by Adele Abbott
“That trophy should have been mine. My average score has been better than Bill’s for the last three years, and yet every time that competition comes around, he gets lucky.”
“Was it really worth killing him just for a trophy?”
He didn’t answer, but then he’d already proven that he thought so.
Susan Shay and her merry men turned up an hour later. I intercepted her at the door.
“This had better be good, Gooder.”
“You’ll have to come up with another line after Saturday.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The good, Gooder line won’t work after I’m married.”
“I heard you and Jack were getting hitched. I’m disappointed in him—I thought he had more sense and higher standards.”
“We sent you an invitation, but you didn’t RSVP.”
“I never received—oh, right, another one of your jokes. Where’s Hardy?”
“In the dining room.”
“If this turns out to be a wild goose chase, I’ll take great pleasure in charging you with wasting police time. We already have enough evidence to convict Jardine.”
“Luckily for you, I’m about to stop you sending an innocent man to prison. Hardy is ready to give you a full confession.”
“We’ll see. Don’t go anywhere because we’re going to need to talk to you too.”
“My pleasure, as always, Susan.”
***
There was nothing I enjoyed more than having to wait around Washbridge police station. I’d been left to twiddle my thumbs in a cold interview room all day, and I’d have bet good money that it was Sushi who had turned the heating off.
When I was eventually allowed to leave, there was no sign of Sushi, and certainly no apology or thanks. Instead, she sent a uniformed officer to see me.
“Jill? I’m Steve Pickering. Jack and I worked together a few times. Isn’t it this Saturday that you and he get hitched?”
“It’s supposed to be, but at this rate, I may still be here on Saturday.”
“I’m really sorry about all this. I can’t understand why you’ve been kept here so long.”
I could.
“It’s not your fault, Steve. Do you know what’s happened with Hardy?”
“I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but he’s already been charged with Bill Mellor’s murder.”
“And Chris Jardine?”
“I imagine he’ll be released before the night’s out.”
***
I arrived home just a few minutes before Jack.
“I’ve been trying to call you all afternoon,” he said when he walked through the door.
“Sorry. I’ve been stuck in Washbridge police station all day, courtesy of Sushi. I couldn’t get a signal in there.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but Sushi is definitely off my Christmas card list.”
“You should register a formal complaint.”
“It’s not worth it, and besides, I’m used to dealing with difficult police officers.”
He smiled. “A little bird told me that Graham Hardy has confessed to Bill’s murder, and that Chris is going to be released. I assume you had something to do with that?”
“Look, I’m starving. Why don’t we order in pizza, and I’ll tell you all about it?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
One Minute Takeaway failed to live up to their very high standards, and we had to wait almost ninety seconds for our pizzas to be delivered.
What was the world coming to?
Jack and I sat at the kitchen table, with my laptop.
“This is it.” I pointed to the screen, which was displaying the CCTV footage from the bowling alley. “See, that’s Graham’s ball. And there, the ball that comes back up the chute is Bill’s.”
“What does it matter? They’re identical.”
“It matters because when Graham went around the back to the machine room, he put poison in the fingerholes of Bill’s ball. Then he waited until Bill had played his next two shots, and then pretended to take a phone call.”
“How do you know he didn’t actually get a call? Have you checked his phone records?”
“I didn’t need to. Just watch him. He’s standing near the carousel watching the balls, and then he suddenly hurries over to his jacket and takes out his phone.” I paused the footage.
“So?”
“The noise in that bowling alley is unbelievable when all the lanes are in use. There’s no way he would have heard his phone ring above all that din.”
“You couldn’t know that for sure.”
“True, but it was the first hint that something wasn’t quite right. Watch him now.” I restarted the footage. “Did you see which ball he picked up?”
“That was the one which Bill had just played with.”
“Exactly.”
“He could have just got them mixed up. He was probably stressed after the phone call about his brother.”
“The phone call that never happened?”
“But his brother has been ill.”
“That’s the one part of his story that is true. His brother was taken into hospital, but that was two days earlier.”
“You checked?”
“Of course.”
“So, if I understand you correctly, Graham put the poison in the fingerholes of Bill’s ball when he went in the machine room to free the trapped balls?”
“That’s right. Having worked at a chemical factory for as long as Graham had, I don’t imagine he found it difficult to find a poison that would do the job. I found the glove he’d worn, hidden behind a grille in the machine room.”
“What I don’t get is how Graham knew that he’d have the opportunity to apply the poison. He couldn’t know the balls would get stuck.”
“Whose idea was it to play this series of games between the four of you?”
“Err—Graham’s, I think.”
“I thought as much. He played the odds. He couldn’t be sure when the balls would get stuck, but it was a pretty safe bet that it would happen at some time over a series of five matches. He just had to have enough patience to wait until it did.”
“What about the cigarette butt?”
“Graham had been quietly fuming about Bill for years. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing out to him again in the North of England competition. When he discovered that Bill was seeing Sarah, he saw an opportunity to get rid of him, and to frame someone else for the murder. He put traces of the same poison on the cigarette butt, and dropped it outside Bill Mellor’s house, where he knew it would be found by the police.”
“He might have got away with it too if it wasn’t for my very own intrepid private investigator.”
“My bill will be in the post.”
“Do you take payment-in-kind?”
“Depends what you had in mind.”
“When we’ve finished this pizza, I’ll show you.”
Chapter 18
“I can’t believe we’re getting married tomorrow.” Jack had forsaken his beloved muesli in favour of an oat and sultana bar.
“We aren’t. You must have had a nightmare.”
“Spending the rest of our lives together isn’t a nightmare. It’s a dream come true.”
“Aren’t you sweet? If you didn’t have a mouthful of oats and sultanas, I’d give you a kiss.”
“Don’t forget we have to be at the hotel at ten this morning, to run through the final arrangements with Marceau.”
“Why do you need me there? You and Marceau have done fine without me until now.”
“This is our last chance to make sure everything is okay. We should both be there.”
“Okay, but I need to drop into the office first. I’ll meet you at the hotel at eleven.”
“Ten.”
“That’s what I said. Ten.”
***
“Jill?” Mrs V looked up from her knitting. “I wasn’t expecting to see you th
is morning. Shouldn’t you be getting ready for tomorrow?”
“I’ve only popped in for a while. I’m meeting Jack and the wedding planner at the hotel at ten. How come you’re knitting by hand? Has the app stopped working?”
“I’m done with that new-fangled technology. I told Armi he could have my phone. I’ve managed all these years without one—I can live the few I have left without one too.”
“Any messages for me?”
“Yes, actually. A Mr Christopher Jardine called. I told him that you wouldn’t be in for a couple of weeks. He said to tell you thank you for saving him. He seemed to think you’d know what he meant.”
“I do, thanks. Anything else?”
“No, just that.”
“What do you think?” Winky said. “Blue or green?” He held up first one bow tie and then another.
“Err—blue. Why have you got your tux on today?”
“Just a dress rehearsal. I want to make sure everything is perfect for your big day. I don’t want to let you down.”
Oh bum! As if I didn’t already feel bad enough. Maybe I should have just come clean and told him where the wedding was actually taking place. But how could I? What on earth would people think if they saw a cat, wearing a tux, walking down the aisle behind me?
I was busy trying to make sense of this month’s accounts when Mrs V came through to my office.
“You haven’t forgotten you’re supposed to be going to the hotel, have you?”
“Of course not. I don’t need to be there until—oh bum—is it really that time?” I grabbed my bag and bolted for the door. “See you tomorrow.”
***
We were in the Crimson Room at Washbridge Park Hotel. It had been set out ready for our reception, which would take place in just over twenty-four hours’ time.
Say what you like about Marceau, but the guy knew how to organise a wedding. Nothing had been left to chance. Even so, by midday, my patience was wearing thin.
“Are we nearly done?” I sighed.
“Yes, that about wraps it up.” Marceau stood up.
“I’ll walk Marceau back to his car,” Jack said.
“Okay. I’ll see you back home.”
“You can’t leave just yet. The cake is being delivered in twenty minutes time. We need to wait until it’s arrived.”
“Can’t Marceau wait here for it?”
“He has to go and see the limousine people to check everything’s okay with them. It’s only a few more minutes.”
“Okay, but I’m starving.”
“Don’t eat the cake if it comes before I get back.”
“You’re so funny.”
Jack and Marceau had no sooner left than a young man came through the door.
“I’m a little early. I have a cake in the van for Gooder and Maxwell.”
“I’m Jill Gooder. Would you bring it in here, please?”
“Will do.”
So far, I’d only seen a photograph of the cake when Jack and I had chosen it from the glossy brochure. Jack had wanted the smaller one with three tiers, but I’d insisted on four. It was my wedding, and I planned on eating a lot of cake.
A few minutes later, I heard someone outside the door. I assumed it must be the young man, back again. It sounded as though he was struggling, so I hurried over, and pulled the door open.
Whoops!
He must have been leaning against the door, trying to push it, because when I pulled it open, he fell into the room, spilling the bottom tier of the cake onto the floor.
What a mess!
“I’m so sorry.” He looked like he might burst into tears. “I didn’t know you were going to open the door.”
Before I could say anything, Jack walked in.
“What happened?” He stared at the cake that was now splattered across the floor.
“I’m really sorry,” the young man stuttered.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“What are we going to do?” Jack looked horrified. “We’ll never get another one in time for tomorrow.”
“I can sort this out.” I looked at Jack. “But I’m going to need your permission.”
“Permission to do what?” And then I saw in his eyes that the penny had dropped. “Oh, right. Yeah, okay, do it.”
I cast the ‘take it back’ spell, and the cake was as good as new again.
“What the—?” The delivery man stared in disbelief at the cake.
I quickly cast the ‘forget’ spell on him.
“Can you bring the rest of the cake in from the van, please?”
He looked somewhat disorientated but managed to head back outside.
“Thank goodness you’re a witch.” Jack grinned.
“Shush! Not so loud.”
“How come he didn’t remember what had just happened?”
“I cast a spell that made him forget.”
Jack seemed to consider that for a few moments. “Have you ever done that with me?”
“What?”
“Cast a spell to make me forget things?”
“I forget.”
“Jill! Have you?”
“Yes, a few times, but only when you stumbled across me performing magic. I wouldn’t do it now.”
“Promise?”
I gave him a kiss. “I promise.”
***
We drove home from the hotel in separate cars. I had to stop for fuel, so Jack was already home by the time I got back. He was standing on the pavement, talking to Mr Hosey, who had parked Bessie close to our drive.
“Look what Mr Hosey has done to Bessie.” Jack rolled his eyes.
“What do you think, Jill?” Mr Hosey said.
“It’s—err—very—err—I don’t really understand. You do remember that we said we wouldn’t be using Bessie for the wedding, don’t you?”
“I know that’s what you said, but I thought when you saw how good she looked that you might change your mind. You don’t have to worry about the flowers drooping because they’re not real. Although, you can hardly tell.”
To be fair, he had put in a lot of effort, decorating the engine and carriages. There must have been a thousand (fake) white roses on Bessie, and he’d covered all of the seats in white silk. It looked beautiful, but there was just one minor problem: It was still a stupid train!
“We really do appreciate all the effort you’ve put into this, Mr Hosey,” said Jack—always the diplomat. “But as we mentioned before, the limousines have already been booked. Sorry.”
Mr Hosey couldn’t have looked any more disappointed. “Oh well. I hope you both have a wonderful day.” He climbed into the engine and drove away.
I turned to Jack. “Why do I feel like we’ve just killed his favourite puppy?”
***
“What time is the nail woman coming,” Jack said.
“She’s supposed to be here in about thirty minutes, but I wish I’d never agreed to let her do them.”
“Why not? You want them to look their best for tomorrow, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure I trust Deli.”
“She’s qualified, isn’t she?”
“Kind of.”
“It’ll be fine. She’d hardly have her own shop if she didn’t know what she was doing, would she?”
“I suppose not.”
“Do you fancy a cup of tea before she comes?”
“Good idea. After she’s done them, I won’t be able to hold anything for a while.”
“I’ll put the kettle on. By the way, weren’t you supposed to go to that sports thing today?” He didn’t wait for an answer.
As soon as he was out of the door, I magicked myself to CASS. This time, though, I bypassed the west wing, and landed on the playing fields, right next to Reginald Crowe.
“Hi, Reggie.”
“Hello there, Jill.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m a bit disgruntled, as it happens.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“You’ll never guess what the headmistress had me doing yesterday.”
Before I could sympathise with him for having to be the golden-poo collector, someone called my name.
“Jill!” Desdemona Nightowl came hurrying over. “You made it.”
“I promised I would.”
“The final of the mixed relay is just about to start. Come and watch.”
“Who’s winning the competition so far?”
“It couldn’t be any tighter. There are only three points between the house in first place and the one in last. Whichever house wins the relay will take the trophy.”
The headmistress led the way to a small platform where the deputy-head and the heads of house were already seated. On a small table in front of them was the tiniest trophy I’d ever seen.
“Do you like the Gooder Cup?” The headmistress picked it up.
“It’s—err—very—err—”
“Small? It is rather, but it was all they had available at such short notice. It worked out rather well because we were able to use the remaining money to refund those who’d had jewellery eaten by Fluff.”
I’d envisioned the Gooder Cup as a magnificent trophy. Instead, it was little more than a golden egg cup. Typical.
“Ready, steady, go!”
The final was underway.
The pupils, who were crowded around the track, went wild as each of them cheered on their own team. When the runners passed on the baton for the first time, Wrongacre were in front, followed closely by Nomad, then Longstaff and finally Capstan.
The girl running the second leg for Longstaff was incredibly fast, and by the end of the second lap, she’d put her team in front. Nomad were still second, Wrongacre third, with Capstan still trailing behind.
The third lap resulted in no change to those positions, but the fourth and final lap saw the lead change on more than one occasion. As the runners approached the finish line, Longstaff and Nomad were neck and neck. Moments later, the pupils of Nomad house went wild, as they realised they’d managed to retain the trophy.
