Later that evening, Ruth phoned him. ‘Jacob has found the EpiPen, Hugh. He’s been sweeping the drive verges and, apparently, it was under some dead leaves. He brought it to show me. Of course, he had no idea what it was.’
The gardener employed at the Manor was a very shy, inarticulate man. A bit odd, it had to be said, and painfully clumsy in his movements, except where his work was concerned. Nobody knew much about his past. He had turned up at the Manor one day, out of the blue. Rather like Thursday, the Colonel had sometimes thought, except that Thursday was a very different character.
It had been Jacob who had hacked down the impenetrable jungle of brambles and nettles at Pond Cottage, under Naomi’s direction, and Jacob who had later laid the old stone slabs to make the sundowner terrace at the back, so persistently recommended by Naomi. Lady Swynford had sacked the poor man just before her death, but Ruth had kept him on and he had repaid her with devotion.
Ruth went on: ‘It must have fallen out of her bag when the Drydens arrived for the party that evening.’
He said, ‘Yes, it looks like that must have happened.’
But he well remembered Kenneth Dryden wrenching open the neck of the bag and shaking it hard to disgorge the contents.
‘I gave it to Tom. He felt it was probably better not to tell Mr Dryden because it could upset him, but I think he should know about it, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do. Would you like me to tell him? I have his phone number and he asked me to call him if it was ever found.’
‘That would be very kind, Hugh.’
The Colonel rang Kenneth Dryden immediately. ‘I thought you’d like to know that the EpiPen has been found.’
‘Where in God’s name was it?’
‘At the edge of the Manor drive. The gardener saw it when he was sweeping.’
‘But I searched all the way down the drive.’
‘It was hidden among some leaves.’
There was a pause at the other end. ‘It must have fallen out of her bag when she got out of the car.’
‘It would seem so.’
Another pause.
‘Which means that Clarissa couldn’t possibly have taken it before.’
‘No, she couldn’t.’
‘I’m glad of that, Hugh. I got to thinking about everything, once I’d cooled down. The kid’s had a pretty tough time, after all. Joan wasn’t exactly the ideal mother, and I can’t say I’ve been a much better father. We had a long talk and she broke down in tears – swore to heaven that she’d never touched the EpiPen.’
‘I’m sure she was speaking the truth.’
‘She must have been. I feel rather bad about things. I’ll try to persuade her to stay on at the flat for the moment. See how it goes.’
‘I think it will work out all right.’
‘Let’s hope so, Hugh. I’ve already got a buyer for Hassels, so I doubt we’ll meet again. I could send you tickets for one of my afternoon shows, if you like. We always have a live audience, though some of them seem brain-dead.’
‘That’s kind of you, but I’m not very often in London.’
‘Well, you won’t be missing much, to be honest.’
Another pause. ‘Well, thank you for letting me know, Hugh. I appreciate it. Good luck with the rocking horse.’
‘I’ll need it.’
With Christmas only three days away, the Colonel had completed his preparations. Presents had been bought and wrapped for Susan, Marcus, Eric and Edith. Wine, chocolates and a colourful potted plant had been assembled. He had also added a bottle of Chivas Regal. Susan would probably disapprove but he was fairly sure that Marcus wouldn’t. It was a pity that the rocking horse would have to wait for another time, but perhaps it was all for the best, considering that his granddaughter was still only six months old. Plenty of time to make a really good job of it. Perhaps even an heirloom.
He had packed a small case for himself – travelling light was something he had learned long ago – and Thursday had been booked into Cat Heaven for four days, though, fortunately, he didn’t yet know it.
He was aware that the cottage looked sadly un-Christmassy. Kind people had sent cards, which he had put around, but he hadn’t bothered with a tree this year. There had seemed no point since he’d be away. The box of decorations that Laura had collected and used over the years lay undisturbed up in the attic.
When the phone rang, he rather expected it to be Susan with final instructions. Instead, it was Alison, calling from the airport.
‘I wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas, Dad.’
‘Thank you. Happy Christmas to you, too. Have a wonderful time.’
‘Don’t let Susan sell you a bungalow.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’
Half an hour later, the phone rang and this time it was Susan, sounding very upset. ‘Eric’s gone down with chickenpox, Father.’
‘Poor chap. I’m very sorry to hear that.’
‘He’s got spots all over him. The doctor says Edith will almost certainly catch it.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much, Susan. At that age, it should be quite mild and it’s probably good to get it over with.’
‘Of course, we’ll have to put you off, Father.’
‘I had it years ago,’ he said. ‘I can’t catch it again.’
‘Oh, but I don’t think we could cope, you see. Eric’s running a high temperature and Edith is very fretful so I’m sure she’s getting it. I’m very sorry, Father, but we won’t be able to have you, after all. We’ll have to cancel Christmas.’
He thought of his suitcase packed, the presents wrapped and ready, the potted plant, the chocolates, the wine and the bottle of Chivas Regal waiting obediently by the front door.
‘I understand completely, Susan. I’ll come and visit you another time. As soon as the children are better.’
‘But will you be all right, Father? All on your own?’
‘I won’t be on my own,’ he said. ‘I’ll have Thursday.’
He made the necessary call to Mrs Moffat at Cat Heaven. Thursday, snugly curled up at the fire end of the sofa, had no idea of his last-minute reprieve.
Naomi arrived as the grandfather clock was striking six. He unwound her from a moth-eaten fur wrap which shed brown tufts over the hall carpet.
‘Another attic find?’
‘Came across it when I was putting the polar bear back. I’d forgotten all about it. It belonged to a favourite great aunt. A Russian count who was her lover gave it to her. Sable, you know. Rather past its best now, but still useful if we get a cold snap.’
He followed her into the sitting room where the log fire was blazing, the Chivas Regal waiting, and Thursday, a tight black-and-tan ball, fast asleep on the sofa. Naomi moved him in one swift, smooth sideways movement, like a faultless rugger pass, and took his place. She was wearing a Father Christmas red tracksuit with her white moon-boot trainers.
The Colonel poured their first halves – her three fingers with a splash of water and no ice, his own without either. He raised his glass to her. ‘Your Three Ships are out in time for Christmas, Naomi, just like you promised.’ He had noticed the snowdrops that morning, ringing the lilac tree where he had planted them.
‘Jolly good.’
‘And Ruth’s hellebores are flowering away. I don’t know how they manage it in this weather.’
‘They’re much tougher than they look. Don’t forget I’ll let you have some of my December Dawn in the spring.’
‘I’ll look forward to them. Ruth’s promised me some bluebells. Proper English ones. I thought they’d look good in the long grass at the end of the garden.’
‘They’d look wonderful.’
They talked garden talk for a while until Naomi changed the subject.
‘I ran into Thora Jay in Dorchester today. She told me she’s moving to Canada. But, of course, you already know.’
‘What makes you think I do?’
‘Your car was spotted outside Farthings
the other day.’
‘The Frog End KGB at work?’
‘No. Flora Bentley passing on the way to Dorchester to take back her library books.’
‘As it happened, Mrs Jay did mention it. I gather she has cousins in Vancouver.’
‘Did she also happen to mention that her daughter was Kenneth Dryden’s first wife and that she hanged herself when he dumped her for Joan?’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Oh, from somebody.’
Naomi was often discreet about her sources. It was one of the many things he liked about her.
‘I’ve heard something else rather interesting too, Hugh.’
‘Oh?’
‘Joan’s missing EpiPen has turned up. Apparently Jacob found it at the side of the Manor drive and handed it over to Ruth.’
‘Yes, I knew about that.’
‘You’re a dark horse, sometimes, Hugh. Who told you?’
‘Ruth. She phoned after that talk at the Manor. And I rang Kenneth Dryden to tell him. He’d asked me to let him know if it was ever found.’
‘Perhaps it fell out of her bag when she was getting out of their car?’
‘It certainly looks like it.’
‘But I thought he’d hunted everywhere for it – searched high and low.’
‘Apparently, it was hidden under some dead leaves.’
‘All rather fishy, don’t you think, Hugh?’
‘What is?’
‘That Joan Dryden ate an almond-loaded mince pie at the Manor bash and that the EpiPen which would have saved her life had fallen out of her handbag. I’ve been thinking some more along those lines.’
‘What have you been thinking?’
‘That it would be an absolutely foolproof way to bump someone off without getting caught. What a wheeze! The perfect crime! I thought Monica Pudsey might have had something to do with it except that her mince pies are uneatable, so it would never have worked. But Thora’s were a work of art. Do you know what I reckon, Hugh?’
‘No.’
‘I reckon that Thora knew about Joan’s nut allergy and grabbed her opportunity to take revenge on what had happened to her daughter. It wasn’t chance at all; Thora planned it from start to finish.’
‘You’ve been thinking far too much, Naomi.’
‘So have you, Sherlock. And you’ve been thinking exactly the same as me, though you won’t admit it. I think Thora pinched the EpiPen in the village hall dressing room sometime during the final performance, saw to it that Joan took one of her scrumptious mince pies at the party afterwards and waited for the worst to happen. The extra luck was that Tom had been called out.’
‘That’s all supposition.’
‘Not quite. Why did Thora go to that No Plant is An Island talk at the Manor? She’s never been to any of the talks before and the garden at Farthings is a mess. Answer me that.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You know very well why, Hugh. It was so that she could dump the EpiPen by the drive and make it look as though it had fallen out of Joan’s bag when she arrived for the party. So she could never be suspected of having anything to do with it.’
‘She isn’t.’
‘She is by us. What are we going to do about it, Hugh?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, wondering how many more times he would be repeating the same mantra. ‘Thora Jay told me she didn’t know about the nut allergy and had never even seen an EpiPen.’
‘Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she?’
‘There’s no evidence, Naomi. She could easily have been telling the truth.’
‘But she wasn’t, was she? You and I know that.’
‘Do we?’
‘Yes, we do. You ought to tell that Inspector Squabb man about it, Hugh. The one who investigated Ursula Swynford’s murder.’
‘Squibb.’
‘Whatever he’s called. He’s a nasty piece of work but at least he’s a policeman. He could do something. Arrest Thora, for a start.’
‘On what grounds? Being fishy isn’t enough. There is no evidence at all that she knew anything about Joan’s allergy or that she ever touched the EpiPen. None whatsoever. The police wouldn’t waste their time on it. Fortunately, the law in England still requires conclusive proof before a person can be convicted of murder.
Naomi sighed. ‘I suppose I got carried away.’
But in exactly the right direction, he thought. After eighteen years Thora Jay had taken her revenge. He had no doubts about it. In her view, justice had been done. In his, she had got away with murder.
He stood up. ‘How about the other half?’
‘I don’t mind if I do.’
He refilled her glass and his own and returned to his wing chair. ‘To your good health, Naomi.’
‘And to yours, Hugh. Are you all ready for your trip up to Norfolk?’
‘Plans have changed, as a matter of fact. My grandson has gone down with chicken pox. Christmas has been cancelled.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Hugh. You’re welcome to come and spend it with me instead, if you like.’
‘That’s kind of you, Naomi, but I’ll be fine. Thursday and I will be festive together.’
‘You’d be doing me a favour. Someone gave me a brace of pheasants and they’ve been hanging for four days. If I don’t do something with them soon they’ll fall down. Do you like pheasant?’
‘Very much.’
‘That’s settled, then. I’ll cook the damned things and you come over and help me eat them. You can bring the wine.’
‘With pleasure.’
‘I’ll keep the giblets for Thursday, so he won’t feel left out.’
Thursday, feigning dignified slumber, twitched one ear.
‘He’ll appreciate it.’
‘I doubt it.’
She raised her glass to him once more. ‘To our Christmas, then, Hugh. Let’s make it a jolly, jolly one.’
‘I’ll drink to that, Naomi.’
He smiled at her. He knew exactly what he would take her as a present.
Bitter Poison Page 15
