by H. Y. Hanna
I thought quickly. For Devlin to question Edwin again must have meant that the second-hand bookseller was a strong murder suspect. And what I had just learned from Joseph might be critical in helping Devlin get the truth. I made a split second decision.
“Do you know if Devli—if Inspector O’Connor is likely to be at the store for a while?”
“Yeah, I think so. He only just left the station a couple of minutes ago.”
“Okay, listen, I have some important information for him. If he contacts you for any reason, let him know that I’m heading to Edwin Perkins’s bookstore and tell him to wait for me.”
I hung up and tried Devlin’s number again but it went straight to answerphone. I wasted no more time. Jumping on my bike, I pushed off, heading out of Meadowford and back into Oxford.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I pedalled furiously and arrived puffing and panting outside Edwin’s bookstore in central Oxford some thirty minutes later. The door to the store was shut, with a “CLOSED” sign hanging across the pane, but peering through the glass, I could see two people at the back of the store. It was Devlin facing Edwin across his desk. The interview was obviously still in progress.
Testing the handle, I was pleased to discover that the door wasn’t locked. Silently, I stepped into the shop. Edwin was speaking, his voice a perfect mixture of impatience and annoyance.
“…I really don’t know what is the point of going over this again, Inspector—we went through it all yesterday! I’ve already told you everything I know. I’ve explained what I was doing in the cat show pavilion and also why I was asking Dr Foster about the medication. It’s ludicrous that you should be treating me as a suspect! For goodness’ sake, why would I want to murder Clare Eccleston? She was a long-standing friend and I have a great affection for the whole family—”
“Especially the daughter,” I spoke up.
The two men jerked around at the sound of my voice.
“Gemma?” Devlin frowned. “What are you doing he—”
“I’ve been speaking to Joseph the gardener,” I said, advancing towards the desk and keeping my eyes on Edwin. “He told me about a very interesting conversation he overheard while he was working at Eccleston House last week. A conversation between you and Mary Eccleston in the garden.”
Edwin stiffened and his eyes flickered nervously, but he said with studied casualness: “Really? Well, there’s nothing unusual about that. I’m an old friend of the family and I often chat with Mary—in the gardens or elsewhere. We… we share an interest in a lot of things. And now that dear Clare is gone, I’m sure Mary will appreciate having a friend more than ever.”
“Yes, Dame Eccleston’s death was very convenient for you, wasn’t it?”
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Edwin said.
“Gemma.” Devlin frowned at me.
I ignored him and carried on recklessly, saying to Edwin, “Not only is there no longer anyone standing in your way, laughing at your feelings and calling you a ‘dirty old man’…” I paused as Edwin flushed. “…but it’s also left Mary a very rich heiress. Whoever marries her will have a very comfortable life. It would be more than enough reason to murder her mother.”
“This is outrageous!” Edwin cried, very red in the face. “How dare you! Clare Eccleston was my dearest friend and I always wished her well. I would never have plotted to kill her!”
“Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “That’s interesting, because according to Joseph, you told Mary that when her mother was dead, you and she would be free and able to do anything you liked. That seems a very odd thing for someone to say, doesn’t it? Unless they were pretty certain that Dame Eccleston would die soon because they had already put plans in place to kill her.”
“You… you can’t believe anything that stupid gardener says!” snarled Edwin. “He probably made it all up. What was he doing anyway, spying on us like that?”
“He wasn’t spying on you—he just happened to be working behind the hedge when you and Mary walked past on the other side. But you’re right, it is just his word so perhaps I should speak to Mary, ask her what you said that day. I’m sure she would remember that conversation and be happy to repeat it.”
I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping that my bluff would work. If it didn’t, I was going to be in huge trouble. Devlin already looked like he wanted to throttle me and was restraining himself with an effort. I avoided his eyes and kept my gaze steadfastly on Edwin. I was going on a hunch here: that Edwin’s feelings for Mary would make him want to avoid any embarrassment where she was concerned; that he would rather tell the truth than have her dragged into this whole thing.
The bookseller stood staring at me for a moment, his face angry and flushed, then he seemed to deflate in front of my eyes. I breathed a silent sigh of relief. It looked like my bluff had paid off.
“No, don’t speak to Mary,” said Edwin hastily. “Okay, I… I may have said something along those lines… but I was simply referring to a potential future, not a specific one! Clare had a heart condition. It was perfectly natural… er, reasonable to assume that she might not live for very long and for me to talk to Mary about… er… a time when her mother would no longer be around.”
“That’s a very glib answer, Mr Perkins,” Devlin spoke up. “However, with this new piece of information, things are not looking good for you. We have you placed at the scene of the crime, just a short while before the death occurred. We have you asking the victim’s doctor about her heart medication and, in particular, questions about their toxicity and lethal potential. And now we find that there is a witness who overheard you talking with anticipation of a time when the victim will be dead. To a jury, that will sound very much like a statement of intent.” Devlin leaned forwards. “Intent to murder.”
“I didn’t murder her!” burst out Edwin. “You have to believe me! I didn’t do it!”
“Why were you really in the cat show pavilion?” I demanded. “It wasn’t just to say hello to Dame Eccleston and her daughter. There was something else you were doing in there. That day you overheard my friend discussing her brother’s photos in my tearoom, you rushed off suddenly—I think you organised for Liam’s camera to be stolen, to prevent his pictures of the fête from falling into the hands of the police. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Uh… what?” Edwin looked like someone caught out with a guilty secret. “No, no… I… No, why would I do that?”
“Because you were afraid that he might have inadvertently photographed you,” said Devlin suddenly. “Because the photos might have shown you tampering with Dame Eccleston’s piece of cake, adding poison—”
“No!” cried Edwin. “I never touched her cake or anything else for that matter! In fact, I never went anywhere near the Ecclestons!” He looked at us wildly for a moment, then sank back in his chair and made a defeated gesture with his hands. “All right—you’re right. I… I was doing something in the pavilion. But it wasn’t plotting a murder.” He took a deep breath. “I was meeting someone, to show him some… uh… erotic literature.”
Devlin gave a humourless laugh. “Erotic literature? You mean you were selling porn.”
Edwin bristled with pompous indignation. “These aren’t trashy pictures of naked men and women acting like animals! This is very rare, highly valued, vintage erotica depicting hedonists in the pursuit of sensual pleasure.”
“You were selling porn,” Devlin repeated. “Don’t try and dress it up. And that is illegal unless you are doing it in licensed premises, especially if you’re selling it to minors—”
“No, no, my client was certainly not a minor!’ said Edwin hastily. “He’s an experienced collector—I told you, these weren’t tattered old copies of Playboy magazine or something like that; these were valuable first editions of 18th-century erotica and he wanted to examine them in person before purchasing.”
“So why didn’t you just meet in your shop after hours or at his house? Why all this skulki
ng around in a public place?” asked Devlin.
“It was my client’s idea. He was very cagey about any way to contact him. He suggested the fête as a good place to meet because he was planning to be there already.” Edwin hesitated, shooting an uneasy glance at Devlin. “He was the man whose picture was in the papers,” he added in a low voice.
“Nate Briggs, the ‘Agri-Crime Boss’?” cried Devlin, springing up. “Bloody hell, man, why didn’t you say so from the beginning? Can you contact him again?”
Edwin looked shifty. “Er, yes… yes, I suppose so. He was interested in another volume and I promised to contact him when I got hold of it.” Then a crafty expression came over his face. “But if I contact him for you, I want police protection and an assurance that you won’t be charging me with anything.”
“You’re not in any position to make bargains, Mr Perkins,” Devlin growled. “For one thing, you’ve lied to the police so I could have you arrested already for obstruction of justice.”
“But you can’t charge me for the murder of Clare Eccleston,” Edwin whined, losing all his bravado in a second. “I tell you, I never went near her! I had nothing to do with her murder!”
Devlin looked at him grimly. “If you are telling the truth about this—and your ‘client’ can substantiate what you said—then you’ll be in the clear. So the best thing for you is to cooperate with the police and help us apprehend this man. His testimony will provide you with an alibi for the murder.” He made a gesture of mock invitation. “I think it would be best if you accompany me to the station now to make a new statement. And this time, I suggest you tell the truth—all of it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I cycled slowly out of Oxford with mixed feelings. Oh, I was delighted that Devlin had finally got a break in his case. But as far as Dame Eccleston’s murder was concerned, we were back to square one. If Edwin was off the hook, who was left now as the key suspect? Could it still be Theresa Bell? Or even Joseph? My mind swung uneasily to Mary, but I pushed the thought away. No, I still couldn’t believe it. Not Mary.
The trip into town had taken up more time than I expected and I was now racing to make it back to Devlin’s place, pick up Muesli, and get to the Vicarage in time. My mother was a huge stickler for punctuality and I knew that I would never hear the end of it if I was late, particularly after she had called to remind me this morning.
I arrived outside the Vicarage puffing and panting again, with Muesli slightly rattled and very windswept in her carrier in the front basket. I groaned and winced as I dismounted, my thigh muscles aching from all the frantic pedalling I’d done, back and forth to Oxford. I’m going to die tomorrow, I thought as I lifted the cat carrier and walked, John Wayne-style, into the Vicarage garden. It didn’t have quite the colourful profusion of the Eccleston House gardens—probably because it hadn’t had the benefit of Joseph’s expertise—but it was pretty in its own way, with a bed of primroses and various types of daisies planted beneath a large dogwood tree, a shady border full of ivy and dainty little white flowers in the shelter of the stone wall and a bank of old-fashioned roses on the far side. I had noticed my mother’s car parked outside but was relieved to see that she was standing on the doorstep, just about to ring the bell. Whew. I had made it in time.
Audrey answered the door, looking very smart in a black crepe dress and black tights. “It was Clare’s funeral today,” she explained as she led us into the house.
“Oh, I hadn’t realised,” said my mother. “Are you sure this is a good time? Perhaps we ought to do this another day—”
“No, no,” said Audrey quickly. “It’ll be nice to have a distraction. In any case, it was just a small affair in the end. Clare had left some instructions—I think she really wanted quite a grand funeral—but Mary decided that in view of the murder enquiry that is ongoing and the press attention that it’s already attracted, it would be better to have a small, quiet affair.”
I was surprised to hear of Mary defying her mother’s wishes—it seemed that the shy, submissive girl I had originally met was already becoming more of her own person.
“Come into the sitting room,” Audrey said, leading the way down the hallway. “I’ve just prepared the tea and I’ve baked some scones too. I’m sure they’re not as delicious as those in your tearoom, Gemma, but I hope you’ll still enjoy them.”
I followed my mother as Audrey led us into the Vicarage’s cosy, low-beamed sitting room. We sat down and for a while, conversation focused on the wonderful spread of things on the table. There were teacakes and scones, with jam and fresh cream, and little finger sandwiches of cucumber, egg and cress, and Yorkshire ham.
“This is wonderful jam, Audrey,” said my mother as she helped herself to another scone and added a generous helping of the strawberry preserve. “Did you get this at the fête?”
“Oh no, that’s just from the village shop. We sold out of all the jams donated for the fête, so I didn’t get a jar for myself.”
“Oh, what a shame. I thought I saw you taking a jar home—in your basket, as you were heading back to your car.”
“Really?” Audrey furrowed her brow. “No, you must have been mistaken. I wish I did manage to get a jar, though. They looked so delicious. You know, I’m thinking of extending the Cake and Jam Stall at the fête next year—it was such a hit, I think we could have sold double the number of things and raised so much more money.”
“Will you be part of the committee again next year?” I said. “It seems like a lot of work to be taking on.”
Audrey smiled. “I enjoy it. It’s nice to feel useful, especially as…” She broke off and looked around the house. “Well, now that my brother’s married and there will be a new mistress here, I’m not sure how… well, how wanted I’m going to be…”
“Oh, nonsense,” said my mother. “I’m sure your brother’s very appreciative of the way you’ve looked after him over the years.”
“I never intended to come and live with him, you know, but he got glandular fever several years ago and was very unwell for months. He really needed someone to look after him and, in the end, I was doing so much travelling backwards and forwards, I decided it was easier just to give up the lease on my flat and move in with him. Of course, Jeremy was always such a confirmed bachelor, so dedicated to his work, you know—nobody expected him to marry suddenly at forty-four! So I suppose I was like the spinster sister in novels, looking after the hero.” Audrey gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Jeremy is so much younger than me—there’s a thirteen-year age gap between us, you see—so I’ve always been more like a mother than a sister to him and ‘keeping house’ for him just sort of came naturally…” A shadow crossed her face. “I suppose that’s all going to change now.”
“But surely you are planning to go on living here?” said my mother. “I’m sure they’d be more than happy for you to stay on with them. The house is certainly big enough.”
“Well, there is a self-contained wing on one side, but one doesn’t like to impose. And a newlywed couple ought to start their life without someone living with them, I think,” said Audrey. “Besides, I’d thought that perhaps…” She flushed slightly. “Well, anyway, that was just wishful thinking.”
I wondered if she was thinking of Edwin Perkins and had nursed a hope that he might still return her feelings and ask her to marry him.
“Meorrw?” came a little voice at our feet. Muesli had been let out of the carrier and had been amusing herself, scampering about and exploring the house while we had tea. Now she was rubbing herself against our legs, demanding some attention.
“She is so sweet,” said Audrey, smiling down at Muesli.
“Appearances can be deceptive,” I muttered.
Audrey chuckled. “Yes, your mother was telling me the other day about some of her amusing antics.”
“Did she tell you about the time Muesli climbed into a vent and disappeared into our wall cavity?”
“Yes.” Audrey laughed. “I once knew a cat wh
o climbed into the exposed roof rafters during a renovation and curled up in a nice, soft bed of insulation… and then got trapped when they boarded things up without realising that he was up there.”
“Not your cat, I hope,” said my mother, alarmed.
“Oh, no, this was someone in the Cotswolds Cat Fancy Club. Unfortunately, I can’t keep a cat here as my brother is extremely allergic. But I enjoy spending time with other people’s cats through my duties at the cat club.”
“I heard that this Therapy Cats programme was your idea,” I said. “It’s a fantastic project.”
She flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, yes—it’s something I’m very proud of. Something that’s completely ‘mine’, in a way, and not just an existing project I’m supporting. Of course, Clare was right—with her superior experience and knowledge of cats, she was a much more appropriate leader for the programme. But now that she is no longer here, the responsibility has reverted to me.” She sighed. “Sometimes, I still can’t believe that Clare is gone.”
There was an awkward silence. Awkward, I think, because neither my mother nor I could think of anything nice to say about the dead woman. Then Audrey roused herself and said briskly:
“Well! Better get on with Muesli’s assessment.”
“What exactly is she being assessed on?” I asked. “Is it like an exam?”
“Goodness, no, nothing so formal.” Audrey gave a little laugh. “Mainly, we just want to see if she is a calm, confident, friendly cat who doesn’t mind interacting with strangers.”
“Oh, no problems there,” I said dryly.
“No, I can see not,” said Audrey, smiling as Muesli hopped up onto her lap. The little tabby cat looked at her, then leaned forwards and sniffed Audrey curiously.
“Meorrw?” she said, and gave a little sneeze.
“Oh dear, maybe she doesn’t like the perfume I’m wearing,” said Audrey with a laugh as Muesli jumped off her lap.