She did not wish to follow a line of enquiry that would lead away from Frank and straight back to Simpkins. The fact of the matter was she was quite fond of the elderly gardener. And while she would never admit it out loud, Edwina had a hidden soft spot for him as well.
She knew Simpkins thought the world of Edwina in return. He had said as much one night at the pub. Simpkins had undertaken the task of keeping an eye on her after her parents had both passed on. Beryl thought it was rather sweet.
She gratefully mounted the stone step to the Beeches and let herself in the front door. Beryl never ceased to be amazed by the fact that Crumpet always seemed to know if she or Simpkins was the one to enter the house. The little dog never barked at either of them. She peeled off her driving gloves and placed them on the marble shelf on the hall tree. She leaned into the mirror and squinted at her face.
Beryl was not a particularly vain woman. She took no real pleasure in her appearance. But she did realize how much of her celebrity was built on her image as both an adventurous and glamorously attractive woman.
In the months she had been living a quiet life in Walmsley Parva, she had made an effort to uphold the standards of appearance she had expected of herself throughout her life. Still, it would be rather nice to dispense with some of the frippery from time to time. Maybe when the private enquiry business had taken the nation by storm, she would allow herself to consider it.
She headed straight for the kitchen. Edwina was sure to have something wonderful awaiting her for a meal. After all, hadn’t she used that as her excuse to stay at the Beeches and to leave Beryl the unpleasant task of getting past the constable and interviewing Frank? Although, truth be told, Beryl would rather face any number of constables, or even angry lions, for that matter, than stare into the abyss of a cookery book.
She swept into the room, her stomach rumbling, but Edwina was nowhere to be found. Not only that, there were no signs of cooking. The sink was half filled with water, and a few tenacious bubbles of washing soap clung to the sides of the sink, but nothing else indicated Edwina had been present.
Beryl backtracked to the parlour and peeked inside. Edwina’s chair was empty. Finally, she called out for her friend and heard a faint response coming from the library. Beryl knew that the library was Edwina’s favourite room in the house. Edwina had had a spot of difficulty there back in the autumn and had unfortunately given the room a bit of a miss in the intervening months. Beryl wondered what could have happened to send her friend scurrying for the comfort of that space.
She thrust open the door and stepped inside. Edwina was sprawled—yes, sprawled—in a wingback chair nestled alongside a long window overlooking the garden. Her feet, still shod, sat propped up on the ottoman. They fell sideways like a duck’s. Beryl had never seen Edwina, even at repose, without her ankles crossed in a ladylike fashion. A book lay abandoned on the floor, and Edwina’s gaze remained firmly fixed on the wall opposite her even after Beryl called her name. Something was well and truly up.
“Has something happened with the case?” Beryl said. She approached Edwina and perched on the ottoman beside her friend’s tiny feet. With effort, Edwina dragged her gaze from the near distance and let it drift towards Beryl’s anxious face.
“Not with the case, no. But somehow I feel that the universe has become disordered,” Edwina said. Beryl reached out and took her friend by the hand. She patted it briskly, noting how cold it was to the touch.
“Truly, you do not look well. What have you been up to while I’ve been gone?” Beryl said.
“Simpkins has received a visitor,” Edwina said.
“Constable Gibbs again? Has he been arrested?” Beryl said.
“I thought the case against Frank was still very strong.”
Edwina shook her head. “No, it was a legal matter, but not one for the police,” Edwina said. “It appears that Simpkins has just inherited a vast fortune.”
If anything Edwina’s posture became even more relaxed. If something was not done, she would simply ooze into the fabric of the chair and disappear completely.
“That’s wonderful news. From whom did he inherit it?” Beryl asked. Such things never bothered Beryl. She was rarely surprised at reversals of fortune for the good or the evil. In fact, it was part of what she felt made life worth living. The very zest of it all, so to speak. It was clear that Edwina did not share her outlook.
“A condiment company,” Edwina said.
“You mean like mustard and relish?” Beryl asked. Such a possibility would never have entered her mind. If it wasn’t for Edwina’s demeanor, she would have had the sneaking suspicion that her imaginative friend was pulling her leg.
“Mustard, yes. I’m not sure what you mean by relish. Chutney, I suppose. Or mixed pickle. Either way, yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” Edwina said.
“Did he enter a contest? Something on the back of a packet?” Beryl asked. Her mind was agog. Of all the ways she could have considered someone eligible to inherit a great deal of money, the idea of doing so through the auspices of a pickle factory would never have entered her mind.
“The solicitor who came to inform him of his good fortune assures me that Simpkins is a legitimate heir to Colonel Kimberly’s Condiment Company and all that entails,” Edwina said. “It had nothing whatsoever to do with any contest. It seems to have had something to do with his family.”
“How extraordinary,” Beryl said.
“Just when you think life cannot get more topsy-turvy, a thing like this happens,” Edwina said. “I have no idea what I will do for a gardener now.”
So that was it. Edwina was concerned about more changes to her household. It was understandable, really, after the loss of her family members one by one over the course of a woefully short period of time. It wasn’t an unfamiliar story, but that did not make it any less painful.
While Beryl was quite sure that Edwina would not consider Simpkins a member of the family in the same way her mother had been, or at least would not admit to feeling that way, she suspected the grizzled old gardener was more important to Edwina than she had previously realized.
“There’s nothing to say that he will leave his position here at the Beeches just because he’s come into some money,” Beryl said. She gave Edwina’s hand an affectionate squeeze.
“I rather think it’s more than just some money, Beryl,” Edwina said. “Colonel Kimberly’s is one of the most recognized brands in all the empire. As you would say, Simpkins will be simply rolling in it. I expect he shall want to have a gardener of his own, and one far more suited to the task than he is. For one thing, he’ll be able to afford a quality gardener.” Beryl noted patches of bright color dotting Edwina’s cheeks.
“In my experience, people do not tend to behave differently when they have money and when they don’t have it. They’re simply the same person, with just a little more jingle in their pockets,” Beryl said.
“Do you really think so?” Edwina said with a lilt of hope in her voice.
“I know it’s made absolutely no difference to me. Sometimes I’m flush, and sometimes I’m broke. I am always myself. I always want the same sorts of things out of life, the same sort of experiences, the same connections. I can’t see how Simpkins would be any different,” Beryl said.
“Are you quite certain?” Edwina said.
“I am. Besides, if he’s anything like most people who come into a windfall, he’ll mismanage it almost immediately and be back where he started in under six months’ time,” Beryl said.
“But that’s ghastly too,” Edwina said.
“That may be so, but I’ve seen it happen more often than not. So where is he? I’d like to congratulate him before he spends it all,” Beryl said.
“Come to think of it, I have no idea where Simpkins might be. After he received the news, we were both rather shocked. Simpkins stumbled off through the woods and hasn’t been back since. I suppose I should be quite worried about him,” Edwina said.
“I
shouldn’t think it would be too difficult to track him down. Unless I miss my guess, Simpkins will be celebrating at the Dove and Duck,” Beryl said.
“I suppose we should go there and make sure, shouldn’t we?” Edwina straightened to a more upright position with apparent effort.
“Don’t you have your regular appointment with Alma Poole this afternoon?” Beryl asked, getting to her feet.
“When one’s gardener has suddenly become a millionaire, there seems little point in bothering with things like maintaining a presentable appearance.”
“If you neglect your appointment, you will only feel worse. Besides, I think a bit of a walk in the fresh air would do you a world of good,” Beryl said.
“I rather think that hearing I had inherited the controlling interest in a multinational company would do me a world of good. Still, I suppose it will be preferable to a trip into the pub.” Edwina hoisted herself from the chair and straightened her skirt.
Chapter 13
Edwina and Beryl separated at the top of the high street. With a cheery wave, Beryl continued along the street to the pub. Edwina watched her as she sauntered down the road. She wished that she were as capable of taking things in stride as Beryl seemed to be. She supposed it was simply not in her nature and that in times of change, she required more time to adapt and to reflect on what such things might mean for the future.
Perhaps Beryl simply did not consider the future as much as Edwina did. Her mother had always admonished her to think how things might turn out, and for the most part, it had felt like sound advice. But from time to time, Edwina wished she could toss her cares to the wind and see where events simply took her just as readily as did her friend.
Still, she liked to think she was capable of changing with the times. She pushed open the door of Alma’s House of Beauty and set the bell jingling. Edwina recognized a pretty local girl named Hattie Brooks, who looked up from a sink, where she was rinsing a customer’s hair.
Edwina averted her eyes. There was something not quite nice about seeing her neighbors in such a state of vulnerability. She appreciated the fact that Alma had the good sense to cover the bottom half of the windows of her shop in heavy draperies. She could not imagine putting herself on display for all the passersby if the shop had been open to the street.
With a quick nod to Hattie, she took a seat in the waiting area and drew her knitting from her bag. After the distressing day she had had, there was nothing quite like adding a few rows to a project to steady her nerves.
“Mrs. Poole will be with you in just a moment,” Hattie said as she placed a towel over the customer’s head.
Edwina nodded and felt her shoulders begin to relax down away from her ears as she clicked her needles through the smooth, soft wool. She was not sure for whom she was knitting the small blue hat she held in her hands. That was the way it often was with her projects. She would spot a skein of wool and know that she just had to use it for something or other. Generally, the wool would tell her exactly what it wished to be. Once the project was completed, she invariably found it a home.
As she looked down at the hat, she realized that she had most likely been making it for one of Jack Prentice’s younger siblings. She was just mentally inventorying her remaining supply of yarn, with the thought of making small knitted gifts for all the Prentice children, when Alma appeared from the back room.
“I wasn’t sure if I’d see you today, Edwina,” Alma said, bustling towards her with an outstretched hand. “After all the excitement, I wasn’t sure if you would be out on the case.” She urged Edwina to the recently vacated sink and waited while Hattie sorted out the potions and products she always used on Edwina’s head.
“What makes you think that Beryl and I would be involved in that?” Edwina said.
Hattie pressed her gently back towards the sink, and Edwina felt ill at ease. It didn’t feel professional somehow to be discussing her business while gazing at the ceiling and feeling the warm trickle of water dousing her head. Alma seemed to have no such compunctions.
“Well, lately, whenever a crime is afoot, you and Beryl are in the thick of it. I simply assumed that you would be involved in this case as well. Especially since I had understood that Simpkins was one of the suspects,” Alma said.
Hattie lathered Edwina’s hair and began massaging her scalp with strong bony fingers.
“Whatever led you to believe that Simpkins was one of the suspects?” Edwina asked. While that might have been true, she wasn’t about to cast aspersions on her gardener’s character, no matter how little time into the future he might be in her employ.
“Everyone knows that Simpkins was the first person Constable Gibbs went to speak with as soon as Hector’s body was found,” Alma said. “I simply assumed that meant he was a suspect, and the prime one at that.”
Hattie leaned even closer and commenced rinsing. Edwina kept her eyes tightly shut against the flood of water cascading near her face.
“As he was Hector’s next of kin, she was understandably eager to notify him of Hector’s death. It was no more than that,” Edwina said.
“People are saying that Simpkins and Hector had a row in the pub only a short time before Hector was murdered,” Alma said. “Are you sure there wasn’t more to Constable Gibbs’s visit to the Beeches than a death notification?”
“What I have understood is that there was no shortage of people who might wish Hector out of their lives one way or another,” Edwina said.
Hattie finished the rinsing and urged Edwina to sit up. She draped the towel over her head and rubbed it through her hair to extract the water. “That’s true, miss,” the shampoo girl said, before turning to address Alma. “You must be as happy as anyone that he’s no longer going to be giving you any trouble.”
This was a bit of unexpected information. Edwina had never heard anyone mention a connection between her hairdresser and Hector. Edwina peeked out from under the towel and took note of Alma’s expression. It could not be said that it was a happy one.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you are on about,” Alma said. Edwina’s finely honed lie-detecting skills leapt into action. If Alma had been a parlourmaid, Edwina would have made her turn out her pockets in order to check for bits of the family silver.
There was no doubt in her mind that Alma had no wish to speak of her own connection to Hector Lomax. It might have been far smarter not to bring up his death in the first place. But, thought Edwina, perhaps it would have caused more raised eyebrows if Alma had failed to mention the biggest news of the day.
After all, local gossip flowed almost as steadily at the hairdressing salon as it did at Prudence Rathbone’s post office–cum-sweetshop-cum-stationer. No, Edwina had always regarded Alma as an intelligent woman, and here was even more proof.
“All I’m saying is he won’t be in here causing any more trouble,” the girl said.
The girl was not as bright as her employer. Edwina suspected the poor young thing would be in for a stern talking-to by Alma as soon as the opportunity for a moment of privacy presented itself.
“That’s quite enough, Hattie,” Alma said, waving a comb at her employee. “Why don’t you take a seat right here, Edwina, and we’ll have you looking lovely in a trice. You’ll be wanting your usual wave, I expect.” Alma reached for a small cart holding a bowl of strong-smelling liquid.
Edwina’s thoughts sprang from musing over what Alma was so eager not to discuss to the question posed. She looked in the mirror opposite her and suddenly realized she had no interest whatsoever in having Alma apply her considerable talents to making Edwina’s hair wave.
Curling her hair had been her mother’s idea. Edwina had never enjoyed having her head covered in strong chemicals before having strands of her hair clamped between heated metal devices. The entire process took hours, and Edwina had never been able to see the point in all the fuss. She looked over at Hattie and felt an overwhelming surge of recklessness.
“Actually, I have decided it i
s time for a change,” Edwina said. “I should like for you to bob it.”
Alma gasped. “Bob it?” she said. “Are you sure?”
“Completely,” Edwina said, perching in the chair and folding her hands into her lap. “I should like the same sort of style as Hattie is wearing.” Edwina nodded at the younger woman, who gave her a bright smile.
“I must tell you many women regret the decision to bob their hair before I even complete the job. Are you absolutely certain?” Alma said, lifting a long lock of Edwina’s hair, as if to emphasize how much there was to lose.
“I appreciate your concern and your warning. But I suddenly feel a great desire for change. Besides, I am sure it will prove practical. Don’t you agree, Hattie?”
“My mum nearly threw me out of the house when I first had it done, but now that she has seen how much less fuss my hair is than hers, she is thinking of having hers bobbed too,” Hattie said. “Besides, my hair fits so much better under my hats now than it did when it was long, especially when I wear a cloche.”
That settled it. Edwina loved her hats more than any other part of her wardrobe. If bobbing her hair would make it easier for her to look well in them, she would be foolish not to do so. There was a certain peacock-blue cloche at the milliner’s over in the neighboring market town of Much Dilling that she had had her eye on for some time.
“That is all I need to know. Alma, there is no one I would trust more with the job than you,” Edwina said.
It was the truth. While the women in most larger towns and even in many cities were forced to ask barbers to sheer off their long locks, Alma had seen the moneymaking possibility of learning to do so herself. The idea had first occurred to her during the war, when several Land Army girls had asked her if she knew how to maintain their bobbed hairstyles.
She had promptly set off for London, where she’d learned by observing a friendly barber in his shop over the course of several days. When she’d returned home and announced that she was capable of providing bobbed hairstyles, as well as the more traditional ones, she’d begun drawing a steady stream of clients from Walmsley Parva, as well as from many neighboring villages.
Murder Cuts the Mustard Page 9