2 Murder Most Fowl

by Morgana Best

  Cressida sighed in resignation. “Okay. Let’s go to the café right down the south end of town; not so many locals go there.”

  It only took us minutes to walk there, and I guided Cressida to a quiet corner booth of the café, away from the main mob of people chatting away or frowning over their phones. Over in one corner was someone with a table covered with notebooks and folders, tapping away at a keyboard. It was all so normal. I thought again how easily the world carried on when a crisis happened.

  The waitress at once came to take our orders. I indicated that Cressida should order first, but she raked both hands through her hair and doubled over in her seat. I was starving, so ordered an iced mocha with plenty of whipped cream, and a double espresso for Cressida. She looked like she needed one.

  As for food, I had no idea what Cressida wanted, so I went for the sugar option. “Two blueberry cheesecakes, please.”

  The waitress scribbled the order on her notepad. “Ice cream or cream?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “Both, please,” I said, raising my eyebrows. What kind of place was this?

  Neither of us spoke until the waitress returned. “Here we go!” she said, making Cressida jump in her seat.

  I laughed. “Looks like I made a good call on the double shot of espresso. You were really zoned out.”

  “They found it in the quail and the salad,” Cressida said.

  I was puzzled. “What do you mean?” I spooned a large measure of cream off the top of the iced mocha and popped it into my mouth.

  “They found it in the quail,” Cressida repeated. “The hemlock; it was in the quail.”

  “I see. So someone injected the quail with hemlock.”

  Cressida shook her head so hard that I feared her glasses would fly off. “No, and that’s what makes it worse for me. The quail had been fed hemlock.”

  I set down my spoonful of blueberry cheesecake. “But that makes no sense, Cressida. The quail would’ve died if they’d been poisoned with hemlock.”

  Cressida leaned forward. “That’s just it. The detectives told me that quail aren’t affected by hemlock. Have you ever heard of coturnism?”

  I had to admit that I hadn’t.

  “Coturnism is the illness caused by eating quail that have fed on hemlock,” Cressida said. “See, there’s even a medical term for it! The detectives knew all about it; the forensics team had told them. If people eat quail that have fed on hemlock, the people get sick or die, but the quail are okay. Oh, well, apart from the fact that they have been eaten, of course.”

  I was trying to wrap my head around this. “But why is that worse for you?”

  “Who has access to my quail, Sibyl? I’m the only one who feeds them.”

  “Your quail are free range, Cressida. I wonder if hemlock grows wild?” I tore my eyes way from the lashes of luscious blueberries and cream, and reached for my iPhone. “I’ll google it to see.”

  Cressida shook her head. “It doesn’t matter; it’s worse than that. The salad I took to Martin Bosworth’s room also had lots of hemlock leaves in it.”

  I gasped. “But didn’t you look at the salad, Cressida? Didn’t you notice the hemlock?”

  “I don’t even know what hemlock looks like, Sibyl. Martin Bosworth always liked his salad soaked in lemon juice overnight, so I always had it premixed for him. Anyone could’ve gotten access to it and slipped in the hemlock. It was a mixed salad, so there were different types of leaves. That’s why I’m the main suspect.”

  I set down my spoon. “Surely not.”

  “Lord Farringdon says that quail are nothing but trouble,” Cressida said. “I should’ve listened to him.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so sipped my drink, and listened to the bustle of the shop. I was glad to see that Cressida ate some cheesecake.

  “Feeling a little better?” I asked, after I had fortified myself with sufficient whipped cream and chocolate.

  Cressida nodded. “I feel a little less overwhelmed.”

  Her face was pale, a feat considering the layers of make up, so I decided I should distract her. “I've always meant to ask. What's the story with the boarding house?”

  “My husband and I bought it together before he passed away.” Cressida took a sip of coffee. “He died of a heart attack the year before last.”

  I stirred my straw through my drink. “So you wanted to keep the house, but found it was too big for one person living alone?”

  “Not exactly, he had run up a lot of debts while he was alive. Too many debts. I didn't even know about them.”

  I murmured my sympathy.

  “He didn’t even have insurance policies,” Cressida continued. “Maybe things would’ve turned out differently had he been more honest with me about the whole thing. It was one of the darkest times of my life. One day, he and I were respected in the general community, invited to attend social functions and all that. The next thing I knew, I was alone, deep in debt, and all these so called friends were busy and absent.”

  “Oh, Cressida, that’s awful.” I reached across the table and patted her hand.

  “The job market was terrible at the time. I didn't have the skill sets needed to get back into the workforce.”

  “So you turned the house into a business.” I was impressed with her strength.

  Cressida shook her head. “I was desperate rather than clever. It had been a good life, when I didn’t know about the debts and secrets that my husband had been keeping. I’d sincerely thought we were going to make a good life together. I never expected him to be taken from me like that. I always wonder if his money worries caused his heart attack. Would he still be here if there had been no secrets between us? Was there anything I could’ve done differently? Something I could have said?”

  I rubbed at the bridge of my nose and then fumbled through my purse to search for my aspirin. The headache was now in full swing, beating a dull throbbing rhythm across my forehead. I was overwhelmed with sympathy for Cressida. “You mustn’t think like that.”

  Cressida simply shrugged. “This murder - as sorry as I am for Martin Bosworth, I’m worried it will affect my income. What if I lose all my boarders?” Her voice caught as she said it.

  “Did you say boarders?”

  I jumped, and looked up into the face of one such boarder, Alec Steel.

  “Hello, Alec,” Cressida said, without enthusiasm.

  “May I join you?”

  While I was thinking of a reason why he couldn’t, he pulled out a chair and sat down, much to my dismay. Alec was one of the younger academic philosophers staying at Cressida’s, and he had taken quite a liking to me. I hasten to add that it was not a mutual attraction.

  My mother used to say that you have to kiss a lot of toads to find your prince, which meant that there were more toads than princes. To me, Alec was about as toady as it got.

  I supposed that Alec Steel didn't look all that bad in a physical sense. He had an athletic build, and was tall, with short and well kept hair, and always wore obviously over priced and freshly pressed collared shirts.

  It was his personality that was slimy. That's the first word that always came to mind. He had a way of looking at me that made me want to check for a wardrobe malfunction. He made no attempt to hide his attraction to me, nor did he hide the fact that I should be flattered and pleased at his attention. His favorite topic of conversation, apart from Socrates, was how his previous dates had not met his high standards.

  Cressida and I exchanged looks.

  “Imagine that,” he said, after ordering a prune juice, of all things. “Martin Bosworth, world renowned Socratic scholar, murdered by hemlock.” He rubbed his hands together with something akin to glee. “It’s all over town.”

  “It’s hardly anything to smile about,” I said. “A man has been murdered.”

  Alec shrugged off my remark. “No one liked him. He was highly unpopular. I mean, I’m only a visiting scholar, and I’v
e already heard about that from just about everyone. Anyway, it’ll throw the whole Socrates conference into confusion. Who will give his public lecture now? I hope it’s on file, so someone else can read it. It’s only a simple paper of course, as the unlearned will be attending.” He looked pointedly at me when he said that.

  “I won’t be attending,” I said.

  Alec ignored me and pressed on. “His paper is for the masses; it’s on the reaction among contemporary Athenians to Socrates. Now, Plato represents the Pythagoreans as looking to Socrates as their most authoritative exponent, but-”

  I cut him off. “Oh, look at the time! Cressida, we must rush. I’m late for an appointment.”

  With that, I ushered a relieved Cressida from the café. We had to catch a taxi back to the boarding house. I had agreed to have another coffee with Cressida, even though I was already buzzing horribly from caffeine overload. She was awfully distraught.

  As we walked from the parking area to the boarding house, we saw Colin Palmer in the lavender garden talking to David Bilderbeck, the gardener, who looked quite stressed.

  I suppressed a chuckle. “Look, Cressida. Colin Palmer has that poor gardener bailed up. I bet he’s going on about Socrates to him.”

  Colin Palmer’s face was red and he was waving his hands around. “Who cares that Xenophon was banished from Athens in 399 B.C.E. for having participated in Cyrus’s expedition?” he said in a loud voice. “We only have Dio Chrysostom’s word for that! Besides, Xenophon had plenty of opportunity to associate with Socrates before that date.”

  The gardener bent lower over the lavender bushes, clearly not interested in Colin Palmer’s words. Cressida waved to them, but Colin Palmer was too busy telling the gardener about Socrates, and the gardener was doing his best to get away.

  “Poor David Bilderbeck,” Cressida said to me in a stage whisper. “As if he’d care less about philosophy. I don’t know why Colin is so intent on speaking to him about it. It’s not like Colin to talk about academic matters to the public.”

  We were met by Lord Farringdon waddling down the pathway. Cressida picked him up and held him to her ear. “What’s that you say?” Cressida turned to me. “Lord Farringdon just said that David Bilderbeck knows more about Socrates than Colin Palmer does. Now, Lord Farringdon, that’s not a very nice thing to say. There’s no need to be catty.”

  I could only shrug at that remark, while Lord Farringdon ran off to chase a bee.

  "You may have a dog that won't sit up, roll over or even cook breakfast, not because she's too stupid to learn how but because she's too smart to bother."

  (Rick Horowitz, Chicago Tribune)

  Chapter Six.

  I was sitting in my small dining room. Opposite me sat Mr. Buttons, who was fidgeting nervously. “Are you okay?” I asked. He didn't look at me, but sat where he was, still fidgeting. “Do you think it was Alice?” Mr. Buttons asked, still avoiding eye contact.

  “Of course not,” I replied. “She's still in jail, and she'd have no reason to come back and murder somebody she's never met. This murder was unrelated - though I'm not sure that makes it any better.” I sighed as I said it. Two murders in as many months had to be some kind of record, and it's one the boarding house probably wasn't interested in holding.

  “I'm going to do a tarot reading,” Mr. Buttons stated flatly. I wasn't sure it would make him feel any better, but it was worth a shot. He brought the cards out from his pocket - a standard Rider-Waite deck - and laid them flat down on the table, after first scrubbing at it with a white linen handkerchief.

  Despite the last few hours, the atmosphere in my house was quiet and relaxed, though I began to feel quite nervous. Mr. Buttons spent some time shuffling the deck before cutting it. He lay three cards face down on the table in front of him – a normal three card spread. I was no expert on tarot, but I knew that one card represented the past, one represented the present, and the final card represented the future.

  Mr. Buttons flipped the first card over, a card which was to represent the past. The image on the card was of a man on a throne holding a sword in his right hand and scales in his left. It read, Justice.

  I looked up at Mr. Buttons. “That’s the card you drew the other day. You said someone would be falsely accused.”

  Mr. Buttons grimaced. “Yes, and again, the card is reversed. This is not looking good. While it can mean other things, it seems obvious what this card is referring to.” As he said this, he leaned down and flipped the second card, representing the present.

  It was The Fool; it showed a man on a cliff, holding a staff and a flower, with a dog looking up at him. Again, it was reversed. “The Fool often represents challenges,” Mr. Buttons said, more to himself than to me. “The Fool is in search of something; however, it can also be a warning that significant change is coming.” Mr. Buttons swallowed nervously, and flipped the final card.

  The image was of a large burning tower being struck by lightning, as people jumped from the windows. Fittingly, it was called The Tower. Mr. Buttons was staring at it intently.

  “What's wrong?” I asked. I knew it wasn’t the best card to draw, and I'd seen him scared or nervous, but never this serious. “This isn't a good card, Sibyl. Not now, at least. This card represents chaos, crisis, and ruin. I think somebody else is going to be murdered.” Mr. Buttons said this without looking away from the card.

  I remembered that this card also represented the future. So, we had injustice, challenges, and another murder in the future – not the best mix. “I'm sure it's nothing, Mr. Buttons,” I said with fake enthusiasm. “Tarot cards can be interpreted differently. It's hardly proof that something bad is going to happen.”

  When I said this, he looked up at me and smiled. I could tell he was still worried, but I think it made him feel a little better. “You're right, Sibyl, of course. But it doesn’t exactly put my mind at ease. In case something does happen, though, who do you think it would be? The person doing it, mind you, not the victim.” He swallowed nervously again as he said it.

  “Well, it's clearly related to the philosophy club in some way,” I said, thinking aloud. “Though I think it's too early to say, honestly. We just don't have enough clues or evidence. It could have been anyone, even somebody we've never met.” I noticed Mr. Buttons didn't seem to be put at ease by my statement. “However, I don't think we're in any danger. Alice had a reason to try to hurt me, but what have we done to upset anybody else? Well, to the point of trying to murder us, I mean. I hardly think somebody's going to want to murder us because Sandy’s barking at night, or something.”

  As if on cure, my big, golden Labrador, Sandy, came over and slobbered on the coffee table. Mr. Buttons snatched his cards to safety. Sandy ate more than I realized was possible. I fed her a normal, healthy amount of premium dog food and avoided too many treats, but she always found a way to eat something she shouldn't. Typical Labrador, I guess.

  I put Sandy out the back door into the garden room, and returned to find Mr. Buttons with a fistful of disinfecting wipes and a bottle of disinfectant, scrubbing my coffee table. He looked up when I re-entered the room. “You're right again, Sibyl, but it isn't us I'm worried about. I've been around two murders now, which is far too many for any normal man to bear.” Mr. Buttons’ voice trembled. “I just want it to stop.”

  Before I could reply, I was rudely interrupted by a loud, screeching voice. “You're an idiot!”

  Mr. Buttons looked around wildly for the source of the insult. I sighed, stood up, and walked over to Max. I wiggled my finger at him, and he screeched, “One more wrinkle and you’d pass for a prune!”

  My cockatoo, Max, was sweet tempered, but no one enjoyed his company any more thanks to my ex-husband teaching him to swear and insult people as some kind of joke while he had temporary custody. It made it that little bit harder for people to love Max, as is normal with anyone that insults you, I suppose. “Max, no! Don't insult people,” I ordered.

  Ignoring me, he replied, “You s
mell!” before releasing a torrent of words no polite company should hear.

  I turned to Mr. Buttons whose face had flushed beet red, no doubt as a result of the improper words uttered by the cockatoo. “I'm sorry about Max. He’s getting worse; now he’s even imitating sounds and even whole sentences from TV. I have to be careful what shows I watch now.”

  “Your ex-husband isn’t very a nice person,” Mr. Buttons said.

  I laughed bitterly. “You could say that. He did try to have me murdered, after all.”

  Mr. Buttons threw the used wipes in the trash, and then returned the spray bottle of disinfectant to my cupboard. He yawned and stretched.

  “Mr. Buttons, I'm going to bed, and you should do the same. Sitting here worrying isn't going to help, but a good night's rest just might.” I smiled at him, and he smiled back.

  “Thank you, Sibyl, you're right. I'll see you in the morning.”

  I showed Mr. Buttons out, and then walked back to my room with my hands over my ears, hoping Max’s fresh torrent of words wouldn't be heard up at the boarding house.

  “Let sleeping dogs lie.”

  (Robert Walpole - first Prime Minister of Great Britain)

  Chapter Seven.

  I awoke early with help from my alarm clock. I swatted at it and knocked it off the bedside table. The clock clattered to the ground and continued to ring in the most irritating way. I grumbled and rolled over onto my stomach, one arm hanging down, my fingertips trailing along the ground while I tried to find it.

  Finally my fingers brushed against it, and I pulled it up, looking at it through half open blurry eyes, while turning off the alarm. Why was I getting up so early again?

  Mr. Buttons. The British man had asked me to breakfast at this early hour. He often accompanied me on my walk with Sandy at seven in the morning, but yesterday he had the bright idea that we should have breakfast at the boarding house first. I had accepted, with the bad judgment that being wide awake in the middle of the day brings. Now here I was, at six in the morning, the sun barely over the horizon, and I had to go to eat breakfast up at the boarding house.