An Unholy Whiff of Death

by Joyce Cato

  The woman, who began to confidently make the opening speech, apparently unaware of the microphone’s discordant interruptions, was dressed in an original tea gown that must have been all the rage in, say, 1890. A full-blown silk gown in bronze, the thing fluffed around her like a hideous tea cosy. But it had competition. A chunky necklace that looked like … ‘Good grief, are those real?’ Monica gasped, staring at the huge yellow diamonds on the necklace that was draped around the wrinkled throat.

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t think so,’ Graham said carelessly. ‘They were probably sold off and replaced with glass long before the war. The First World War, I mean. And even if by any chance her disreputable ancestors have managed to keep their grasping hands off them, and they’re still the real McCoy, she still won’t be able to sell them. They’re bound to be entailed and will have to go to the next generation when she dies.’

  ‘So her daughter-in-law will get them?’

  ‘That’s right. And if they are the real thing, I bet that thought drives the old girl wild,’ her husband added with a somewhat less than Christian twinkle in his eye. It was well known that Her Ladyship didn’t see eye to eye with her eldest son’s wife.

  ‘And so, without further ado, don’tcha know,’ Daphne Cadge-Hampton continued, ‘I announce …’ Screech! ‘… this flow …’ Screech! ‘… show open. She literally gabbled out the last two words, before the next ear-splitter could pierce the air and then, picking up a dangling pair of opera glasses from her bosom, looked out over the crowd.

  Monica grinned. ‘Graham, she’s absolutely wonderful,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know. Magnificent, isn’t she?’ her husband whispered back in agreement. ‘And she’s got the personality to match the trappings, believe me. You’ll have to speak to her sometime this afternoon.’

  Monica doubted that she’d have the nerve.

  There then followed a concerted rush to a big tent right at the back of the field, which turned out to be the tea tent. There were two other tents, Monica noticed. The biggest of the two belonged to the actual flower show competition itself, of course; the other smaller tent belonged to Madame Zorgo, who apparently ‘saw all’. Except, it seemed, for the fact that the weather was going to be so hot that the inside of her tent would turn into a veritable furnace, and that she’d have been far better off outside. Still, perhaps the Oracle didn’t do weather forecasts.

  Monica wondered vaguely if crystal balls could still do the job if they were fogged up with condensation.

  ‘Fancy your chances on the coconut shy?’ Graham asked, interrupting her whimsical musings as they passed the stall. Monica glanced at the dark, ugly, hairy nuts and whispered, ‘Do you think they’re nailed on?’

  ‘Oh, bound to be, I should think,’ her husband whispered back. For as long as he could remember, nobody had ever succeeded in dislodging one of them.

  ‘Go on, then. I don’t like coconuts, but if there’s no chance of actually winning one … ’ Monica said, stifling a giggle.

  They spent a good ten minutes, and a fair amount of money, chucking balls at coconuts and getting cheered on by a pair of late-returning boozers from the pub. Graham actually hit one of the coconuts a hefty wallop at one point, but the article itself remained suspiciously unmoved. The stallholder, noting Graham’s dog collar, had the grace to blush.

  Over in the flower tent, the serious gardeners and the merely curious sneaked in for a quick pre-judging peak. Children ran and squealed underfoot, getting in everyone’s way. The six-a-side football teams changed in the new pavilion and trudged out onto the pitch in bright colours to meet either cheers or boos, depending on allegiances. The WI ladies did a cracking trade, even if their Victoria sponges were wilting a little in the fierce sunlight.

  The flower show was underway.

  Melissa Ferris, well aware that she was the closest that Caulcott Green would ever come to harbouring a femme fatale at its bosom (and determined to uphold her reputation) made an entrance that would have done a Hollywood starlet proud.

  First, she arrived in a big, chauffeur-driven car (hired for the day) and wafted through the gates (not without paying her fifty pence, mind) like Scarlett O’Hara might have wafted into the halls of Tara in search of Rhett. She was wearing a figure-hugging, low-cut, ice-blue dress with silver threads; sleeveless, backless, and almost frontless as well. With it she wore three-inch high heels and a domed hat with a huge rim. Her lips were as scarlet as the poppies growing in the surrounding cornfields and huge dark sunglasses shaded her eyes.

  Whispers followed her passing. She wasn’t quite sure where her husband was in the crowd, but she was certain that news of her unexpected appearance would soon find its way to his less than shell-like ears. She smiled at the WI ladies’ stall, but didn’t pause. She graciously bought a glass of lemon squash from the tea tent, and took it to stand in the shade of the pavilion and watch the footballers. Number eight had really good legs.

  Over on his tombola stall, Sean Gregson was on his fourth bottle of beer. Ernie Gant always bought a few crates in and sold them on the quiet to his cronies. Like Melissa, he was also looking out for one man in the crowd, but in his case, it wasn’t Ross Ferris.

  Carole Anne Clancy finally spotted a possible contender for the Cotswold’s most famous photographer, and eyed the woman by his side warily. She looked like trouble. Probably the wife. ‘Damn,’ Carole Anne muttered. ‘Why couldn’t he have been gay?’

  Wendy Davies was in the tea tent, listening to Vera Gant’s woes (which consisted of varicose veins, a rent-man who didn’t understand her, and a grandson who kept growing out of his shoes) and served her eighteenth cup of tea and biscuits of the day to her husband. James then informed her that he was off to the flower show tent for the start of the judging.

  From two different directions, Ross Ferris and Gordon Trenning were also making their way to the tea tent, but Gordon spotted his hated nemesis first and slowed cautiously, watching him go inside before turning away to pace and wait.

  Gordon didn’t look well. Despite the heat he was wearing dark trousers, a long-sleeved white shirt, and – unbelievably – a jacket. Not surprisingly, he was sweating profusely. Every now and then his tongue would slip out over his lips in a nervous habit that made many people look at him queerly. He jumped when a sinuous arm slipped through his, and he whipped his head around wildly. What he saw made his face fall comically.

  Melissa laughed. ‘Oh Gordon, that’s not very flattering. Most men are pleased to see me. And you now a veritable ladies’ man, or so I hear.’ She found it rather amusing that Gordon, Gordon of all people, should be considered such a catch by the local female residents. It just went to show what a silly backwater this really was, she thought sourly.

  Gordon managed a rather sickly smile. ‘Mel— Mrs Ferris, I didn’t know you were going to be here today,’ he gulped miserably.

  ‘Melissa, please, Gordon,’ she purred, and laughed. ‘And I hope that nobody expected me to be here today. Least of all my ever-loving husband.’

  At the mention of that man, Gordon winced, and automatically his hand went to his inside jacket pocket. He felt the tiny hard capsule in there with reassurance tinged with a nauseating kind of panic, and he swallowed back something nasty in his throat. He wanted to throw up.

  Melissa’s dark eyes flashed curiously at his expression, her gaze following the movement of his hand, and she smiled sardonically. ‘You don’t have to guard your wallet here, you know, Gordon,’ she laughed. ‘There’s no chance you’ll get pickpocketed here,’ she scoffed, waving a hand around. ‘I doubt the locals even know what it means. Or are you guarding something even more precious?’

  Gordon saw something that went beyond mere curiosity suddenly flash in her eyes and he felt a lurch of sheer panic. He’d always been scared of this woman. The habit she had of always getting her own way chilled his blood. ‘Well, I think I’ll go and … er … buy a cake,’ he said desperately, his eyes happening to fall on the WI stall.


  Melissa blinked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as he moved away. She’d heard the rumours about his abortive attempt to sue Ross over something or other that he’d created, and wondered how much the scientist really resented his boss. She was beginning to think that he resented him quite a lot. And that could prove useful – very useful indeed.

  Melissa resolved to keep a close eye on Gordon Trenning for the rest of the afternoon. And, if possible, find out exactly what it was that he had in that jacket pocket of his that was causing him so much stress.

  In the flower show tent, Sir Hugh checked his notes for the rallying little pep talk that he always gave his fellow judges before the serious business of awarding the rosettes began. This year it gave old Daphne a little nudge and a broad hint about parting with that cup of hers.

  His eyes looked to the small top table, where the various rosettes and other more modest cups were placed, ready to be awarded. Dwarfing them all was the Cadge-Hampton gladiola cup – a real silver monstrosity with carved ivory handles.

  He spied Malvin Cook, casting his experienced eye over the onions and slowly wandering down the rows of vegetables. His gardener, Sir Hugh noticed with a slight start of surprise, looked very tired indeed.

  Sean Gregson was on his sixth bottle of beer when he finally saw his quarry wandering around looking like he was going to a bank manager’s meeting.

  ‘Git,’ Sean snarled, startling the timid Mrs Weston, who was buying some tickets from him. She hastily handed over her precious pennies and hurried away, hoping that she won the bottle of sherry. She was rather fond of sherry.

  Sean spotted Ernie Gant helping someone with a recalcitrant trestle table, and wandered over. ‘Hey, Ernie, watch me stall for a minute, will ya?’ he asked, and without waiting for a response set off through the crowd.

  Monica and Graham were exploring the jumble sale items when they heard the first ructions.

  ‘But Mr Gregson, I assure you …’ a worried voice floated past two ladies haggling over who had seen a beaded handbag first.

  ‘Assure me nothing, you poncy git,’ a voice growled back in response. ‘You ain’t talking to one of your arty-farty friends now.’

  ‘Mr Gregson, please.’

  Graham, sensing trouble, politely smiled at the ladies who each had a firm grip on the handbag and side-stepped around them, Monica hot on his heels.

  ‘You gonna leave my Linda alone or what?’

  A small gap had opened up between the interested observers forming around the two men, one of whom was now aggressively leaning against the other, chin out-thrust.

  ‘But Linda wants—’ the suited man began, but wasn’t allowed to get any further. Sean lunged, grabbing his lapels and literally and somewhat comically pulling him up onto tiptoe.

  The other man squeaked something very odd, given the circumstances. ‘Watch my pocket, you fool!’ he yelled, panic evident in his voice, and silencing the crowd within a ten-yard radius.

  Sean Gregson sneered. ‘Worried about the cut of your suit, are yer?’ he snarled, himself a little surprised by the sudden and out-of-proportion terror on the other man’s face. He almost let him go, such was his disdain. ‘Now you listen here, you think I don’t know that you’ve been two-timing my Linda, but I does, see?’ Sean thrust his face further towards Gordon’s white-lipped one. ‘So you leave her alone, see, or one of these dark nights …’ the threat hung heavy in the air, but Gordon didn’t seem to hear it. Instead his hand went over Sean Gregson’s right hand, feeling around it, trying to find out… .

  ‘Here, leave off,’ Sean said in some alarm, snatching his hand away. Instantly, Gordon’s hand shot inside his jacket pocket. He seemed to wilt with relief.

  ‘I think that’ll do, don’t you?’ a voice said mildly, breaking into the strained atmosphere.

  Sean turned abruptly, intent on giving a snarling rejoinder that the interloper should mind his own bloody business. Just in time he noticed the tall, dark, handsome man’s dog collar and the words were hastily swallowed back. Sean, like most villagers born and bred in the countryside, still retained, even in this day and age, an almost automatic respect for the clergy. Even if it wasn’t your own vicar doing the interfering.

  ‘Oh, yeah, right,’ Sean muttered, belatedly removing his other hand from Gordon’s jacket, as if he’d just touched something unmentionable. ‘Sorry … er … Reverend.’ He vaguely recognized the other man now. He was local somewhere, one of the vicar’s pals. ‘Bit of a misunderstanding,’ he added, blushing a little under Graham’s steady gaze. ‘On account of someone,’ and here he glowered at the pale-faced Gordon, ‘messing me daughter about, two-timing her and such.’

  This time Graham turned to look at Gordon, who also promptly flushed. He opened his mouth to say something hotly, then seemed to think better of it.

  Monica bit her lip.

  The poor little man didn’t look like anybody’s idea of a Lothario, and she couldn’t be the only one to hear the little titters and the beginnings of avid whispers going around the crowd. She felt quite sorry for him, in fact.

  Gordon muttered something that might have been an apology, and then plunged off through the crowd. Sean, family honour sorted, gave himself a mental pat on the back and wandered back to his stall. The entertainment over, the decibel level rose once more.

  Graham turned to Monica, who grinned up at him. ‘The scourge of ruffians everywhere, aren’t you?’ she said softly, and fluttered her eyelashes. ‘My hero.’

  Graham gave her a flat stare. ‘Just call me Dirty Harry.’

  Monica burst into laughter.

  She didn’t know it, but it was to be her last carefree moment of the afternoon.

  CHAPTER 6

  In the tea tent, the two lady volunteers were wilting. Vera Gant wiped a dark lock off her wet forehead and said gruffly to Wendy, ‘Right, that’s it. I’ve had enough of this,’ and marched out firmly in search of her husband. She found him behind the pavilion, drinking with his mates, and succinctly told him what she thought of husbands sitting in the shade and getting drunk whilst their suffering wives baked.

  Grumbling guiltily, Ernie followed her into the tent, taking a quick gasp as the hot moist air hit him. Monica Noble, who’d popped in for a squash, smiled at him knowingly.

  ‘Blimey, love, you’re right,’ he said to his wife. ‘It’s sweltering in here. What you need is to get a bit of a breeze blowing through. Hold on and I’ll open up some flaps at the back for you. That should do the trick.’

  ‘See that you do,’ Vera said grimly. ‘And be careful which flaps you open. The chemical loos have been put around the back there too somewhere, and on a hot day like this …’ she trailed off meaningfully.

  Ernie blanched. ‘Righto, love,’ he mumbled.

  He walked to the back of the huge tent, where interior canvas walls tapered to a dog-legged narrow canvas corridor. On his left, a flap led off into a separate area that read ‘Gents’, and on his right were the ‘Ladies’. Going on further – and as far as he could possibly get from the conveniences – he quickly knelt down at the back of the tent and began untying strategically placed strings. Within ten minutes he had the back middle flap loose, allowing in some fresher air, and he looked back thoughtfully into the interior of the tent. The positioning of the toilets made the open egress invisible to those inside, and he only hoped that the breeze would be able to make its way back into the main area. To be sure, he stepped outside, almost cannoning into the chain-link fence that backed onto the next field. Containing newly cut barley, the field had a wicked-looking stubble. The gap between the fence and the tent was just enough for one man to be able to walk through, and Ernie quickly set about folding the flap back and making it bigger. Then he walked all the way around the left-hand side of the tent, nodding a pleasant greeting to a thin man dressed in a suit, who was hovering around the main front entrance as he passed. But Ernie couldn’t find any more suitable or potential openings. The tent was very well made.

  He
came in through the front again, and to his relief, felt a definite breeze blowing in from the back.

  ‘Oh Ernie, thank you, that’s at least a little bit better,’ Wendy Davies said gratefully as she served Ross Ferris with a glass of squash.

  ‘That’s all right, missus,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ll just go have a look on the other side and see if I can’t find another flap to open.’

  James Davies, having been waylaid on his way to the flower tent by a parishioner, watched from a short distance away as Ernie began to loosen one of the tent flaps at the bottom and then raise them up with a few stakes.

  Gordon Trenning, unnerved by the big odd-job man stalking the tent, was still hovering just outside and waiting for Ross Ferris to leave. Monica Noble looked at him curiously as she exited with her much needed glass of squash.

  Gordon was growing increasingly light-headed, and if he didn’t have something cold to drink soon, he feared he might even pass out. Besides, there was someone inside he wanted to talk to. Unfortunately, he’d arrived just too late to see James Davies walk away.

  Inside, Ross Ferris looked scornfully down into the lemon squash that he’d just bought and wondered why he bothered. There wasn’t even any ice in it.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Davies,’ he smiled across at Wendy, noticing that she’d lost weight recently. In the heat, all her blonde curls had straightened out into damp strings, and her hands had been prone to a small but obvious tremor when handing over his plastic glass of squash. He was vaguely aware that there’d been some sort of a tragedy in the Davies household, but now he couldn’t quite remember what. ‘So, are you judging anything this year?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Yes, the asters,’ Wendy responded listlessly.

  ‘Ah, lovely flowers,’ he muttered, thinking nothing of the sort. Vera Gant, who had a nose for hypocrisy, shot him a dirty look.

  ‘Do you think so?’ Wendy asked limply, obviously not at all interested but trying to make conversation with this most contentious of her husband’s flock.