Both girls sat gazing at the fire. Neither one wanted to leave the other. The last five hours had been extremely exhausting and after they’d finally sat down, they’d discussed, in detail, the saga of Johns, his wife and how Martha should proceed.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Martha was saying. “I’ll talk with him when I’m ready. I’ve been thinking about your prediction.”
“About what? I don’t remember making a prediction,” Helen said vaguely.
“We were sitting together, at the window in the Village Hall, and you said to give it time, with our luck there’d be another body on the floor.”
Helen, mesmerized by the fire, nodded and roused herself. She slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand.
“That’s terrible! I should be whipped for being so callous about something like that.”
Helen heaved herself out of her chair and went down the hall to the kitchen. She continued talking as she went. “I said what I said in the Hall because I was feeling icky and the situation reminded me of our first meeting at The Grange. Besides, there’s no magical mumbo jumbo making things happen because we say a few words.”
Clanking sounds came from a saucepan being put on the stovetop. “Want more hot chocolate?” she called.
“What about ‘Ask and ye shall receive’!” Martha yelled over the pan rattling and refrigerator scrounging sounds coming from the kitchen.
“That’s different,” came Helen’s reply.
“How so? What we give voice to has a way of becoming reality. Don’t you ever watch those great documentaries? I just finished one on quantum reality.”
Helen shuffled back into the living room and pointed to Martha’s mug, which was held up for a refill of hot cocoa.
“If you’re trying to insinuate Saundra’s death has something to do with my comment in the Village Hall, you’re nuts.”
Helen folded herself up into the comfortable chair across from Martha.
“I think I am nuts,” Martha mumbled.
She rubbed Gus’ fur and scratched his ears, which kicked-off a low, contented purring emanating from his chest. “I’m trying to make sense out of the whole thing. Saundra’s dying was almost exactly like my dream.”
“Pure coincidence,” Helen said, stirring her cocoa.
“Perhaps.”
“That’s neither here nor there, Martha, and you know you can’t pin what happened with Saundra on something so esoteric. What is real, and I think you know it, too, is that Saundra Johns didn’t die of a heart attack. I saw the woman and she was fit. Unless it was a massive stroke, she died of unnatural causes.”
Martha was quiet for a moment. She nodded her head.
“I agree. When I was bending over her, she was gasping for breath and clutching her throat. I think it was poison.”
Neither Helen or Martha said anything.
“Murdered,” Helen said softly.
“Uh huh, it would have to be someone who had access to either something she ate or something she drank.”
They both looked at each other in a way that suggested they didn’t like what they were thinking.
“Johns would never have hurt his wife, but someone did,” Helen said slowly, giving each word emphasis. “I hope to God, it wasn’t Polly.”
Martha’s mouth was a hard, grim line as she sat staring into the crackling fire. She got up to head upstairs to bed. “Oh, Helen, I hope so, too. A mother will go to any lengths sometimes to save her child, even when he’s twice her size and has twice her strength.”
“It doesn’t take much strength to poison, Martha.”
“No,” Martha agreed. “Poison is a woman’s weapon. No doubt about it.”
Chapter 17
THURSDAY, AND IT WAS SUPPOSED to be the first day of competition for the Pudding and Pie Bake-Off. Instead, they would resume the following day which was a Friday. Helen was working on her laptop and making phone calls. She’d heard back from Sinead Peters about the shipment of the manuscripts from Lord Percy’s house. It went well and the precious documents were safe under lock and key in a massive vault three stories below ground somewhere in London.
Martha was elbow-deep in making pies. She’d been busy fiddling with her recipe since ten o’clock that morning. A loud knock signaled someone was at their front door.
“Will you get it?” Martha yelled from the kitchen.
Helen called back, “I’m on my way!”
Helen peeked through the half-moon window at the top of the door and saw Lana Chason standing on the flagstone doorstep, shivering. Throwing the door open, smiling broadly, Helen said, “Get in here, girl. It’s freezing out there.”
“Oh, it is nice to see you again, Helen.” Lana’s beautiful Louisiana accent warmed up the snug room, even more than it already was.
“Would you like something hot to drink? Martha’s been baking all morning and we have oodles of things to eat. I bought some great coffee in Manhattan last week,” Helen said, plying refreshment like any good Southerner would do when a guest arrives.
“I would love something to take the chill off. My blood’s too thin for this cold Yorkshire winter.” Lana stood by the stoked fire and rubbed her well-manicured hands for warmth.
“Do I hear the dulcet tones of a lady from New Orleans?” Martha asked, coming down the hall. Upon seeing Lana standing in her living room, Martha threw her hands up and said with a welcoming smile, “I thought that was you, Lana. What are you up to fraternizing with the competitors?”
Lana laughed good-humoredly and gave Martha a hug.
“I don’t know what it is about this place, but every time I come to town, someone dies.” She shivered.
Martha and Helen nodded mutely in agreement. All three women, for an instant, stood dumbly in the room, but Helen broke the somber silence. Putting a new log on the fire, she said, “It was an odd death, Lana. Saundra Johns looked the picture of health.”
“She was,” Lana said in a matter-of-fact way.
Both Helen and Martha immediately focused their eyes on her.
“Why do you say so?” Martha asked.
“Because not more than twenty minutes before she…died,” Lana shot them an uncomfortable look, “she was talking with a man from the press. Saundra obviously knew him well. I overheard her telling him to meet her later at her hotel. It didn’t sound like they were planning a menu.”
“Hmm,” Martha said with a grin, “Saundra got around.”
“If I were a betting woman, I’d say so,” Lana agreed. “But that wasn’t all. They were talking flirtatiously and the man said the spinning she was doing every day was paying off.”
“So, she must have been in great shape to do spinning every day. That pretty much confirms our suspicion,” Martha said.
“What suspicion?” Lana asked.
“That she was murdered.”
Lana’s mouth dropped open. “Murdered?”
“Oh, yeah. Someone must have popped something either into her drink or her food,” Helen said.
“Come on girls,” Martha turned and walked to the kitchen, “it’s time for something to eat. We can talk in here.”
They all trooped down the hall and made themselves comfortable around the table. The topic switched for a while to the recent nuptials of Lana and her wealthy diamond-merchant husband from Manhattan. Martha cut up one of her cherry pies and warmed the slices in her oven. Lana begged for a cup of coffee, so Helen boiled the water for the French press. There were great uproars of laughter while Lana told the story of how she wooed, or more like lassoed, her new husband.
Once everyone was settled with everything they needed, they jumped back into their earlier conversation. However, before they dug too deeply into the facts, another knock on the front door sounded, and Amos, Martha’s tiny Maltipoo, went berserk barking.
“My, we are popular today, Helen,” Martha said, standing up and heading back to the living area. Another loud knock sent Amos into a twirling dance and more barki
ng.
“Hush!” Martha hissed. “Go to your bed and lie down.” Amos didn’t listen; she did sit back on her haunches and beat her fuzzy tail on the floor. Martha peeked out the window and saw Polly standing there.
“Get in here!” Martha cried upon opening the door and letting Polly hurry inside. “What on Earth are you doing here, Polly?”
Johns’ mother was bundled from head to foot in everything warm she must have owned. She pulled off one of her hats and unwrapped a muffler from around her neck and mouth. As soon as she was free to talk, she grabbed both of Martha’s forearms forcefully and locked a severely serious gaze on her face.
“I’ve got to talk with you, Martha. We were the ones closest to Saundra when she…died. I’ve been over to the constabulary and Merriam told me Saundra was poisoned.”
Martha nodded with a grim expression. “I thought so. I’m so, so sorry, Polly. This must be horrible for you and Merriam.”
Polly, never taking her grip off Martha’s arms, shook her.
“You don’t get it, Martha. We were the two people closest to her. This isn’t good. We’ve got to remember everything that happened.”
“Okay, okay, Polly,” Martha said soothingly. “We can do that. Come on let’s sit down and we can go over it together.”
Polly Johns looked terrified. She let go of Martha’s arms and sat down in one of the oversized, upholstered chairs. Putting both of her hands together in a gesture of prayer, she turned her gaze back up to Martha.
“There are only three people who would have wanted her dead: Merriam, me and…you, Martha.”
Chapter 18
PATRICK KNELLS WAITED FOR THE electric kettle to finish heating. He was thirty-five years old, divorced for five years and fairly good-looking, with sandy brown hair, five-foot-eleven in height and a lean build from jogging every day. He’d been dateless for over six months, and his mother had given up on ever knowing the joy of grandchildren. Patrick Knells wanted something more, but he didn’t know how to find it.
He’d been focusing his attention out the second-story window of the Marsden-Lacey Constabulary watching two tall men meander down one of the medieval alleyways, pulling a fir tree as long as both of them put together. It was Christmas, after all, so they must be taking it somewhere for some purpose he thought to himself. His mind flitted back to those Christmases of his childhood. Something in this village awakened his nostalgic side.
The pot switched off on its own, awakening him again to the present. He poured some of the steaming water into a mug and decided to wait until the tea was finished steeping before he went back down to meet Chief Johns.
“Hello,” came a friendly, young male voice from behind him. Knells swung around to see a pleasant-faced youth of about nineteen smiling brightly at him. Being on the force for over fifteen years, he’d lost a lot of his enthusiasm for the job, but the kid standing in front of him made him think of himself at that age, full of energy and drive to succeed.
“Hello. I’m Inspector Knells,” he said holding out his hand to the junior officer.
“Sam Berry, sir. I saw you arrive. If you need anything, anything at all, I’m at your service.”
“Well, Berry, thank you. How long have you been working here at Marsden-Lacey?”
“Almost a half year, sir. I’ve finished my first semester of police training. I…I would like to do an internship in Leeds someday. That’s where the real action happens,” Sam said, obviously, in awe of the officer from a metropolitan area like Leeds.
Knells wagged his head back and forth. “The action is right here, Berry. Were you at the Village Hall when the victim was killed yesterday?”
“Yes sir, I’m on the cooking team.”
“Cooking team?” Knells asked, his eyebrows knitting together.
“Yeah, the Pudding and Pie Bake-Off team for the constabulary. I’m on the team with Constable Waters, Chief Johns and Constable Endicott.”
The new inspector from Leeds picked up his tea mug and took a sip. He thought for a second or two of how nice it would be to work in a place where people actually liked their police officers enough to see them as everyday citizens. An idea occurred to him.
“Berry, I’ve got to meet with your Chief. Where’s a good place to have a bite to eat afterwards?”
“Easy, my aunt’s teashop or The Traveller’s Inn. Great food, either way. I’d be happy to take you there after work.”
“If you’re still here when I get back, I’d appreciate it. I’ll be going to visit with a few local people for further questioning the rest of the day. Should be back around six this evening.”
“I’ll be here. Constable Waters has me on lock down until seven tonight. She’s a veritable chain gang warden when it comes to serving my time.”
Walking past Sam, Knells laughed and said, “Better get used to it, Berry. Every superior you have from here on out will make it their mission in life to hold your backside to the work fire.”
Sam fell in step with Knells and walked with him to the Chief’s office. At his door, Sam said he’d watch for him later, and the teenager disappeared down the hall. Knells knocked on the Chief’s door.
“Come in,” a gruff voice called from inside.
Knells opened the door and introduced himself.
“Yeah, your supervisor, Superintendent Lyons, just rang off. You’d better let me see your badge, Inspector Knells. I’ve had a bit of trouble in the past with being too trusting.”
The men getting the formalities out of the way, discussed the situation of the murder, the evidence, and the process Inspector Knells used to manage his investigation.
“I’ve been looking into your divorce and I’ve spoken with your solicitor. He says your wife was asking for a substantial amount. You were going to have to sell your home. It’s been in your family a couple of centuries.”
Knells watched Johns’ face for signs of discomfort. He wasn’t disappointed.
“You’re going to find out Saundra and I were not on the best of terms. I was extremely upset about selling my home, but I’d come to terms with it after talking with my mother. She lives there as well. I’d already spoken with a realtor, Mr. Crabtree, about listing the farm. It was a done-deal in my mind.”
“Why were you divorcing your wife?”
“We hadn’t lived together in over five years. Saundra left to live in London because she didn’t like rural life and I…I was a bit of a disappointment to her.”
“How so?”
“When we married, she expected my career to take me to a city like London. Saundra was a successful chef, as you know, and she wanted a more cosmopolitan lifestyle. I realized about two years into the marriage, I wanted to stay here. It was only a matter of time, after that.”
Knells pondered on the similarity between his and Johns’ situation, but it was reversed in regard to the players. He, too, had married, but his wife wanted the quieter life of a rural home. They’d separated after ten years of sullen hostility. He wished he’d understood then what he understood now.
“Please tell me how your mother took the news about moving from the farm?” he asked.
“I thought, quite honestly, she would have been extremely upset, but she was fine. She told me she wanted me to be free from Saundra. I know you’re going to jump on that last comment, but Mum was peaceful about giving up the farm. She said people are more important than things.”
The inspector from Leeds didn’t speak. He considered the last statement, feeling the weight of it. Sacrifice had received bad press for the last one hundred years. It hadn’t been politically correct since the 1960s. Love was sacrifice, but no one was comfortable with that notion of love anymore.
“Thank you, Chief. I’d like to speak with your mother and with…,” he looked down at a hand-sized notebook with names he’d written into it, “a Mrs. Martha Littleword.”
Knells lifted his gaze at the moment he knew would be the most significant. The muscles in Johns’ jaw tightened with the mentio
n of the woman’s name.
“Anything you want to tell me about our Mrs. Littleword?”
“Simple. I love her.”
“Well,” Knells said, taken aback by the candid statement, “congratulations. She feels the same way?”
“I think so; well, I thought so. I’d been reluctant to discuss my situation with Saundra…”
“Why’s that?”
Johns sat back in his chair. His color rose up through his neck and into his cheeks. Knells waited. His own heart beat sped up. He’d found the sweet spot in the interrogation.
Taking a deep breath, Johns began, “I loved my wife. When she left, she was pregnant. I was ecstatic at the thought of having a family. Saundra was scared. We’d waited, in my opinion, too long to start a family, but I wanted Saundra not to feel pressured. She never told me what happened, but two months later, she called from London. She’d lost the baby.”
Knells had enough truths to begin to build a case against Johns, but no proof. He gently encouraged Johns to continue.
“Did you want her back?”
“Yes, I did. I went to see her. She was living in London and when I got to the flat she shared with another person, I realized she was living with a man, not a woman. It was over. Neither she nor I talked about divorce, though, for another three years. I asked first.”
“Why?’
“Saundra told me she wasn’t coming back to Marsden-Lacey. She’d left the other man and had moved on to her second lover. My own personal life wasn’t much in the way of successful. Living in a village, everyone knows your business. Everyone assumed I was divorced. I wanted to be solid on that point with people.”
Johns glanced up at his interrogator. Knells nodded his understanding at what the man meant.
“I’ve got an ex-wife, too, Chief. It’s hard to put yourself back out there.”
“Yes, but in the last few months or so, there’s been one person I’ve begun to fancy. It wasn’t until Mrs. Littleword, Martha, came into my life, that I knew I’d met someone special.” As Johns finished his sentence, his face lit up with a brief flare of humor.
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