A Southwold Mystery

by Suzette A. Hill

  His words had been delivered at speed and volume; and what with that and the cavorting of the dogs both women felt distinctly dazed. Mechanically they removed their hats, and muttering vague condolences sat on the sofa and awaited the tea. They gazed quizzically at their host who was busy with the pugs and intent on retrieving a recessed marrowbone from the fireplace. His efforts were cut short by the rattle of cups, and as Hawkins re-entered he straightened up and said, ‘Yes, rather a frightful business I’m afraid; all very unfortunate – particularly just now of course.’ Dismissing the tray-bearer he seized the teapot and started to splash the contents into their cups.

  Why particularly ‘now of course’ rather than at any other time, Rosy wondered. Death was death wasn’t it? She glanced at the tea which was pale grey and decided against it.

  Lady Fawcett ventured a sip, winced slightly and sighed heavily. ‘But it’s so difficult to take in,’ she said, ‘I mean the idea of Delia being dead is just extraordinary. After all she was always so healthy on the hockey field; it used to make me worn out just watching …’ She put a hand over her eyes, and Rosy was not quite sure whether this was to blot out the thought of her friend’s death or the image of her being healthy with a hockey stick. She rather suspected the latter.

  ‘Had she been ill?’ she ventured.

  ‘No, certainly not, fit as a fiddle,’ Hugh replied. He stopped and frowned. ‘Hasn’t Hawkins explained?’

  ‘Explained what?’ asked Lady Fawcett lowering her hand.

  ‘Mother has been murdered,’ he said briskly, ‘poisoned actually.’

  Rosy gasped, and then whispered, ‘Oh my God how dreadful!’ She stared at Hugh in horror.

  Lady Fawcett also stared; but at her teacup not Hugh. And then in a faint voice she said, ‘I don’t think I really want this tea. On the whole I would prefer to lie down.’ She turned to Hawkins who was hovering by the door. ‘Could you show me to my room please – and then perhaps you would be so kind as to bring me a large brandy? You needn’t bother with ice.’ So saying she rose, and collecting her gloves and handbag walked from the room.

  Left alone with the man whose mother had been murdered, Rosy felt awkward to say the least. She studied the bereaved son with a mixture of pity and baffled curiosity. It must be ghastly for him – but what the hell was it all about! Her mind whirled with questions which she was hesitant to raise. Having only just been introduced this hardly seemed the moment. Nevertheless it was the method of dispatch that had most shocked her, chilled her really: it was suggestive of careful premeditation. What on earth had Delia Dovedale done to cause such stealthy disposal? From Lady Fawcett’s remarks in the car the woman had sounded perfectly innocuous. Tiresomely loud perhaps but hardly murder material. Thus blending sympathy with tactful enquiry, she said, ‘I am so terribly sorry, it must be agony for you – especially since, as you say, she has been poisoned.’

  ‘I daresay there are worse ways of being dealt with,’ he replied carelessly. ‘I gather it was pretty quick, or so the quack says.’ He gave a lopsided grimace and added, ‘My apologies, it must be rather a shock learning like this, especially for your friend. We had tried to contact her to say not to come but the telephone line was temporarily down and then what with one thing and another …’

  ‘Oh please don’t apologise,’ Rosy said hastily, ‘you must have so much to deal with. Besides we’ll be gone tomorrow. I am sure Angela would hate to intrude.’

  ‘Oh you are not intruding – could be very useful in fact. Peep adores being surrounded by crowds, and having one less in the house is beginning to make her shirty. Bound to adapt, but for the time being you will fill a void in her life. Stay as long as you like, you will be most welcome.’ He paused, took off his glasses, and polishing them on his tie added earnestly, ‘Bo is much more robust and doesn’t care a damn. Funny little creatures, aren’t they?’

  Rosy nodded but was somewhat nettled to think that she was being marked down as a handy hole-filler for a dog – or plug for a pug one might say. She also rather wondered if Bo and Hugh didn’t share a similar temperament. Glancing at the two of them she saw the same amiable but slightly empty expressions, the only difference being that one set of eyes was bulging, the other a startling blue.

  After an awkward silence Rosy cleared her throat and asked boldly. ‘So when did you last see your mother?’

  He shrugged. ‘About a couple of days ago. As I told the police chap, she was being busy at the flower festival down the road and last seen was enjoying a cup of tea with a fellow judge. I was in a hurry to catch the train to London so wasn’t really listening but I think she introduced him as Frederick somebody … oh no perhaps it was Felix. Yes I remember now: Felix Bountiful, that was the name. Sounds a bit strange if you ask me – probably slipped her a Mickey Finn.’ Hugh emitted a spluttering guffaw, and even as Rosy digested the news it passed through her mind that Lady Fawcett hadn’t been far out in seeing him as a potential match for Amy.

  ‘I think you may possibly mean Felix Smythe,’ she said slowly. ‘He has a flower shop called Bountiful Blooms in Knightsbridge but I’ve no idea what he is doing here.’

  ‘Obvious,’ replied Hugh, ‘if he is indeed your floral friend then presumably he is here to judge the blooming flowers – just like mother. One trusts he doesn’t meet the same fate,’ he added darkly, and snorted again.

  Rosy winced and wondered how one so crass could handle such wealth; paid a good advisor presumably. However, she was less concerned with Hugh than with the news that Felix was in the area. And where there was Felix there was also likely to be Cedric. She sighed inwardly. It was odd that she seemed fated to confront violent death whenever she encountered that pair. Perhaps she was being dogged by a malevolent jinx that had a penchant for ill-assorted trios …

  CHAPTER THREE

  A few days earlier Cedric and Felix were also en route from London to Suffolk. With Cedric at the wheel their journey had been fast and largely silent; his companion, unlike Lady Fawcett, being less concerned with the changing scenery and ruminating cattle than with visualising his next encounter with the Queen Mother and his current appearance at the Southwold festival.

  For both occasions Felix was considering his sartorial options. For the latter event he had taken the precaution of bringing two suitcases (ready for any eventuality, as he had insisted to Cedric); and in the case of the former he was firmly persuading himself that another visit to Savile Row was more than justified. Yes, he would see to that the very moment they returned to London. He smiled in anticipation. And then having decided that his aubergine smoking jacket would be eminently suitable for the hotel that evening – subtly raffish for the old ladies – he settled back, and closing his eyes slipped into a contented doze.

  When he awoke they were on the outskirts of Aldeburgh; and as the evening sun began to wane they drove with ease, and for Cedric nostalgic pleasure, into the sleepy little town.

  ‘Charming though Southwold is,’ Cedric observed, ‘in my view it is wise to be slightly detached from the hurly-burly; that way one is not being constantly approached or inveigled into things not entirely of one’s choosing. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  Felix had replied that on principle he did agree although it rather depended on who was doing the approaching. He winked. ‘But yes, you are right; I am sure Aldeburgh will be a most suitable bolthole, somewhere safe to collect one’s breath after the rigours of the day.’

  ‘You mean after intemperate questions about compost and how to parry the garden slug?’

  ‘No. I mean their insatiable questions regarding my illustrious patron and her floral preferences, not to mention the endless cups of well-meant tea that one will be required to imbibe. And frankly having twice spoken with one of the major-domos on the telephone – a Delia Dovedale I think – a little distance might well be expedient. She sounded rather loud.’

  Cedric nodded, pleased that his friend had been so cooperative. It was not always so. ‘And of course,’ he had
added, ‘we shall have the benefit of the sea immediately on our doorstep. The hotel stands only a few yards back from the beach and I have made sure that both our rooms overlook the front: thus we shall be woken by the sun and braced by the swirling of the waves. What could be more congenial?’

  ‘I think I would rather be braced by a dry martini,’ Felix had replied. ‘I assume the hotel does have a bar.’

  ‘But of course. This is The Sandworth not some rustic hostelry! We shall be most comfortable.’

  And thus with peace and comfort in prospect the two friends drove into the hotel car park, hauled out the luggage – most of it Felix’s – and prepared themselves to enjoy a restful evening before confronting the forthcoming busy events. That one of the busier events would be murder was not something they had envisaged.

  The following day was bright but blowy, a condition not unknown in Suffolk, and after breakfast Cedric and Felix battled their way to the shelter of their car and set off for Southwold and the scent of flowers.

  Here they were met by Delia Dovedale and other committee members and hustled into the organisers’ tent for coffee and briefings about the day’s programme.

  ‘Such a pleasure to meet you, Mr Smythe,’ cried Delia, gripping his arm firmly and steering him through the throng. ‘Your articles in the Tatler give constant delight and thus to meet you in the flesh is a real bonus!’ She squeezed the flesh of his arm tightly and he winced. Then addressing Cedric she said, ‘And you must be the renowned Professor Dillworthy; how fortunate we are to have two such worthies in our midst!’

  Cedric returned the toothy smile but felt a little peeved to be so called. A ‘notable’ yes, but the term worthy was not one he associated with himself – least of all with Felix. It suited neither the Cambridge cloister nor the drawing rooms of Mayfair. However, he murmured something suitably self-deprecating.

  ‘So what exactly is your line?’ enquired an earnest looking woman at his side.

  ‘Er – well at its simplest, rocks I suppose.’

  He was about to explain that he was basically a geologist but with an extended interest in Cappadocian landscape and its monastic caves, but wasn’t given the chance as at the next moment the woman gasped, ‘What an extraordinary coincidence! A rockery expert, such luck! I’ve been meaning to talk to someone like you for ages. You see I am having the greatest problems in choosing the right kind of rocks for my front garden. I intend on growing alpines but cannot decide whether I should order slabs or the rounder rough-hewn variety. The latter might be the more attractive but slabs the more striking, more modern. What do you think, professor?’ Without waiting for an answer she beckoned her companion: ‘Eileen dear, this nice gentleman is going to give me expert advice on designing my rockery. Isn’t that wonderful!’ She turned back to Cedric. ‘And then you see there is the whole question of drainage …’

  Cedric thought about the afternoon and wondered if he could retreat to Minsmere. Wasn’t it supposed to be a bird sanctuary? Any sort would do.

  In fact escaping to Minsmere was not an option, Cedric’s idea being met with strong disapproval from his friend.

  ‘But they have reserved you a seat at the front,’ Felix protested. ‘There is to be some sort of prize-giving followed immediately by my lecture. I shall be there on the platform among the judges all poised to give my inaugural address the moment the last recipient has returned to the audience. Since it’s my opening appearance I think at least you might be present to lend moral support and to lead the applause.’ He twitched his nose and ran agitated fingers through his spikey hair. The effect was that of a disgruntled rabbit.

  ‘My dear chap,’ Cedric said quickly, ‘I shall be only too pleased to take my place at your feet. I merely thought that you might feel hampered by my presence. Some speakers are sensitive that way.’

  Felix sniffed. ‘Not this one.’

  And thus by three o’clock that afternoon Cedric had taken his allotted seat and Felix was ensconced on the platform with Delia Dovedale, Councillor Ruskin chairman of the judging panel, some man in a bow tie called Floyd de Lisle and two other festival VIPs. There was polite clapping as prize-winners for some of the kitchen–garden events trooped up to receive their accolades and brandish examples of their exhibits. One or two were asked to reveal the secrets of their success, which they did with varying degrees of lacklustre animation.

  The leading contestant – or chef de la classe as Delia Dovedale insisted on bellowing – was a small woman cradling a gigantic parsnip. Apart from success in growing these vegetables she was evidently renowned locally as an expert soup maker, her speciality being iced parsnip consommé. Asked if she could offer any tips for its making she replied earnestly that the great thing was to use plenty of salt and margarine and a good sufficiency of the root itself. ‘One cannot afford to be parsimonious with a parsnip,’ she announced gaily – or at least that is what Cedric thought she had said. But since she spoke with a pronounced lisp he couldn’t be sure; nor presumably could anyone else as her advice was received in puzzled silence.

  However, that was not the end of the matter, for in gratitude for her prize she had brought along libations of the soup for the panel to sample. This had obviously been something prearranged, for at a signal from the chairman a pinafored lackey stepped forward bearing a tray of china cups which were then distributed to those on the platform. Cedric knew that Felix hated parsnips; and he also knew that by now his friend would be itching to take the floor himself and embark on his own carefully prepared topic. Thus it was with wry amusement that he observed Felix’s stony face and fidgeting left foot. At the point when cups were raised he diplomatically dropped his pen and ducked under the table to retrieve it. As he emerged others were already sipping and dutifully nodding their approval … including Delia Dovedale whose lips seemed already forming the compliment of ‘delicious!’

  However, the plaudit got lost in a sudden grimace of horror, a grimace which in turn became a rictus of agonised contortion. Mrs Dovedale’s eyes rolled wildly, her hands clawed at her throat from which came the most awful gasps of animal gagging. She half turned to her right: ‘Felix!’ she choked apoplectically. She tried to rise to her feet, but puce in the face keeled over and crashed to the floor where for a few dreadful seconds she writhed about beneath the pall of crumpled cloth and parsnip soup. And then all sounds ceased, and the creature she had become was stilled.

  The audience too was stilled, frozen in stunned disbelief at what they had just witnessed. The first reaction came from the soup-maker. ‘It has never had that effect before,’ she said in a pained voice, and promptly passed out.

  ‘I know nothing about vegetable marrows,’ said Felix testily to the police officer, ‘or begonias for that matter. I just happened to be on the platform prior to giving my talk on the structural complexities of floral pillars – something particularly close to the Queen Mother’s heart. We were required to raise our glasses to the vegetable and begonia winners and the next moment the lady had turned scarlet in the face, cried “Oh Felix”, choked and disappeared beneath the table. Why she should have called my name like that I cannot think; we barely knew each other and it was all very embarrassing.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the inspector, ‘and doubtless distressing too, sir.’

  ‘What? Oh well yes, yes of course … very distressing. I mean it’s not what you expect is it?’ Felix fiddled with his left cufflink, a sure sign of his agitation and Cedric felt sorry for him. It was hard for Felix to be put through this sort of thing when he had been so looking forward to instructing a rapt audience in the niceties of floral architecture and narrating his more piquant anecdotes about the royal patron. To be upstaged by a case of spectacular poisoning was really rather bad luck. The anecdotes could of course be slotted in elsewhere but meanwhile he had to suffer the tiresome attentions of the local constabulary. The professor flashed his friend a sympathetic smile.

  ‘You find it funny, sir?’ asked the inspector politely.

&n
bsp; ‘Certainly not,’ Cedric replied stiffly, ‘I was merely giving Mr Smythe my support. Being of a creative nature he is naturally sensitive and unused to such interrogations, especially in these sorry circumstances.’

  ‘Oh this isn’t an interrogation,’ cut in the young constable cheerfully. ‘These are just a few general enquiries. I mean if you want an interrogation you would have to come down to the station and—’

  ‘Be quiet, Jennings,’ snapped his superior, ‘I’ve told you before.’ He turned back to Cedric. ‘And I gather you were among the audience sir, in the front row I believe; a good vantage point from which to observe anything unusual. Did anything strike you?’

  Cedric informed him that, alas, he had not been struck since at that moment he had been busy perusing his programme and had only looked up when he heard the victim utter his friend’s name. ‘And there she was choking and spluttering and clawing at the table cloth … oh, and then her hat fell off and she slumped to the floor. I remember that vividly because the hat was rather attractive, wasn’t it Felix?’

  ‘One has seen far worse,’ the other agreed doubtfully.

  The inspector cleared his throat. ‘But hats apart, there is nothing else that you recall? For instance, in what tone did the lady call out “Oh Felix”?’

  As the witnesses frowned and considered, Jennings again gave tongue. ‘What the inspector is asking,’ he explained eagerly, ‘is whether it was a tone of enquiry or of shock, of appeal, incredulity, fear … or,’ he added darkly, ‘accusation.’

  ‘Well it certainly wasn’t the last,’ Felix retorted indignantly. ‘I trust you are not suggesting—’