by H. Y. Hanna
I gasped out loud. “Mary,” I said urgently. “Did you send my mother a note last night?”
“A note? No, why?”
“My mother received a note saying you wanted her to go and meet you at Eccleston House this morning.”
“I never sent her any message,” said Mary, sounding confused. “The last time I spoke to your mother was that day when she and the old ladies from the village came to the house. You were there as well, remember? I had just come back from seeing the solicitors—”
“Who knew you were going to the college this morning? Who knew that nobody would be home at Eccleston House?” I demanded.
“I… Riza knew, I suppose, since I gave her the whole weekend off and I might have mentioned that I was planning to come in. Oh, and Aunt Audrey knew. She rang me last night and asked what I was doing this morning. I think she was worried I might be lonely—”
I heard no more. Cutting her off, I ended the call and immediately called my mother’s mobile. I prayed that it wouldn’t have been forgotten in her car glove compartment or left on the hall table at home—or dead with a flat battery—all pretty common things that my mother often did. I breathed a sigh of relief as I heard it start to ring… and ring… and ring…
“Come on… pick up… pick up…” I muttered, pacing in a circle.
“Gemma, what’s going on?” said Cassie, next to me. “What did Mary say? What’s this about your mother?”
I slammed my phone down. “I haven’t got time to explain, Cassie, but my mother could be in danger! I’m going straight round to Eccleston House. Can you keep trying her number? If you get through, tell her the murderer is Audrey Simmons! Tell her to stay away from Audrey and, most of all, don’t eat or drink anything that Audrey offers!”
I was shouting now and I could see the whole tearoom staring goggle-eyed at me, including the Old Biddies, but I didn’t care. Turning, I bolted out the door and was on my bike in a flash. Minutes later, I was pedalling frantically towards Eccleston House. My heart pounded furiously in time with my pumping legs.
Faster. Faster. Oh God, I hope I wasn’t too late…
The bike careened crazily around the bend of a country lane and shot down the last few hundred yards, until I turned in through the imposing front gates of Eccleston House and started down the long gravel drive. I could see the house up ahead and a car parked by the front door. My mother’s red Peugeot. There were two figures standing by the front door.
Are they my mother and Audrey? What are they doing? I pedalled harder, cursing as the bicycle wheels sank in the gravel driveway, churning up pebbles everywhere. I jumped off my bike, threw it aside, and ran the rest of the way. My legs felt like lead and there was a stitch stabbing in my side, but I ignored it, gasping and panting as I hurtled down the last stretch of driveway.
In front of me, the two figures became clearer. One was definitely my mother and she was holding something in her hands. A cardboard box. My eyes widened as I saw her lift something out of the box and raise it to her mouth.
“Mo-ther!” I yelled. “MO-THER! DON’T EAT THAT!”
But even as I shouted, I saw the other figure move suddenly. It was Joseph, I realised, and I watched in surprise as he yanked something out of my mother’s hand.
She gave an outraged gasp and stumbled backwards.
Then I was beside them. I heaved myself, wheezing and spluttering, up the front steps. They both turned to look at me, my mother staring in astonishment.
“Gemma, what on earth…”
“Mother!” I was panting so hard I could hardly speak. “Did you… did you eat anything? Did you eat anything?” I asked wildly.
“Well, no, darling, I was just about to taste one of these delicious tarts but this man here is abominably rude—he snatched it right out of my hands! Really! When I had offered him one already.” She turned to frown at Joseph. “You had your own—you didn’t have to snatch mine as well. Has no one taught you any manners?”
I looked down to see that Joseph was holding two jam tarts, one in each hand. The one he had snatched from my mother was clenched in his fist, the pastry shell crumbling slightly and the jam oozing between his fingers. There were more jam tarts in the box that my mother was holding.
“Them’s no good,” Joseph spoke up suddenly. His voice was hoarse and urgent. “They’ll do you harm.”
I turned back to my mother and said slowly, not wanting to alarm her, “Mother, give me that box. I don’t think you should eat any of those tarts—”
“Why ever not?” said my mother in surprise.
“Here, give them to me…” I took the box gingerly away from her. “Where did you get the box anyway?”
“It was here on the doorstep, with my name on it,” my mother explained. “There was a note from Mary attached, saying she had to pop out unexpectedly but that she had baked these tarts this morning and wanted my opinion of them. So I was just about to sample one when I saw the gardener… Joseph, is it?... standing there clipping the hedge. I thought I’d offer him one too—you know, to be polite—although goodness knows why one bothers. Really, it was shockingly bad manners! He had barely helped himself to one, when he reached out and snatched mine as well!”
I glanced at Joseph, then said to my mother, “Actually, Mother, I think you should thank Joseph. I think he saved your life.”
“I beg your pardon?” My mother stared.
“Lily of the valley,” Joseph said. “Them’s pretty flowers. But them’s dangerous too.” He wrinkled his nose. “Can smell ’em.”
The perfume, I realised. I leaned down and sniffed the tarts. Yes, I recognised the familiar fragrance. Audrey had been wearing it the day we took Muesli to the Vicarage for the assessment. In fact, my little cat had reacted badly to the scent and jumped off Audrey’s lap. I should have listened to Muesli’s instincts, I thought.
And Joseph, I realised, with his expert nose for flowers, must have caught the scent as soon as he raised the tart to his mouth. He might not have realised that the tarts had been deliberately poisoned but he knew enough about the lethal properties of lily of the valley to stop my mother trying to eat hers.
“Oh God, Mother, if you had eaten any—even one bite...” I shuddered. “I think these jam tarts have been poisoned, probably by convallatoxin, a toxin found in lily of the valley—”
“Poisoned?” My mother stared down at the jam tarts in the box, as if suddenly expecting them to turn lime green with skull-and-crossbones signs appearing across their surfaces. “But why on earth would anyone want to poison me?”
I looked out across the treetops into the distance where I could see the church steeple from the village. I thought of a ruthless, calculating woman waiting at the Vicarage. A woman who had concealed her murderous nature beneath a pleasant, helpful exterior.
“Because you knew too much,” I said grimly. “And you ruined the perfect murder.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Everyone in the village gathered solemnly outside the Vicarage and watched as Devlin led Audrey out of the gates. I could see the expressions of disbelief on the people’s faces and hear the whispers going around the crowd as we all watched the mousy, middle-aged spinster get into the waiting police car.
“Audrey Simmons! Who would have thought?”
“Oh my goodness!”
“But she was such a great help on the church committee… and the charity fundraiser too…”
“Yes, she always seemed so ready to volunteer for things! Always taking on the extra work and never complaining…”
“And that was part of the problem,” I said to Cassie as we stood talking in the tearoom one morning a few days later. “Audrey Simmons had an almost pathological desire to be needed. I mean, we all like to feel useful and wanted—but with Audrey, it had become like an obsession. It was the only thing that fed her self-esteem and gave her a sense of identity. Volunteering for stuff, taking on all the responsibilities at the various community events—it made her feel impo
rtant.”
“Don’t forget her brother,” said Cassie. “I always thought that was a bit weird. I mean, everyone used to go on about how nice she was to look after him, but didn’t you think it was odd? Living with him and mothering him like that? The guy was in his forties, for heaven’s sake!”
“Well, some of that might have been a leftover habit from childhood, because her brother was a lot younger than her… but I know what you mean,” I agreed. “I think mothering him made Audrey feel good about herself. It’s sad, really, because she should have married and had children of her own, so that she could have felt ‘needed’ that way.”
“She would probably have smothered her kids, if she had any,” said Cassie darkly. “She’s obviously one sandwich short of a picnic.”
“Yeah, and when her brother announced that he was getting married, she must have freaked out. Suddenly, he no longer needed her—he had a wife now, who would look after him and be the new mistress at the Vicarage. I think Audrey’s world was turned upside down and she began to feel really desperate.” I thought of Edwin. “And it didn’t help that her own romance was unrequited. She had loved Edwin Perkins so faithfully all those years—I think she never gave up hope that he might still marry her.”
“Not with Mary around!” said Cassie.
I nodded. “That must have really eaten away at her—to see the way Edwin only had eyes for Mary, a girl more than half his age. She must have really begun to resent the younger woman.”
“Do you think that’s what gave her the idea for the whole thing?” asked Cassie. “As a way to get rid of Mary? I mean, if she framed Mary for her mother’s murder and the girl was put away in jail, Edwin might then forget his infatuation and notice her, Audrey, at last.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Audrey wouldn’t talk much when Devlin questioned her. She’s gone all sort of distant and withdrawn now. Won’t talk much to anybody, not even her lawyer. But from what little she said, Devlin thinks it was a combination of things. The hostility towards Mary was definitely one of the triggers. And then Clare Eccleston herself was another.”
“Clare Eccleston? But I thought they were friends?”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t think anyone could have really been friends with Dame Eccleston. She was too much of a bully. But I think Audrey got used to playing the submissive in that relationship. It was a pattern established from when both were girls at school, I think, and it carried on into their relationship in adulthood.”
“So what changed?”
I shrugged again. “Who knows? People just snap, don’t they? I don’t think you can keep on bullying someone and abusing them forever. Eventually, they just have enough and rebel—and when they do, it’s usually in a pretty big way. You can’t keep kicking a dog, you know, without it one day turning around to bite you. And I think Audrey had been feeling angry and aggrieved for some time. And then the Therapy Cats programme was the last straw. It had been Audrey’s idea, her baby, the first thing that had given her a sense of achievement and identity which was all her own, rather than from propping up others. She was being looked up to, respected, valued… and then Clare Eccleston swooped in and claimed all the credit.”
“You know, looking at it like that, you sort of feel sympathetic towards Audrey,” said Cassie. “I would have wanted to kill that Eccleston woman myself.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s a terrible thing to say and murder is always wrong, but I have to admit, you can’t help feeling that this was one murder victim who got what she deserved.”
“What about the anonymous note?” asked Cassie suddenly. “How does that fit in?”
“Actually, the anonymous note was nothing to do with Audrey. That was a coincidence,” I said. “It was from Theresa Bell. It was just a bit of petty nastiness, really. But when Audrey saw it, she instantly recognised another opportunity to frame Mary. She remembered how much Mary had loved scrapbooking as a girl and she knew that she still had a few of Mary’s cut-out collages. That was why she kept pushing Mary to report the note to the police. I think it was so she could fan the suspicions about Mary later, using the collages in her possession. In fact, she purposefully left them out when she knew my mother and I were coming to the Vicarage. She wanted us to see them and put doubts in our minds about Mary… and I have to admit, it nearly worked with me,” I added ruefully.
“What a devious cow,” said Cassie, shaking her head. “Winds me up to think that I actually liked her!”
“I liked her too. It was one reason why I never even suspected her. Oh, she played her part really well—like the way she acted so concerned about finding Clare Eccleston’s killer and how solicitous she was to Mary. She had us all fooled. And I don’t know if anyone would have ever thought of the poisoned fork…”
“You have Mr Baxter to thank for that,” said Cassie with a grin.
I laughed. “Oh, I did! I ordered six of each flavour, even though I don’t know what I’m going to do with so many chocolate spoons!”
“Still, you know, someone could have asked Mary more questions about how the cake was served on the day of the fête and it would have come out that Audrey had provided the forks. She didn’t prepare for that,” Cassie said.
“No, but it’s all a case of ‘he says, she says’, isn’t it? Mary herself said that she wasn’t paying that much attention and wasn’t sure where the forks had come from—she assumed that Audrey had provided them because the latter was helping her. But Audrey could simply have said that she didn’t know where the forks had come from either! Or even that when Mary handed her the plates to pass around, the forks were already on them,” I pointed out. “You see, there was no reason to suspect Audrey at all, whereas there were plenty of reasons to suspect Mary. Remember, she had the most to gain by her mother’s death. So who do you think the police or a jury would have believed more? Audrey’s word or Mary’s?”
“Clever,” said Cassie grudgingly. “And I’ll bet she would have played her role for all it was worth, making everyone believe how upset she was about incriminating Mary, when all along she’s sticking a knife in the girl’s back. I think that’s been the scariest thing—how nice Audrey can be to your face when, meanwhile, she’s planning to kill you. I mean, look how she was with your mother! Leaving those poisoned tarts for her—and pretending they came from Mary—that was pure evil genius.”
I grimaced. “I don’t know about genius but it was pretty evil. The police analysed those tarts, you know, and there was enough convallatoxin in the jam to kill a large horse. If Joseph hadn’t snatched it out of my mother’s hands—if she had taken even one bite…” I shuddered. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
“I hope you’ve written him a nice thank you note,” said Cassie jokingly.
I smiled. “I’m going to do even better than that—I’m popping over to see him after work today, with a very special present.”
***
Later that evening, as the sun began to slip down the horizon, I made my way across Oxford to St Cecilia’s College. After asking at the Porter’s Lodge, I was directed to a tiny cottage at the rear of the college grounds. There was no doorbell. I rapped on the wooden front door and stood nervously, holding the tall, gift-wrapped box in front of me.
After a few moments, I knocked on the door again.
Still nothing.
I hesitated. I had been sure that Joseph would be home—the college porter had certainly seemed to think so. Then why wasn’t he answering the door? I didn’t want to leave the gift box on the front doorstep, in case it got nicked or damaged. I looked around and noticed a narrow path leading around the side of the cottage. Perhaps Joseph’s in the garden out back, I thought suddenly. That would explain why he couldn’t hear the door knocking. I hesitated a moment longer, then started following the path around the side of the cottage.
Picking my way past some dense shrubbery, I stepped at last through an old wooden arbour into a tiny cottage garden. It was like a miniature replica of
the one at Eccleston House, except far more lovely in a way. The small, compact space here was brimming with flowers and shrubs—romantic climbing roses rambling up the wooden trellis next to me, lavender and rosemary forming a fragrant hedge along the back row, and then crowding all around were blooms of every shape, size, and colour: daffodils, snowdrops, meadowsweet, gentian, foxgloves, hydrangea, columbines, forget-me-nots… and a dozen other flowers I couldn’t name. Even though they hadn’t all bloomed yet, their sweet perfume mingled and filled the air around me.
And there in the centre—like a magician who had called forth this enchanted garden (and in a way, he had)—was Joseph. He was crouched next to a large clump of delphiniums, carefully staking them. He looked up as I stepped into the garden and rose quickly to his feet, his eyes widening in surprise.
“Uh… hi Joseph…” I gave him a hesitant smile. “I tried the front door but no one answered, so I came around the back… Um… this is a beautiful garden, like something out of a fairy tale…” I faltered into silence as he continued standing there, saying nothing.
Oh God, I’m not going to have to have a conversation with the pansies or something again, just to speak to him?
Determinedly, I took a step towards Joseph and said, “I came to say thank you, actually.”
He looked up, startled, meeting my eyes for the first time.
“For saving my mother’s life,” I explained. “If you hadn’t acted so quickly, I think she would have… well, anyway, thank you.”
He said nothing but I saw that his eyes had softened. Encouraged, I lifted the box I had brought and thrust it at him. “For you,” I said unnecessarily. “I went to a specialist centre… I was told it’s one of the rarest… um… anyway, I hope you like it.”
He stared in wonderment at me, then reached out and took the box I offered him, like an orphan receiving his first ever gift on Christmas morning. Slowly, he pulled off the ribbon and unwrapped the coloured paper, then carefully lifted out the container inside. I heard his sharp intake of breath as he saw what was in the container: a small terracotta pot containing a single bulb, from which grew a rich green stalk that ended in a cluster of deep purple, almost black flowers. A rare black hyacinth.