Afterwards she couldn’t remember whether she had had the bath or not. She was standing in the middle of the bedroom wondering what to wear to the surgery when she got worried about whether she was clean. She went back into the bathroom and washed herself carefully with a hand towel dipped into some very hot water and then came into the bedroom and slowly and painfully got some underwear on. The pain in her ribs seemed to have moved down into the left-hand side of her stomach and her stomach was so swollen that she wasn’t able to come anywhere near buttoning her trousers.

  And then Flora faced facts. She was still ill and it was three o’clock, too late for the doctor’s surgery. In another hour or so, she would have to set out for Brocklehurst to collect Rosie.

  And she knew that she just could not do it.

  But she had to.

  Rosie had to be taken out of that place.

  She thought about Paula, but that was not safe.

  The conditions of bail were that Rosie would reside with Mrs Flora Morgan and only with her.

  What could she do?

  And then she thought about Jenny.

  And she thought about the two beds in the spare room.

  Once again Flora forced herself out of bed. Luckily her handbag was in the bottom of the wardrobe. She found her little pocket telephone number book and dialled the travel agent number that Jenny had given her.

  It took a minute before Jenny came on the phone.

  ‘Jenny,’ she said. ‘This is a terrible nuisance, but I have some sort of summer flu. I wonder, could you get a day off work tomorrow and come and stay here and look after Rosie? I’ll go to the doctor first thing and get something, but I don’t think that I feel able to fetch Rosie tonight. Would you be able to collect her and bring her here? Could you stay the night here with her? I have two beds in the spare room.’

  ‘Of course, I will, Mrs Morgan, that’s no problem. It’s my holidays; really I’m just working to keep her mind off things. The only thing is,’ said Jenny, the practical, far-seeing girl, ‘will the police release her into my custody? Should you ring them and tell them that you’re ill?’

  ‘Perhaps I’d better not say that. They might not be willing to release her if they knew that I was ill. I know; I’ll ring Jim Prior and ask him to bring her here. I’ll tell him that I have a problem with the car and that you will come over to the police station and be in the car with Rosie on the way here. How about that?’

  ‘That sounds fine,’ said Jenny cheerfully. ‘What time should I get there?’

  ‘Five-thirty, I think, that’s if it suits Jim.’ Suddenly Flora felt as if it was all getting too complicated for her.

  ‘Don’t you worry about it, Mrs Morgan,’ said Jenny briskly. ‘I’ll give Badger a ring and sort things out with him. You just clear it officially and I’ll manage the pickup.’

  ‘You’re wonderful,’ Flora said. ‘Oh, and Jenny, this seems a very nasty bug. Don’t come near me. I have everything I want here in the bedroom and my own bathroom. If you could just make something to eat for yourself and Rosie tonight and tomorrow morning — there’s loads of stuff in the fridge and in the freezer and then when I come back from the doctor tomorrow I’ll probably be OK to take over. Oh, one more thing, I’ll slip down and put the front door on the latch, so just turn the handle and come in. That way I won’t infect you with my germs.’

  ‘We’ll be fine, Mrs Morgan,’ said Jenny. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing; just look after yourself and get better soon. Looking after Rosie will keep me occupied. I might take her shopping tomorrow afternoon if that’s all right by you. It’ll give you time to get over your flu, but I am quite happy to stay until Sunday.’

  Chapter 33

  Flora hallucinated that night.

  There was a wall of white melamine fitted wardrobes and shelving along the side of her bedroom. The moon was full and it shone on them, turning them into a mountain of snow. She could almost smell its crisp tang.

  And then a window opened up behind her bedhead and the sound of carols filled the bedroom.

  ‘Funny,’ she said aloud, her voice sounding strange and hollow in her ears. ‘I never knew that Canterbury Cathedral was just beside my house.’

  The song changed and it was Rosie singing about Toad.

  And then Flora vomited again and that seemed to restore her to her wits.

  Flora remembered that Jenny and Rosie were in her spare bedroom.

  They had arrived at about six o’clock, she thought. She had heard them go down the path, Jenny’s voice merrily greeting her, but she hadn’t been there, of course. She was upstairs in her bedroom.

  P.C. Prior had been fooled, though, thought Flora. Through the open window she heard him shout a polite farewell to her from the gate and then the slam of his car door followed the slam of her hall door. Jenny was one of those people who was always so convincing. It was nice to hear the merry noise of the two girls in the hall giggling to each other about Badger and then Rosie calling sweetly up the stairs, ‘Hope you feel better soon, Mrs Morgan.’

  She sounded quite normal and Flora felt so thankful that, between them, Jenny and she had managed to get her out of that place.

  The dreary opening song of EastEnders wailed up the stairs a little while later and Flora smiled with relief. Rosie was back in her world of TV soaps; Jenny would probably put supper on a tray in front of her and that would restore her to normality quicker than anything else.

  And then barking. A scream. That would be Rosie. Jenny’s voice. Simon’s voice. The voices, merging, blending, the dog barking, laughing. No, that was Jenny. Another scream, but faint and unconvincing. And then Rosie was laughing and protesting. Piper would be licking her vigorously.

  And then Simon at the door. What was it he said? She didn’t know, but heard herself speak and heard the word flu. She didn’t sound too bad, she thought. Perhaps Piper’s barking had woken her out of a daze. Simon went back downstairs and she heard their voices, he and Jenny, and then more knocks on the front door. A crowd gathering. Ian, Jim, Benjamin, and was that Anthony’s voice? It was all right, she supposed in a fuzzy way. Safety in numbers. Enough food in the fridge for everyone.

  And then Flora slept, hallucinated, slept again and then woke up. For a moment, she looked sleep
ily at her clock. It blurred in front of her eyes. Was that seven o’clock in the morning? Simon would have gone to work. The closing of the front door must have woken her. But then her eyes cleared. Twenty-five minutes to three. Three o’clock in the morning.

  Jenny was in her room.

  She was standing by the bed.

  And looking down upon her.

  And she held a pillow in her hands.

  Chapter 34

  By the grey light of the early dawn, Jenny’s face looked very young and very scared.

  She lowered the pillow instantly when she saw Flora open her eyes. She had the slightly embarrassed expression that she might have worn in her schooldays if Flora had caught her peeping into the maths’ answer book. Flora took in some small, short breaths.

  ‘Jenny,’ she said, as calmly as if the girl had been sent to her office for a scolding, ‘sit down. Sit down on that chair; put down the pillow, yes, that’s right, just leave it there on the end of the bed.’

  Jenny did what she was told. Flora searched through her fuzzy mind. There was something that she wanted to say. But should she say it? Jenny looked very much like a child in her oversized ‘Snoopy’ T-shirt and with the make-up cleaned from her face.

  ‘Jenny,’ she said, ‘I know everything. I know how it all happened. I know why your mother was murdered.’

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Morgan?’ Jenny said nervously. ‘You look very sick. You were shouting, saying strange things.’

  This disconcerted Flora slightly. At the back of her mind, though she couldn’t quite remember why, there was a strong impression that she needed to conceal the fact that she was ill. And why had she been shouting? Had she been having that nightmare again? She started to cough and the coughing lasted a long time.

  ‘Never mind about that, Jenny,’ she said sharply, as soon as she got her breath back. ‘We’re talking about your mother. That pillow killed your mother, didn’t it?’ That, thought Flora, was not what she wanted to say. She was going to tell Jenny something. Someone had to be told. This illness might kill her and Rosie might be put back into prison.

  And then she stopped; it was a strange feeling. This feeling of not being able to remember things from one moment to the other. She shut her eyes for a moment; and then it seemed to be the right thing to lean her aching head to one side, to lower it inch by inch and then to place it on the bed. The duvet was all twisted up and in a lump beside her: it made a comforting cushion. She would just rest for a minute and then she would tell Jenny. She had to do it. Rosie couldn’t be sacrificed for the sake of someone else.

  There were thoughts looming, then fading, and then glimmering through her head just as the last dying rays of electricity flicker in a spent bulb. Something about a grey woollen dressing gown and a dog, that magnificent, longhaired German Shepherd. Something that Alf Barfoot had said. A pink kettle. What was the connection between them? She had worked it all out. Flora sat up very straight and gripped the side of the bed. The pain in her side was agonizing. She wasn’t sure that she could endure it much longer before crying out in anguish.

  ‘Jenny, I know the truth,’ she tried to say. Her voice was unrecognisable even to herself and the words came out in hoarse gasps. Her chest was tight and sore and the pain in her side was rapidly approaching the unbearable stage, but she could stand it for another few minutes, she told herself. She had to talk to Jenny. Her brain was clearing.

  Flora broke out in another paroxysm of coughing and each cough felt as if she were ripping her side apart. She rested for a moment, nursing her pain as if it were a sick child, somewhere within her. And then she thought of Otter. ‘What did you do with that fifty-pound note, Jenny?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘You don’t look well at all; let me fetch you a doctor,’ Jenny said and her words sounded strange, like words uttered in an empty house, echoing oddly through Flora’s befuddled brain. She lay there listening, trying to make sense of everything.

  ‘Mrs Morgan, you’re not well; you’re getting things confused. Your voice sounds terrible. You can hardly get your breath. I think that I should phone for the doctor. Have you the telephone number?’ Jenny half-rose, but Flora shook her head violently at her and Jenny sat down again.

  ‘Jenny, you must listen.’ Flora stopped to cough, despising herself for her weakness, but fearing that she would never get her voice back again. Every cough hurt with a sharp unbearable sword-stab of pain. She grabbed the ancient bottle of cough mixture from the bedside, twisted off the lid and put the bottle directly to her mouth. The mixture was hot and burned, but miraculously it stilled the hard, painful barking. Her chest was still tight and sore but she was now able to breathe.

  And then then there was a sound from the room above hers. A thunderous bark. The dog, Piper! Simon! The sound went through her head; seemed to explode; seemed to dissipate all of the cloudy muddle within it.

  ‘Don’t let Simon in here!’ The words came out in a demented shriek, but she hoped they were clear.

  Jenny said something. It made no sense. Flora went on trying to explain, but then realized that Jenny had gone. There was an empty feel to the room. She had failed. She had failed to explain. She was going to die with the secret within her. Nothing could save Rosie now. Nobody else, she thought, knew of the hidden secrets within Willowgrove Village.

  And then a voice, harsh, insistent, pulling her back. One word, repeated again and again.

  ‘Mum! Mum! Mum!’ It was Simon. He was in her room and she didn’t want him there.

  ‘No, Simon,’ she shrieked.

  ‘Look, I’ll stand well back. Look, I’m over by the window and the breeze is blowing in. I can’t catch any germs.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ she said in a choked whisper. ‘I know about the killing. Must tell someone. I must be well. No one will believe me if I keep coughing. I must get to the police station. Get some brandy. Get the police.’

  She half sat up. The dawn was coming. A grey light illuminated the garden. Outside of the open window a willow warbler began its song, the piercingly high twitter filling Flora’s ears to an almost painful extent.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Mum. I’ll do it,’ he said and in her delirium she almost thought that it was his father’s voice. ‘I think I know what you want to tell the police,’ he went on. ‘Alf does too. I’m sure of that. He put me on to it. He sees a lot that goes on in this village; sitting up there, above the hedges, you can see a hell of a lot.’

  Flora put a hand to her painful side and tried to sit up properly. Simon. It was important to listen to Simon. She struggled through the fog of hallucinations. Simon, her son. John’s son. And the knowledge brought back clarity to her mind.

  ‘Makes sense, though, doesn’t it?’ the suddenly adult voice went on. ‘Alf has seen the husband slipping out of that French window to her bedroom. He’d go off and get the London train. But, of course, he’d have to have left extra early that night. Mrs Trevor wanted to say goodbye to Jenny. And so she sent him home. And I suppose that they had a row when he got there. She probably guessed, smelled it off him, I suppose. Or saw some of those blonde hairs on his jacket. Alf worked it out. He kept on muttering to me about what a ‘nasty ’uoman’ she was. He didn’t care if she murdered her husband or murdered his fancy woman. That was her own business. But he didn’t want the police blaming Rosie. He thought that you would guess, I think. He keeps asking me why you don’t talk to the police as you are such a clever woman.’

  ‘The Wendy House...’

  ‘I’d say that he guessed or saw her slip into the Wendy House. I bet he knew that the pearl necklace and the three thousand pounds were there and he got Piper to track them.’

  Flora was seized with another coughing fit. ‘How ...?’ She managed to utter the one word.

  ‘Well, of course, Piper was tracking Alf. That was obvious. And Alf guessed that he would. He’s pretty clever, you know. Alf, I mean. Anyway, I’m phoning the doctor now. Jen can let him in. I’m off to Brocklehurst Police Stat
ion now. I’ll tell Jen that no one except the doctor or the ambulance people should be allowed into the house, so don’t you worry about anything, Mum.’

  ‘Piper...’ Flora went into another paroxysm, but he was gone. She would have to trust him to look after things. She had reached the end of her tether, but she thought that Rosie would be safe no matter what happened to her. Simon and Jenny between them would make sure about that.

  Chapter 35

  Flora went to see Paula in prison a month after she came out of hospital, as soon as she was strong enough to stand on her feet and drive a car.

  She was still the old Paula, fussing about Flora’s pale face, hoping she wasn’t in a draught, asking for the doctors’ final verdict.

  ‘An antibiotic-resistant bacterial pneumonia with a septic lung and chest cavity. That was the final verdict.’ Flora shrank from these conversations usually, but now she welcomed Paula’s interest. It made everything seem more normal, somehow, as she went into the details of her lung decortication operation, all the horrors of sawn apart ribs, drips and drains, as she told the story of her long months in hospital.

  ‘And how are you, Paula?’ Flora asked eventually. She had to stop herself from confessing, from asking her pardon. That would not do any good, she told herself firmly. Flora’s name had never come into the matter. Nor had Simon’s nor Alf’s. It had all been done with fingerprints and DNA traces, according to Simon. Paula had left fingerprints on the French window.

  ‘Yes, I must tell you about Simon,’ she said when Paula had quickly turned the conversation to an enquiry about her son. Simon, she said, was now back doing his A Levels and studying hard. In fact, though she did not mention this, Simon was now half-wondering about going into the police, especially since he was keen to be chosen to do the advanced driving course, just like Jim Prior. Flora was keeping her fingers tightly crossed, but apparently, and to her huge surprise, Sergeant Dawkins had backed his application and had commended him for his clear explanations and on the accomplishments of his dog. Simon was so pleased that he and Alf had taken to training Piper to be a police dog, working him up in the woods. There appeared to be no great change in Piper’s behaviour around the house; he was still as boisterous and unruly as ever, but Flora took her son’s word for Piper’s brilliance at tracking and retrieving hidden objects.