An Unholy Whiff of Death

by Joyce Cato

  Gordon, his nerves unable to stand being so close to the flower show tent, slowly circumnavigated the football pitch instead. He was beginning to have real regrets about what he’d done.

  He should never have parted with the capsule. Never. Never. It had been a moment of weakness on his part. Yet another one, he thought, in self-disgust.

  He set off along the length of the football pitch again, avoiding the spectators. ‘What the hell was I thinking?’ he muttered, making a beautiful blonde girl, just passing, shoot him a quick, half-amused smile in response. Not that the scientist took particular notice of her.

  Carole Anne tossed back her hair and sighed. Some poor soul muttering to himself was the least of her concerns. Still, at least it went to show that she was not the only one at this wretched shindig having problems, and the thought that at least the misery was being spread around gave her some small, if rather mean-minded comfort.

  Gordon continued around the field until he’d come full circle. Restlessly, and with a kind of desperate hopelessness, his eyes returned to the flower show tent, and he began to chew his lower lip anxiously. He caught sight of the beautiful Melissa, and quickly turned away, taking refuge beside the small wooden pavilion. The last thing he wanted to do now was cross swords with that hellion. Besides, it was cooler there, in the shade, and he needed time to think.

  Hell, he was in a mess.

  Fantasizing about killing Ross Ferris had been wonderful. If only he’d let it end there. If only he’d destroyed the damn capsule when he’d finished making it. But no, he’d had to put it in his pocket and come here with it. And now look where it had got him. He had no idea now what was going on in that tent.

  But surely, he wouldn’t be betrayed? But what if… . He’d been stupid. He knew, deep down, he’d been incredibly, mind-blowingly stupid. He could go to prison.

  ‘Shit, what an idiot,’ he groaned, making one of Ernie Gant’s friends, still sipping beer in the shade of the same building, glance across at him and nod.

  ‘You’re right, mate. Anybody could see the goalie would get a hand to that effort.’

  Startled, Gordon turned and looked down at the bleary-eyed man sitting propped against the wall of the pavilion, his eyes fixed to the football field.

  For some reason, Gordon started to laugh. And then found it almost impossible to stop.

  His companion affably offered him a bottle of beer.

  In the flower tent, Sir Hugh’s speech finally came to an end, but not before a few more pointed barbs had been directed at Ross Ferris.

  ‘Water off a duck’s back,’ Daphne Cadge-Hampton muttered, quite audibly, and several of her fellow judges had to quickly hide a smile behind their hands and pretend that they hadn’t heard. The group broke up and began to saunter back to their particular tables.

  By then, of course, Malvin Cook was long gone and safely away. What he’d had to do hadn’t taken him long at all.

  ‘Well, they’re lovely, of course,’ Wendy Davies said to Monica as they approached a table which had asters on one half, and roses on the other. ‘But why on earth James roped me into this I can’t image.’ Her voice lowered. ‘I really can’t tell one flower from another.’

  Monica nodded in understanding, and whispered back, ‘I’ve got much the same problem.’

  For the next few minutes, there was more or less silence in the tent as the serious business of competition began. Monica noticed that several of her fellow judges were making notations on their clipboards, and glanced down at her own pristine sheet of paper with a feeling close to panic. What on earth was she supposed to be writing down, exactly? Serious-sounding notes on sepals and stalk length? Or more poetical, whimsical thoughts on hues and scent?

  Deciding to just enjoy herself, she began to inspect the flowers in detail. They were lovely. She really was fond of sweet peas. And they smelt even better than they looked. She noticed that one pale purple bloom had a slight yellowing at the edges and ticked those off her list. Another pink bloom had two tiny black beetles in them. Scratch another. She grinned. She supposed that arriving at a winner by way of elimination wasn’t the way it was supposed to be done, but it would do for her. Should she now just choose the ones she liked the best? The trouble was, she liked the deep red-wine-coloured ones, which were so beautiful, but also the blush-pinky-white ones as well. But weren’t pastels, traditionally, the best option? Or was that old hat now, with all the new, modern and more vibrantly coloured varieties coming into play? So, which got the first prize?

  She sighed and started all over again.

  Sir Hugh was judging the chrysanthemums that year, but his eyes followed Ross Ferris’s progress to the dahlia table. He was so engrossed in heaping mental coals upon his enemy’s head that he failed totally to realize that Ferris was supposed to be judging the roses, not the dahlias.

  Wendy Davies stared blankly at her half of the table and the jars of asters. She was feeling so tired it was almost pleasant. She reached for the rosettes and placed them totally at random beside the displays. There. Once again, she’d done what was expected of her.

  And she smiled savagely.

  Ross Ferris was surprised and pleased at the size of his new table, and realized at once that he’d picked the winning ticket. The dahlia entries were all impressive, and there were far more of them than in any other class. He rather thought that he liked the big ragged, pink-tipped lemon ones best. He glanced up and caught Sir Hugh glowering at him.

  He smiled beatifically back. He would show the pompous old bastard yet. Oh yes, he would show him… .

  James Davies was very self-disciplined, and made himself examine all the other rose entries first, before approaching the magnificent display of Peace. He handled a bud, and smiled down at its perfection. Of all God’s creations, he liked flowers and birds the best. He put the bud back, and bent down towards a huge open blossom. It was crammed with layers upon layers of petals of pink, cream, and lemon, and even before he began to bend his head, he could smell the lovely scent wafting up to him. He put one hand on the table to steady himself, then buried his nose into the bloom.

  He drew a long, deep breath and slowly breathed out. Wond—

  A strange noise was coming from far away – a sort of gurgling, choking sound – and a sharp, strange, almond scent hit him.

  And then, so did death.

  The strange, spine-tingling choking noise made everyone turn their heads. Wendy, who shared the table with her husband, saw him fall first. He seemed to hit the grass like a kind of black-and-white deflating balloon. ‘James,’ she said simply, her voice curiously flat. She watched her husband lying ominously still for a long, blank moment. She didn’t move.

  Sir Hugh, Graham, Monica, and many others glanced at Wendy, then across to look for her husband. Who now suddenly wasn’t standing beside her.

  ‘Hey, the vicar’s fallen over.’ The worried voice came from one of the vegetable judges at the other side of the tent, who had a clearer view of the event.

  ‘It’s the damned heat, I ’spect,’ someone else said, but a sharp anxiety belied the prosaic words, and there was a general shifting of movement towards the rose table as people went to help. ‘I expect poor Vicar’s fainted.’

  Sir Hugh, Graham, and Monica, got there first.

  ‘Shouldn’t we get him some water?’ Monica asked, looking around and noting that someone had already had the same idea and was heading for the top table, where there was a jug of mineral water and some plastic glasses.

  Graham reached his friend first, and quickly knelt down beside him. He put a hand on James’s pudgy shoulder.

  ‘Hey, Jim, are you all right? Can you hear me?’ he asked worriedly, and with a little grunt, succeeded in pulling his rather heavy friend over onto his back. The moment he did so, the sight of his friend’s face had him rearing back and bumping into Sir Hugh, who was standing right behind him. Both men stared down into a face that was slightly blue, distressingly contorted, and totally devoid of li
fe.

  James Davies’s death had been so sudden, so instantaneous, that he hadn’t even had time to close his eyes. Graham, looking at the contorted expression on his usually friendly face, wanted to reach down and do it for him, but felt unable to touch him. The reluctance shamed him.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Sir Hugh said, his breath exploding out of him in stunned shock. ‘Bloody hell!’

  Monica, who’d seen what they’d seen, clapped a hand to her mouth and stepped back.

  Abruptly, somebody began to cry. Shock, hard, sharp, and painful, sliced through the air, affecting the whole crowd.

  Wendy Davies stood at the other end of the table, by her asters. She still hadn’t moved.

  ‘Vicar!’ someone yelped, as if a shout would somehow rouse him. It seemed to affect everyone, for, in a frozen moment in time, nobody seemed able to move. Then Graham, forcing himself to overcome his cowardly reluctance, leaned forward and closed his friend’s eyes, put his hands together, and, on his knees, began to say a short, silent prayer. Some of those who realized what he was doing also bowed their own heads. Several more women began to sob quietly into their handkerchiefs, and were led away towards the back by their friends.

  After a moment, Graham lifted his head. ‘Is there a doctor at the fete, does anybody know?’ he asked, his voice calm and somehow restoring a sense of reality to the group.

  James had been well liked, and a popular figure. Nobody seemed quite able to grasp, until that moment, that he was actually gone.

  ‘Yes, Dr Clarke. He’s here,’ someone said, in little more than a whisper. ‘I’ve seen him around.’

  ‘Then someone ought to go and fetch him,’ Graham said practically. ‘And someone else must ring for the police and an ambulance. Right away.’

  ‘I know someone who’s got a mobile phone,’ Pete Drummond, the shallot judge piped up, and without another word turned and rushed from the tent. He looked green and sick and glad to leave. In fact, a lot of people had mobile phones on them, but nobody begrudged him the excuse to leave.

  Sir Hugh, aware that his authority was in danger of being usurped, opened his mouth, then found himself unable to say anything. Instead, he held his hands out in a sweeping gesture and began to gently usher the crowd further back into the tent. They went willingly enough. Nobody, after all, liked to be in the presence of death.

  Graham slowly got to his feet, his face pale and shocked but perfectly in control. He looked around, seeking out his wife, who was still standing, leaning back against a table, a hand clasped to her mouth. Slowly he made his way over to her. ‘Are you all right?’ Graham whispered as he took her hand in his. It felt ice-cold.

  Monica gulped and nodded, although she felt anything but all right. ‘He is dead, isn’t he?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Poor James.’

  ‘Yes,’ Graham said, but he sounded far away.

  Monica squeezed his hand tightly. But Graham wasn’t thinking so much about his own loss of a good friend, but something else that was puzzling him. The speed of it all. The sheer, shocking, silent speed. One second he’d been fine, the next a choking cry, and then… . Did heart attacks really happen like that? Wasn’t there supposed to be some evidence of chest pain, or pain in the victim’s left arm? Or was it a stroke? An embolism?

  He stirred, looking around, as if seeking some kind of an answer. Nor was he the only one who was feeling lost, as many of those in the tent were obviously also feeling strange and off-balance. Things like this didn’t happen. Not to them – not to their neighbour, their friend.

  Surprisingly, no one had yet given a thought to Wendy Davies. It was only when Monica saw the familiar blonde head that she realized with a start that James’s wife hadn’t moved an inch. Shock, of course. She was about to walk towards her, when someone else beat her to it. The gaudy, eccentric figure of the Dower Countess of Fulcome suddenly appeared at the stricken woman’s side, and a comforting and beefy arm was looped around her shoulders. Wendy didn’t seem to notice.

  Seeing that James’s wife was being taken care of, Monica leaned back once more against the table, relieved (and feeling guilty about feeling relieved) that someone else was handling it. Her knees felt quite weak.

  At that moment, Pete Drummond returned with the doctor.

  CHAPTER 9

  Dr John Clarke was in his fifties, and an altogether round sort of man. His body was round, his big, bald head was round, and his big brown eyes were very round indeed. Those who elected to be his patients tended to be straightforward and down to earth people who liked and trusted him implicitly. Dr Clarke had a reputation for not suffering fools gladly, and evidently saw little use or need for a phoney bedside manner. He was, however, unmistakably a very competent and able doctor, and one that was almost universally and instantly trusted. Everyone seemed to feel infinitely better that he was now present.

  After he’d entered the tent and satisfied himself that signs of life were indeed extinct, and that CPR would be pointless, he stood for a moment and simply looked down at his patient, for James had been one of the many who’d appreciated the GP’s way of practising medicine.

  It seemed to Monica that Dr Clarke was imprinting the scene on his memory, and then with the sort of grunt that could have meant anything or nothing, he squatted down beside his patient, his portly figure somehow managing to look both grave and ridiculous. He reached again for James’s wrist and felt once more for a non-existent pulse. Then John Clarke glanced at his watch. Fixing the time that he could certify death, Monica thought automatically, then shuddered.

  ‘Had a heart attack, I suppose?’ Sir Hugh’s gruff voice broke the silence, voicing, no doubt, what many of the others were also thinking.

  But Monica herself wasn’t so sure. Neither was Graham. And neither of them missed the fact that John Clarke made no effort to confirm this diagnosis. Instead he reached down and seemed to peer, very closely, at James’s face. It seemed almost macabre, and certainly disrespectful, for the very much alive and vibrant GP to be nose-to-nose with the very dead vicar.

  Restlessly, Monica too, turned away, unable to bear to watch the spectacle further.

  As she did so, she saw Daphne Cadge-Hampton very firmly pull on Wendy Davies’s arm. ‘Come along, m’dear. I think we’ll go to the tea tent and have a strong cup of tea,’ she murmured, loud enough for those nearest to her to hear. Some of the other ladies helped usher Wendy out of the tent. The very-new widow moved with a curious kind of stiff-legged walk, and her face was still totally blank and white.

  It suddenly hit Monica that Wendy had also recently lost a son. And now this. She shook her head, unable to imagine such suffering. Would it really be so surprising if Wendy was heading for a complete nervous breakdown?

  Unable to stay still, she found herself wandering around to the other side of the table, where she found herself next to the impressive display of Peace, the rose bred to celebrate the end of war and the end to all the killing. As she thought about that, she felt a pang of poignancy ripple through her. Just to think, these lovely blooms were the last things that James had smelt.

  Slowly, she bent down to cup a bloom in her hand and breathe in the scent of the flower. It was the big, open bloom, and suddenly, as if having received a douche of cold water, she found herself unable to breathe. For just an instant, it seemed that she tottered on the edge of something monstrous and black that threatened to engulf her. Something invaded her, tightening a grip on her throat, on her heart, on her very being, robbing her of the ability to exist.

  In a gesture of sheer instinctive panic she reared up, took a step away, and suddenly she was all right again. Her throat no longer felt constricted. She dragged a deep, ragged breath into her lungs and clutched the end of the table for support. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before.

  Was it a panic attack? she wondered wildly. She knew of people who suffered from those frightening, debilitating attacks; they’d often described it as being unable to bre
athe, of feeling as if your heart was going to stop, which certainly went some way to describing just how she’d felt. Except she knew panic attacks were to do with the mind. What she’d felt had been all too physical.

  Puzzled and scared, Monica sought Graham’s reassuring presence. Just the sight of his handsome, calm face made her feel better. Feeling more like her old self again, Monica turned once more to the display of Peace. Curious, and this time very careful not to get too close (and feeling silly because of it) she inspected the bloom. It looked like the innocent rose it was, of course. But then, just because she was looking so closely, she saw a slight distortion in the centre of the flower. A tiny part of it seemed to ripple, like the shimmer of heat haze on a hot day. But this phenomena had to have been caused by something unnatural… .

  For a second she was totally baffled, and then her eyes suddenly took in the real cause of it. Like one of those pictures that are all just random squiggles and dots at first, but then, after you’ve stared at them for long enough, suddenly turn into images of shipwrecks or unicorns or what have you, Monica suddenly saw what it was. A tiny glass capsule, no more than a centimetre long lay nestled securely in the petals. Narrow. With just a tiny dark, square dot at the end. She squinted in an effort to focus on the tiny item. For a second she stared at it as if unable to believe what she was seeing. For another second more, she thought she must be having a nightmare.

  She tried to wake up. But couldn’t. This was real. And in that instant she knew, just as surely as she knew her own shoe size, that what she was looking at was a murder weapon. No matter how tiny and insignificant it seemed, it was, in reality, as real and as ugly as any gun or knife. Just because she didn’t know what it was, and didn’t understand what it had done, made no difference. It, whatever it was, had killed James Davies. She just knew it. She took a quick step away, and then began to hurry around the back of the table towards Graham. She had to tell him.