Deadhead and Buried

by H. Y. Hanna

  She watched askance as he boiled the kettle and filled the teapot. When she finally accepted her cup, she sipped it with some trepidation. After a few swallows, she paused to see if her stomach would erupt in a soapy explosion, and when it didn’t, she relaxed slightly.

  “Do you live here alone?” she asked.

  “Yes, yes, it’s just Einstein and me,” said the old man, leaning down to give the terrier an affectionate pat. “But don’t worry, we keep busy… very busy… Haven’t even popped into the village yet… We’re not lonely, are we?” he said to the little dog.

  Poppy looked at the old man thoughtfully. If he was scurrying around at odd hours, gathering things for his strange experiments, and hadn’t introduced himself properly to the villagers, it wasn’t surprising that they viewed him with suspicion. In fact, she was pretty sure now that he was the “tramp” that Charles Mannering had said was seen lurking about.

  “Did you hear about the body found next door?” she asked.

  “Eh? Body?” He looked bemused.

  “Yes, a man’s been murdered—Pete Sykes, the gardener who used to work here. Did you know him?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure. I only moved here a few weeks ago… Dear me, murdered, you say? But why?”

  “I think that’s what the police are trying to find out. Have they been round to speak to you yet?”

  The old man frowned. “Hmm… now that you mention it, the doorbell did ring earlier… but I was in the middle of a fungus replicator experiment, you see, and I didn’t want to take my eyes off the medium to answer the door…”

  “Oh well, I’m sure they’ll be back.” Poppy looked at him enquiringly. “I don’t suppose you noticed anything unusual or out of the ordinary the night before last?”

  He furrowed his brow, deep in thought for several minutes, then sat up excitedly and said: “I got up after midnight to go to the loo and happened to look out of the window… and I spotted a DSO!”

  Poppy frowned. “What’s a DSO?”

  “Deep Space Object. They are normally only visible using telescopes but there are a few that can be seen with the naked eye—you know, star clusters, nebulae and such—and I’m positive that I saw the fifth-magnitude Phi from the NGC 457 cluster in Cassiopeia. That’s a constellation, in case you didn’t know, dear,” he added kindly. “It was a most exciting moment! I think I saw the whole cluster—which is an amazing feat using just averted vision.” He beamed at her.

  Poppy stared at the old man. Oh boy. The police are going to have great fun questioning him. Thoughts of the police reminded her that Suzanne was still waiting for her return and she stood up.

  “Thanks very much for the tea but I’m afraid I have to go now. I need to speak to Inspector Whittaker—”

  “Oh, what a shame, but do come again, dear… any time you like,” he said, jumping up as well. “Oh, bless me! We haven’t been properly introduced!” He held a gnarled hand out and said, with charming old-fashioned formality, “My name is Dr Bertram Noble—but you can call me Bertie. How do you do?”

  Poppy smiled, putting her hand in his. “And I’m Poppy—Poppy Lancaster. It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “You will come back, won’t you?” he said, sounding slightly forlorn. In spite of his protests, Bertie looked suddenly very much like a lonely old man. “I haven’t had a chance to show you my ultrasonic rat repeller yet,” he said with a shy smile.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Suzanne Whittaker was deep in conversation with the young constable when Poppy got back to the cottage gate.

  “Ah, you’re back…” Suzanne smiled at her. “I’ve got a moment free now, so I can take you over to Nick’s place, if you like?”

  As they walked together, Poppy thought of the gossip she’d overheard in the village pub and wondered how she could tell Suzanne about Jenny Sykes’s affair without revealing that she’d eavesdropped on their conversation.

  “Um… so has Pete’s wife come to identify the body?” she asked casually.

  Suzanne gave her a sharp look. “Yes, she just left actually. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, nothing… I just wondered if she might have told you anything useful.”

  “She gave me a bit of background,” said Suzanne noncommittally.

  Poppy hesitated, then blurted: “Did you know that Jenny Sykes had wanted a divorce and Pete wouldn’t give it to her?”

  Suzanne raised her eyebrows. “Where did you hear that?”

  “I heard the villagers talking about them when I was having lunch at the pub just now. They think she killed him because she was having an affair.”

  “I’m not sure we can rely on village gossip as evidence of a murder motive,” said Suzanne dryly. Then she smiled and added, “But it’s certainly worth knowing that the Sykes’ marriage may have been under strain. Thank you for passing it on. I will check up on that.”

  “If it wasn’t her, do you think it could have been someone he was meeting that night? A ‘customer’?”

  “It’s too early for me to think anything, really. It’s certainly suggestive… The forensic reports should give us more information.”

  Her tone suggested that she wasn’t willing to speculate further about the investigation and Poppy let the subject drop. As they approached the front steps of Nick’s house, Poppy heard a familiar cry:

  “N-ow… N-ow!”

  There was a rustle in the neatly clipped hedge lining the path and, a minute later, a ginger tomcat stepped out in front of them. Suzanne paused to give him a scratch behind the ears, saying, “Looks like Oren has come to welcome you.”

  “Oren? That’s an unusual name.”

  “It means ‘orange’ in Welsh, I believe. Nick’s family were originally from Wales.”

  “Oh. I thought a writer’s cat would have a more literary name—you know, like a character from Shakespeare or a Charles Dickens novel or something,” said Poppy.

  Suzanne laughed. “Well, Oren was called Dorito when Nick adopted him from the shelter, so almost any name would have been literary in comparison. Actually, I think most of the time, Nick calls him ‘you bloody cat!’. They have a funny relationship. They’re two peas in a pod, really—Nick likes getting his own way and Oren does too, and both can be as stubborn as the other. It makes for some fireworks sometimes! I used to tease Nick that they’re like two grumpy old men living together.”

  Poppy looked curiously at the woman next to her. Suzanne spoke so warmly and easily of Nick, you could almost believe that they were still together. Was it normal to be so friendly with your ex? Poppy wished that she dared ask about the nature of their relationship. Instead, she asked:

  “Do you live in the village as well? I was surprised when Nick called you instead of the police… and you arrived so quickly too.”

  “No, I live on the outskirts of Oxford, but it’s only about twenty minutes away by car. Actually less… probably fifteen, when there’s no traffic in the early hours.” She smiled. “And Nick knew that I would probably be notified anyway if there was a suspicious death discovered in this area. He was just cutting to the chase, instead of wasting time going through Emergency services. That’s typical Nick… he can be very impatient.”

  The door of the house was suddenly flung open and the man they had been talking about loomed in the doorway. He looked very different from the last time Poppy had seen him: in a black dinner jacket and bow tie, he looked more suave British spy than reclusive author. His hair, though, was as unruly as ever and he ran a hand distractedly through it, messing it up even more, as he surveyed them on the doorstep.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said without much enthusiasm. “Well, come in. I’m just about to leave for Oxford.” He stepped aside to let them pass but Suzanne held back.

  “I’ll leave Poppy with you, Nick—I’ve got to get back to the crime scene.” She turned to Poppy with a smile. “In fact, you’re doing me a favour: Nick had asked me to feed Oren while he was away and I
was going to pop in every day, but things are going to be crazy now, with the extra work from this new murder, so it’ll be a relief if I don’t have to worry about Oren as well. Here—” She handed over the spare keys to the house. “You can have these. I’ll catch you both later!”

  With a wave, she was gone, leaving them standing on the doorstep. There was an awkward silence, then Poppy cleared her throat and said stiffly:

  “Thanks again for letting me stay… um… I know it must be very disruptive when you’re trying to write…”

  Nick made an impatient noise. “It’s fine. The house is more than big enough for two and I needed someone to feed Oren anyway. Just as long as you don’t expect me to entertain you—I don’t talk to anyone when I’m writing.”

  Poppy flushed and started to reply, but he had already turned and was striding away down the hall, calling over his shoulder:

  “Come on—I’ll show you to your room.”

  The guest bedroom was nicer than anywhere Poppy had ever stayed before. Decorated in soothing earth tones, with Scandinavian furniture and quality fabrics, it exuded style and class. She set her few belongings on the bed, then followed Nick back downstairs to the large modern kitchen.

  “Glasses and cups in here… cutlery… plates…” Nick stopped in the act of pointing around the kitchen and made that impatient sound again. “Well, you can just find things for yourself.” He nodded at the fridge in the corner. “And help yourself to any food and drink. I haven’t got anything prepared for dinner but I’m sure you can rustle up something—”

  Poppy flushed again. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting—I mean, it’s very kind of you already to let me stay. I wouldn’t want to impose by eating your food as well.”

  He raked her with an amused glance. “You’re only a slip of a thing. I doubt you’d eat me out of house and home. Anyway, I wouldn’t want Suzanne accusing me of starving her prime witness.”

  He turned and led the way out of the kitchen, leaving Poppy no choice but to follow. They went on a brief tour of the house, finishing up in the spacious sitting room which featured a sleek marble fireplace and large French doors overlooking a manicured lawn.

  Gesturing to the bookcases lining the walls, Nick said: “If you’re a TV addict, you’re out of luck—I don’t have a television—but there’s plenty to read. Oh, that reminds me…”

  He walked over to one of the bookcases and withdrew three large hardback volumes, then brought them over to where Poppy was standing.

  “These belonged to your grandmother. She lent them to me and I never had a chance to give them back after she became ill… I suppose they’re yours now. You might like to take them back to the cottage.”

  “Oh… thanks…” Poppy staggered slightly as she took the heavy volumes in her arms. Hastily, she set them down on a nearby console table. There was an enormous tome of over seven hundred pages—a plant encyclopaedia, listing hundreds of flowers, bushes, trees, shrubs, vegetables, and herbs in alphabetical order—as well as two slimmer volumes: one on British wildflowers and one on exotic blooms, like hibiscus, amaryllis, and orchids. The books were all filled with beautiful colour photography and Poppy almost wanted to curl up right then and there, and start reading them from cover to cover.

  “I didn’t realise you were so into flowers,” she said, looking at Nick with some surprise.

  “I’m not really—well, no more than the next man,” he said, grinning suddenly. “It was actually for book research. The novel I’m currently working on features a lot of flowers.”

  Poppy raised her eyebrows even more. “I thought you wrote dark crime thrillers.”

  He chuckled. “I do. But even flowers can have a dark criminal side. You don’t believe me? Haven’t you heard of ‘tulip mania’? Or ‘orchidelirium’?”

  Poppy shook her head.

  “They’re both times in history when people became so gripped with a particular flower that they would do anything to get it: pay crazy sums of money, give up their livelihoods, engage in theft… maybe even commit murder.” Nick laughed again as he saw Poppy’s expression. “Okay, I might have made the last one up. But it’s certainly true that there have been crazes for finding and owning a particular flower. The Semper Augustus tulip, for example, was once worth ten thousand guilders for a single bulb. That was enough to feed, clothe, and house a whole Dutch family for half a lifetime. And of course, any time the value of something skyrockets like that, crime follows soon after,” he added cynically.

  “Wow…” said Poppy, thinking of all the times she had wistfully eyed a bunch of tulips in the shops. “I’ve never been able to afford fresh cut flowers, but I never realised tulips could be that expensive!”

  “Well, not today, but this was back in seventeenth-century Netherlands, when ‘tulip mania’ was gripping the country. It was the same here in England with the Victorians: they became completely obsessed with orchids, and wealthy collectors would send expeditions around the world to find new varieties. Things were so secretive and competitive, they would spread false information and sabotage each other. Even today, orchid smuggling is big business, especially since collecting from the wild is now banned by CITES.”

  “Is this what your new book is about? The black market in flowers?” asked Poppy, intrigued in spite of herself.

  “No, although that would be a fascinating theme for a novel, wouldn’t it?” said Nick enthusiastically. “It would be a refreshing take on the old ‘organised crime’ trope.”

  “But you don’t think of flowers when you think of illegal trade,” Poppy said. “You think of drugs and guns, or exotic animal parts—”

  “Ah, but the illegal plant trade is worth hundreds of millions of pounds. There are organised gangs now who specialise in ‘plant heists’. In fact, there have been some pretty high-profile thefts from botanical gardens and horticultural shows, to the point that some plants have to be given police protection.”

  “You’re not serious,” said Poppy, rolling her eyes.

  “I am. When there’s a lucrative black market for something, criminals start to move in. Take snowdrops, for instance—”

  “Snowdrops?” said Poppy disbelievingly. “What—the little white flowers that pop up everywhere in winter?”

  Nick nodded. “They’ve become very popular, and valuable specimens have been targeted by professional thieves.”

  “But… but they’d have to dig them up in clumps or something—”

  “They do. The national gardens are having to use CCTV cameras and high-tech alarms and even security tags to try and stop the gangs.”

  “That’s ridiculous! For snowdrops? You see them all over the British countryside!”

  “Ah, but when a single bulb can fetch over a thousand pounds—yes, there was one which was sold for that much online—then people want to get their hands on them, by any means. And there are always fanatical collectors willing to pay.”

  Poppy frowned. “But if you get a plant illegally, you can’t show it off or tell anyone about it. You have to keep it a secret. So why would collectors want them?”

  “Why collect anything?” said Nick with a shrug. “There’s the kudos in owning something rare or even better, something unique. The only one of its kind. It’s the same mentality that art collectors have. Most art theft is funded by private collectors, you know. And even if it means that they can only admire a painting by themselves, in secret… well, I guess they still feel superior to everyone else.” He rubbed his chin and mused, “It’s an odd thing about human nature, isn’t it? It would be interesting to explore it in a story…”

  Poppy cast a surreptitious glance at the man next to her. Ever since he’d started talking about his book research, Nick had seemed like a different person, his face alive with interest and humour, that rich, mesmerising voice full of warmth and excitement. When he wasn’t being brusque and moody, he could be incredibly charming, and Poppy was surprised to find that she was enjoying his company more than she’d expected.


  “Are you sure your current book isn’t about this?” she asked with a smile. “You seem to be so passionate about it and know so much about it already.”

  Nick laughed a bit sheepishly. “It’s one of the perils of book research. You stumble on something fascinating and end up going down rabbit holes that have no connection to the novel you’re currently writing. No, my current novel has nothing about the illegal trade in plants. It actually features a serial killer who leaves a different flower bloom behind with each victim, as a sort of ‘calling card’. My detective has to work out the messages that are being sent to him—”

  “Oh, you mean like ‘the language of flowers’?” said Poppy, suddenly remembering the charity volunteer who had given her the heather flower pin.

  “Yes,” said Nick, looking impressed. “Yes, that’s right. Every flower has a meaning associated with it and they can be used to send coded messages. I wanted to go beyond the boring, predictable options like roses and carnations—and the flowers needed to be of certain sizes and colours too—so your grandmother lent me the books to look through and pick the best ones.”

  “So how do you—” Poppy broke off as they were interrupted by a plaintive “N-ow! N-ow!” coming from just outside the French doors. She turned and saw Oren sitting on the other side of the tall glass pane, staring at them reproachfully.

  “Oh—does he want to come in?” asked Poppy.

  Nick muttered something under his breath. “He has his own cat flap. It’s only a few more yards around the side of the house. He’s just being lazy—he wants us to open the window for him.”

  “N-ow!” added the ginger tom, scowling at his owner.

  Nick scowled back. “Use your own bloody door!” he yelled.

  Poppy hid a smile, suddenly remembering Suzanne’s comment about two grumpy old men. She could really begin to see it!

  Nick pointedly turned his back to the French doors, then glanced at his watch and said, “Blast! I’m going to be late. No need to be polite and wait up for me or anything. Just suit yourself. I’ll probably see you in the morning.”