by JJ Marsh
Beatrice stared at the young sergeant who had appeared from her own house.
He nodded at the clothes fluttering on the line. “They forecast rain for later so keep an eye on the sky,” he said with a wonderfully gentle accent, and gestured for her to go first.
Indoors, a young woman in plain-clothes sat at the kitchen table with Matthew. She rose to shake Beatrice’s hand and show her ID. Close up, her face led Beatrice to revise her estimate. Late forties but rather well preserved.
“Good morning, Ms Stubbs, and apologies for turning up out of the blue like this. My name is Detective Inspector Axe and you’ve met DS Perowne.”
The young man pulled out a chair for her. She sat, checking Matthew’s expression and finding a worried frown.
Beatrice recovered her voice. “DI Axe?”
The woman shrugged with an easy grin. “Believe me, I’ve heard every joke going. When I was a DS, I had a colleague called Stabb. We could never work on the same case because people wouldn’t stop laughing.”
Beatrice examined the open face with wispy trails of hair escaping her ponytail and instinctively warmed to DI Axe. A soft exterior with a core of steel.
“I can imagine. Would you like a coffee or anything?”
“No thanks. My guess is you’d like us to state our business and leave you in peace. So we will. We’re here about the death of Vaughan Mason. I know you were both friends of his and Professor Bailey was one of the two men to discover his body. The coroner had some concerns about the way he died and requested an autopsy. It looks very much as if Mr Mason ingested a poisonous substance. There was a pot of meat stew on the hob in his kitchen which we had tested. It contained significant amounts of a lethal toxin from a local strain of fungi. Now, this could easily be accidental if Mr Mason made a mistake collecting wild mushrooms. In a far less likely scenario, it could have been deliberate.”
Matthew recoiled in his chair. “You surely don’t mean he killed himself?”
“We don’t believe it was intentional. Poisoning is a very unpleasant way to go. No, by deliberate, I mean another party introduced the element without his knowledge. What we need to do is ascertain how much Mr Mason knew about local vegetation, whether he was a mushroom collector and anybody who might have wished him harm. We’d also like to know who visited him the last few days before he died. We were hoping you could help.”
Beatrice looked at Matthew. “I don’t have a clue. What would you say?”
Matthew massaged his chin, still frowning. “Good God, I have no idea. I mean, I’ve known the man for over thirty years, but as for his knowledge on woodland flora, I am clueless. Look, he had a routine. We played golf on Sunday mornings, me, Mungo and Midge. Tuesdays he often had a few people round to play cards. I never attended as I don’t play and certainly don’t gamble. Friday night, he was nearly always to be found propping up the bar at The Angel. Other than that, there might be a dinner party, faculty event or cultural gathering where we crossed paths. He was a reasonable cook when sober, but also an awful snob. No offence, DI Axe, but describing his Cassoulet Toulousain as a meat stew would have wounded him to the quick. He often boasted about it. He’d make it on a Friday and eat it all over the weekend. One of his favourite quotes was ‘a good cassoulet always tastes better the day after’. Midge always ordered his food online and hand-selected his meat from the butcher in Crediton. I have never in my life seen him in a supermarket, nor can I imagine him digging up truffles in the forest.”
DS Perowne leant against the worktop, scribbling in his notebook. “I understand Midge was a nickname, sir?”
“Yes, a silly thing. Years ago, there used to be a children’s programme called Mary, Mungo and Midge. I can’t even remember who started calling us Matthew, Mungo and Midge, but it stuck. Probably because it irritated the hell out of Vaughan. Such a towering ego to be known as Midge? He hated it but slightly less than The Last of the Summer Wine, which was what people occasionally said about us three old farts pottering around together. He still saw himself as l’enfant terrible.”
“What do you know of his family, Professor?” asked DI Axe.
“Precious little. He was married once and I believe there was a child, but I don’t think he is in contact with either. Mungo and I have had no luck in tracking them down.”
“Oh that’s all right. We have contacted his daughter, officially next of kin, and his ex-wife. They’ll be at the funeral on Monday. I just wanted an insight into how he felt about them, that’s all.”
Matthew ran his hands though his hair. “He must have mentioned them, or I wouldn’t have known they existed, but all I know is that he hadn’t spoken to his ex-wife for years. As for the daughter, all I recall is his ranting that she never thanked him for Christmas and birthday gifts.”
“The funeral is still going ahead for Monday?” Beatrice asked. “Despite an open investigation?”
“Yes, it is. Thanks to the Professor and Mr Mungo Digby, all arrangements have been made and there is no need to delay interment. The investigation will proceed independently. Well, unless there’s anything else you’d like to add, we’ll leave you to get on with your day.”
The DI pushed back her chair just as a spatter of raindrops hit the kitchen window.
Beatrice hadn’t even noticed the encroaching thunderous clouds. “Oh hell!”
DS Perowne took two strides and was out of the kitchen door. “I’ll get the laundry. You stay in the dry.”
Matthew pulled on his wellingtons and followed the officer out to the washing-line. The two women watched from the kitchen window as they tugged at garments and pegs, throwing them into the wicker basket.
“I hear you used to be in the same line of work as me,” said DI Axe.
“Yes. I retired three months ago as Acting DCI of the Met.”
Axe turned to her with a wide smile. “I know. Your reputation precedes you. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Do you miss it?”
“Every day.” Raindrops slithered down the glass, rendering activity in the garden a blur. “So if you think I can be of any assistance...” Beatrice tried to sound casual and not at all needy.
DI Axe turned to face her. “I wish I could call on your expertise. But protocol, you know how it is. Anyway, this one we can handle.”
Two wet men burst through the door, wiping their hands over their faces and dropping the basket on the mat.
DI Axe applauded. “Hey, DS Perowne, you just got your Boy Scout Laundry Rescue Badge! Thanks for your time, Professor, Ms Stubbs, and we’ll see you at the funeral.”
Beatrice kept to her routine of domestic duties in the mornings and knuckling down to write in the afternoons. Domestic duties had become a great deal more onerous now she had a wedding to organise. In just under a fortnight’s time, she would see her former neighbour, friend and all-round favourite person marry the love of his life. Adrian and Will had chosen the Sunday before Christmas and a small Devonshire village of all the locations in the world to commit to each other, and Beatrice could not be more delighted.
The theme was Narnia, so everything would be white, silver and sparkling. She met with the hotel catering staff, local florists, a pastry chef and even a candle-maker. Instructions came daily from Adrian and the assistant in his wine shop, Catinca. And on Saturday, all three would arrive for a week of preparations. Hopefully, that would distract Matthew’s attention from the loss of his friend. At least for a few days. Her new dress and crystal bejewelled jacket were tucked away in the wardrobe, so she could devote her attention to creating the perfect day for Adrian and Will.
She was happy and totally fine and not at all disappointed by the Devon and Cornwall Police Force refusing her help. Why on earth would they need a retired old lady who happened to have an impressive track record, collaborative kudos and until recently a high ranking position in the London Metropolitan Police? Had she been in DI Axe’s position, she would have done the same. All correct and proper. There was no place for her in such an
investigation and she should be relieved.
Except she wasn’t.
Chapter Three
The drive from London to Devon in showery conditions meant the roof of the Audi stayed on. Catinca grumbled sporadically from the back seat, stressing her whole travelling outfit had been assembled to show off her Jackie O shades and powder blue headscarf to envious passing motorists. Will tried to reason with her about temperatures and wind chill and motorway spray from lorries in their faces, but she was not convinced. Eventually Adrian told her what happened to Isadora Duncan and her scarf in an open-top vehicle. That shut her up for a good ten minutes.
The car was packed to the gills. Four suitcases – one each for the following week and wedding, with a separate one for Adrian and Will’s honeymoon in the Caribbean – filled the boot while beside Catinca were boxes and bags containing various elements of ‘magic’ she had collected for the wedding reception. Every available nook and cranny was stuffed with a bottle of wine or champagne.
Adrian’s mind looped back, as it did at least once an hour, to his shop. His pride and passion. Harvey’s Wine Emporium, the jewel of the East End, now left in the hands of his two part-time employees for the busiest fortnight of the year. He closed his eyes and breathed. Jed and Ezra might be so hip it was painful, but they were both conscientious, and another good sign, nervous.
“I need a wee,” stated Catinca, her chin poking through the gap between the front seats. “Can we have a piss stop soon?”
“It’s called a pit stop. You’re as bad as Beatrice,” Adrian replied.
“Yeah, but I got an excuse. I’m a foreigner.”
Will glanced at the rear-view mirror with a half grin. “If you can hang on for twenty minutes, there’s a lovely old pub just before Stonehenge. We could stop for lunch then stretch our legs with a walk to see the standing stones. If you want to?”
“I want to! I never seen Stonehenge. Yeah, I can wait. After lunch, can I have a go at driving? Give you a break?”
“No, you can’t.”
“You don’t trust me,” she pouted.
“With no insurance, no experience and a car that handles like a racehorse? No, I don’t. How about we have some music on?”
“Yes!”
Will hit the stereo and Adrian sighed. He had no hope of choosing something sophisticated with these two in the car.
Their excitement built to a crescendo as they arrived at Beatrice and Matthew’s cottage. When the sun had finally come out with conviction, Will put the roof down and all three of them belted out the chorus to Foo Fighters’ ‘My Hero’ as they cruised along the country lanes to their destination. Wind rushed through Adrian’s hair and colour flooded his cheeks. Will gave a cheerful toot of the horn as they pulled into the drive and Catinca got to her feet, clutching their headrests for support, yelling, “Hello, Devon!” at the top of her lungs.
Their exhilaration was short-lived as they got out of the car. The welcoming party was not at all what Adrian had expected. The door remained closed for a minute, then Beatrice slipped out, acknowledging them with a brief wave, before locking the door behind her.
Adrian sensed Will’s glance at him but kept his focus on Beatrice. She trotted down the steps and across the drive to embrace each of them with a warm hug.
“So good to see you all!” Her voice was subdued and under-enthusiastic. “Listen, Matthew’s feeling a little under the weather, so what say we head straight to the pub? You can check in and freshen up, then join us in the bar for drinks.”
No one spoke for a moment, disconcerted.
Will took charge. “How is he coping, Beatrice?”
She shook her head with a quick frown. “Let’s chat at the pub. I’ll take our car and lead the way.”
The three of them piled back into the Audi and Will closed the roof. The little blue VW drove down the drive and waited for them to catch up before leading them back the way they came.
Catinca was the first to speak. “What’s up with Matthew?”
Adrian looked over his shoulder. “A friend of his died last week. I told you, remember? Matthew found the body.”
“Oh shit, yeah. Poor old geezer. Something you never forget, innit?”
“Losing a friend?” asked Will.
Adrian closed his eyes in anticipation bordering on dread. He’d heard far too many of Catinca’s experiences to expect a simple articulation of empathy.
“Nah, finding a body. Back in Romania, I found three. Two was accidents. Drowned kid in a river and old woman. Horse kicked her in head. Bloody sad. But other one killed hisself. Mate, never seen a worse mess in my life.”
Adrian stared straight ahead, failing once again to imagine Catinca’s world.
“Were any of them your friends?” asked Will.
“The kid and old lady not really. Neighbours is all.” Catinca took out her phone and snapped a photo of thatched cottages as they entered the village. “Suicide was my uncle. Shot hisself in the mouth. Me and my cousins had to clean his brains off the ceiling.”
So much for the party atmosphere.
The Angel won Best-Looking Village Inn by a country mile, with each window shutter wrapped like a Christmas present and fairy lights around the door twinkling across the green. After heaving all their boxes and luggage upstairs, Adrian sat for a moment on the window seat, absorbing the rustic Devonshire view and trying to realign his thoughts.
Yes, the wedding would be the biggest day of his and Will’s lives. No, he could not expect everyone else to live and breathe the million little details which add up to perfection with the same intensity that they (or more truthfully, he) did. The timing of Matthew’s friend’s demise was unfortunate, true, but unlikely to wreck their day. He had to keep a positive mind-set and provide a joyous celebration to lift everyone’s spirits.
He inhaled and gazed out at the vivid colours of Upton St Nicholas in crisp wintry light, releasing his breath and egomania in one long exhalation. Will was clattering around behind him, unpacking bags and grumbling about the amount of stuff Catinca had packed.
“What are you looking for? Will, just stop messing everything about and tell me what you want. I understand her system,” Adrian asked his husband-to-be.
“The presents! We’re going downstairs to meet Beatrice and Tanya, who have both put in an enormous effort for us. Not to mention Luke.”
“Look in that Riedel box by the wardrobe. We packed all the presents for friends and family in there.” Adrian looked up at the heavy oak beams and whitewashed ceiling. “This is such a lovely room. Do you suppose they gave us a bigger one because we’re about to be the bridal couple?”
Will ripped off the parcel tape and opened the box. “Dunno. Maybe. But we’re not spending our wedding night here, are we?”
“Of course not!” Adrian tutted. “We are guaranteed the bridal suite at Moor Hall for our actual honeymoon night. I’ve told you that.”
“Oh yeah. For the amount it cost, we’d better get all kinds of extras as the newlyweds. Here they are! Luke’s, Tanya’s, Beatrice’s, Matthew’s and Marianne’s.”
“You may as well leave Matthew’s and Marianne’s there. He’s poorly and we won’t see her till the day of the wedding. If she even turns up.”
Will didn’t answer and closed the lid. He took great care to place each gift in his backpack, his expression innocent.
Adrian smelt a rat. “You invited Marianne. Here. Tonight.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah, I did. My thinking was we should clear the air now and not have any tension on the big day.” Will slid behind him and placed a chin on his shoulder. “I asked her to come as a personal favour. We should bury any hard feelings after the summer. She’s split up with that tosser who abducted Luke and now realises her so-called boyfriend was a narcissistic piece of shit. She made a mistake, Adrian, but if her father and sister can forgive her, I think we should do the same.”
Adrian stared out at the window, where a man was throwing a stick for an
eager retriever. He sighed again.
“Fine. She’s Matthew’s daughter. Of course we need to be forgiving and polite. I just wish you’d mentioned the fact she’d be here this evening. Does Beatrice know?”
“Everyone knows. Let’s go, we’ll be late.”
“Any more surprises, DS Quinn?”
“Maybe. But I guarantee you’ll like them.” He kissed Adrian. “Come on, they’ll be waiting.”
Chapter Four
Gordon Hancock, the landlord of The Angel, went out of his way to be friendly every time Beatrice and Matthew popped into the public bar. But today Beatrice was not in the mood. She would need all her energy to cope with the wedding party and their understandable enthusiasm, so she ordered a tonic water, exchanged pleasantries and took her drink into the empty snug at the back. The rendezvous was scheduled for six o’clock giving everyone time to finish their busy days and get ready for a reunion.
Adrian, Will and Catinca needed to settle into their respective rooms, unpack and freshen up.
Tanya would fetch Luke from school, give him some food and change his clothes, before driving him out here to say hello.
And Marianne, if she turned up, would join them after she left work in Crediton. Beatrice practised a conciliatory grin. Since the family holiday in Portugal that summer, which had gone so horribly wrong, Beatrice and Marianne had not yet come face to face. Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the memory of Luke’s kidnap and the agonising hours of uncertainty. The real courage had come from Will, not only rescuing the child but standing witness for the prosecution. Now that Marianne’s ex-boyfriend had been tried and imprisoned, she had finally stopped defending him. That whole episode was over for everyone. Or at least for those who could forget.
Outside, dusk threw shards of pink and grey across the sky and in the last glow of sunset, a breeze whirled a pile of leaves into a cartwheel of colour, reflecting the open fire in the hearth. The beauty of the moment left Beatrice frozen. She grimaced and faced the truth. She needed an appointment with James. After leaving London she had navigated relocation, a new house, and an unexpected death, plus planned a wedding and what with Christmas looming, it was no wonder she was discombobulated. Her counselling session could wait no longer. She checked no one was around and reached for her phone.