Hugh made a face. ‘Not very good at this sort of thing – but we don’t want anything too elaborate, it’s bound to be costly.’ He looked at Iris. ‘What do you think?’
‘Oh something like: “Delia Dovedale: passed prematurely on 19th June—”’
‘Passed where?’
‘On of course!’
‘Hmm, sounds a bit lyrical,’ remarked Mark, ‘I think we need something snappier; and besides it makes it sound too leisurely.’
‘Ah,’ said Hugh, ‘you mean like “Delia Dovedale on 19th June: settled with poison”. Nothing leisurely about that!’
‘Oh don’t be such an ass, Hugh. Be serious,’ Iris snapped. She turned to Rosy. ‘Have you any idea?’
‘Well if you want something to denote speed without drama I should think, “Suddenly in Suffolk” would do. It’s a conventional phrase and hides a multitude of causes.’
‘Excellent,’ Hugh said, ‘just the ticket: “Suddenly in Suffolk on 19th June: Delia Dovedale, beloved mother of Hugh. Funeral at St Edmund’s Church, Southwold on such and such a date. No flowers by request”.’
‘Whose request?’ Iris exclaimed, ‘certainly not your mother’s. Considering she was the doyenne of the flower festival, not to have flowers would look perverse. In fact, when one comes to think of it the coffin should be smothered in them. It’s only fitting.’
Hugh gave a pained sigh and muttered something to that effect that one could have too much of a good thing. What exactly he meant by that Rosy wasn’t sure – no surer than she was of ‘beloved mother’ … a somewhat questionable declaration, she suspected. However, fortunately, it was none of her business. After all, her role was simply that of chauffeur and, according to Hugh, to fill a passing void for the bereaved pugs. She glanced down at the pair busily wrangling over an eviscerated toy and was struck by a grisly thought: if Angela Fawcett was right in her surmise that Delia had simply been used as ‘target practice’ for some more pressing disposal, perhaps the pugs were destined for the same fate as their mistress … after all they did rather resemble fattened guinea pigs!
After coffee and less sensitive topics the cousins departed, promising to return the next day in time for the vicar’s visit, and the bereaved son announced it was time he gave the pugs their evening canter. On being asked if she would care to witness the event, Lady Fawcett declined saying that, delightful though the little dogs were, the prospect of the undertaker’s visit the following day, not to mention the vicar’s, necessitated an early night. ‘One needs to be fighting fit with these people,’ she confided to her host, ‘otherwise they’ll ride roughshod over your proposals and pull a fast one before you can say “knife”.’
Hugh looked slightly taken aback but thanked her for the warning and muttered something about curtailing the pugs’ nightly rampage.
Later when Rosy went to bid Angela goodnight it was to find her seated at the dressing table in curlers and a billowing peignoir. She enquired about the guinea pig theory. ‘Do you really believe that?’
Lady Fawcett did not answer at first, being too intent on rubbing cold cream onto a surprisingly unlined face. ‘I am not sure if this stuff is any good,’ she mused, ‘but then if one didn’t do it the worst might occur sooner rather than later … What do you think, Rosy?’
‘Er, what sort of worst?’
‘Disintegration, of course.’
Rosy laughed. ‘Oh I’m sure you don’t need to bother about that.’
‘Oh but one does bother! You’ll learn that soon enough my dear.’ (Thanks a lot! Rosy thought.) ‘However,’ she continued, ‘I suppose the main thing is to try to parry the ravages while you can. Rather like people really: if you don’t fend them off firmly they’ll take you over, and then …’
‘And then you are in the soup!’ Rosy giggled.
Lady Fawcett beamed. ‘Exactly.’ And she applied a further scoop of cream.
‘So what about your idea at dinner?’ Rosy persisted. ‘Did you mean it?’
‘As good a suggestion as any others I daresay. As said, from what I recall of Delia although she could be exceedingly tiresome I cannot see her actually posing a threat to anyone – other than to induce fatigue or deafness of course. But I should have thought that poison as an antidote was a little excessive …’ She tightened one of the curlers. ‘Oh and talking of excessive, tomorrow is going to be a very heavy day. Apparently in addition to the vicar and undertaker, the day after we are also to be faced with the Brightwells. They live quite near and are – or were – close friends of Delia. We used to know him years ago in Paris but I’ve never met the wife. Gregory quite liked Lucas but personally I always found him rather dull. Of course people can improve but I rather suspect that is not so in this particular case. I am told he has become rather high-minded … Oh dear, the cloth, the sexton and Lucas – not the most enlivening of trios.’ Lady Fawcett sighed and looked genuinely weary.
‘We don’t have to stay,’ Rosy said brightly, ‘as you said yourself, we could always find an excuse and escape back to London.’
‘Oh but I think we should stay. Or at least it would quite interesting to do so, don’t you think? In fact,’ and she dropped her voice, ‘things are more intriguing than I had expected. And Hugh seems most eager that we should remain until at least after the funeral. Seemed to think his mother would have wished it … well I don’t know about that, but I suppose if that’s what he wants it would be churlish not to, though goodness knows when they are likely to release the body for burial. Don’t they have to do tests or something? Poor Delia, she was awfully squeamish you know.’ For a moment Lady Fawcett looked pensive; but then giving a final rub with the cold cream, added, ‘And you see if I am still up here in Suffolk when Amy returns from her camping trip it means I shall be spared the brunt of the initial onslaught.’ She closed her eyes in painful prospect; and taking her cue Rosy slipped from the room.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘But Hugh,’ Iris protested the next day, ‘you must provide some sort of sustenance if only tea and cake. After all many will have travelled some distance. And whatever the distance, enduring a funeral is always hard work, it sort of takes the stuffing out of you.’
‘Yes but we don’t want the thing to drag on do we,’ her cousin replied. ‘It’s not as if this is Ireland where their wakes persist for days.’
‘A cup of tea and a slice of seed cake is hardly a wake! Do be realistic. And a few cucumber sandwiches wouldn’t hurt, otherwise it looks so mean; I’ll make them myself if you like.’
‘All right,’ Hugh conceded gloomily, ‘but I draw the line at jelly and cream. I suppose you’ll be suggesting that next.’
Such culinary wranglings were interrupted by a voice from the doorway. ‘Rosy dear,’ said Lady Fawcett benignly, ‘would you mind awfully if we drove into Southwold? I think a little outing might clear my mind of this wretched business. I hardly slept a wink last night and I am sure a touch of sea air would help enormously. Besides, I really must try to find a good black hat – I can hardly wear my pink one.’
‘Good idea,’ Hugh said, ‘I wish I could accompany you but there is the delightful prospect of the undertaker’s visit, not to mention the vicar’s to discuss the order of service … whenever that’s likely to be. I wish to God the police would hurry up, we can’t hang about for ever. Oh by the way, you don’t have any suggestions regarding hymns do you? He is sure to ask.’
Lady Fawcett paused, apparently deep in thought; and then said brightly, ‘“Fight the Good Fight” is very popular, it has a rousing swing and gets things off to a good start. Yes, one can’t go wrong with that, it fits most things,’ she added helpfully.
Even murder? Rosy wondered.
Hugh nodded. ‘Most suitable,’ he declared.
‘Well at least we have outmanoeuvred the undertaker,’ Lady Fawcett remarked once they were in the car, ‘and if we stay away long enough we shall miss the vicar too.’ She smiled in satisfaction. ‘Both very worthy I am sure, but one needs
a little uplift at such times and I cannot see it coming from that direction … I suggest we have some coffee before we embark for the milliners, there’s bound to be somewhere nice. Hawkins may make a good shepherd’s pie but his coffee is most disagreeable!’
They set off for the town; and as Rosy drove slowly up the High Street and into the Market Place she tried not to be distracted by her passenger’s cries of approval as she urged the chauffeur to take note of the passing scene: ‘Oh look, what a gem of a façade – it’s pure Georgian. Quick Rosy or you’ll miss it! … Oh, and just look up at that lovely painted lady! It must be a ship’s prow; what do you think? She must be a mermaid … And my goodness, is that a lighthouse looming over there? It’s as if it’s in the very next street. Do turn your head!’
And thus the commentary continued; but luckily Rosy soon found a parking place and she drew up in sight of Gun Hill, the sweep of turf graced by the six heavy guns guarding the little town from the French or other maritime marauders.
‘Most picturesque,’ Lady Fawcett observed as she gazed at the view, ‘and it’s reassuring to think we are protected by the artillery, but cannons are not much use against this wind. All very invigorating but I shall be quite blown away! Coffee calls I think.’ They turned back in search of elevenses and hats.
Meanwhile Cedric had detached himself from Felix (being lionised in a tea tent) and was wandering around those parts of the town familiar to him from wartime. He had spent some time there in the months leading up to D-Day, and, although by then the worst of the bombing had ceased, the little town was badly battle-scarred and still forlornly alert to enemy bombardment. With the evacuation of a large bulk of the population – children, the elderly, mothers and other non-combatants – its centre had been relatively quiet, busy but hardly bustling; the residual inhabitants, such as military personnel, stubborn stalwarts, firefighters, fisherfolk and those in clerical and executive positions, discharging their duties with a stoical sobriety.
And yet, Cedric mused, despite such denuding of the normal populace – or perhaps because of it – there had been an extraordinary sense of unity, an intimate camaraderie which, for all the tensions and threats of war, had been curiously pleasurable. Southwold then had been a tiny microcosm: a world in miniature tough and watchful; echoing the mood of London, Liverpool, Coventry and countless other parts of the British Isles, cussed and unbowed.
In a reminiscent mood he walked slowly along Pier Avenue, into Marlborough Road, recalling the devastation of the then bombed-out houses and marvelling at the strangeness of their restoration. Some of course had never been renewed, the old Grand Hotel at the bottom of Field Stile for instance. Even now he could visualise its gutted rooms, the scattered tiles and debris, gaping windows from which no guest would ever gaze again. It had been like that when he had arrived and remained so until his leaving … And now twelve years hence spruce bungalows were being built and the ravages of incendiary in turn obliterated. At the corner of Stradbrooke Road, just in sight of the lighthouse, he stopped abruptly, seeing the fire watcher Bertie Simmonds sprawled bizarrely on the pavement. Two colleagues had lain there with him, idly strafed by a Jerry bomber returning from Lowestoft. They had stood up; Bertie Simmonds never did.
He continued towards the lighthouse, as upstanding now as miraculously it had been through the bombing; and as he reached St James’s Green, graced by its flagpole and the reinstated pair of guns, his mood lightened as he suddenly recalled the night he and the others had staggered from the corner pub bellowing some scurrilous song from the earlier war, and then linking arms had done an absurd capering cancan across the little triangle.
He gazed quizzically at the pub: not much change there it would seem. Should he go in? He hesitated but decided not. ‘You can never recapture the moment,’ a woman’s voice echoed. ‘You can try but it never works and then you’re buggered.’ Cedric gave a wry smile. It was the voice of a woman he had once known yet never loved. But she was right of course, and instead he turned to stare at the sea and listen to the plaintive notes of crying gulls …
Enough of nostalgia! Cedric pulled himself back to the present. Roaming around rekindling wartime memories made thirsty work; a cup of Lapsang beckoned. Would he find such? Probably not but coffee would be welcome. He made his way to the High Street trying to find the tea shop he had once patronised. It wasn’t there of course, but something similar and smarter stood two doors down, a sign outside proclaiming ‘Mammoth scones straight from the oven.’ He wasn’t sure about the mammoth part but a warm scone did sound inviting – perhaps he could order a mere half. He entered, and as he hovered looking for a suitable table heard a familiar voice.
‘But it’s so tiresome having to buy a black hat,’ Lady Fawcett exclaimed. ‘I mean one has masses at home – what I call my death collection – but I hardly came here expecting a funeral. Perhaps that marvellous woman in Knightsbridge can jazz it up in time for Ascot …’ she broke off, suddenly seeing Cedric poised by the entrance, and beckoned imperiously. ‘We gathered you were here,’ she said gaily. ‘Do sit down. Rosy and I were just talking about you both.’
‘No you weren’t,’ said Cedric, taking the third chair, ‘you were talking about hats and funerals.’
‘Oh well, much the same – I mean you are coming aren’t you? You must have known her quite well.’
‘Far from it,’ he replied, ‘we had met her twice, that’s all.’
‘Yes but the last time was rather shocking. I should have thought that—’
‘Angela means that having been in at the kill – front row one hears – you would presumably also have a prominent seat at the funeral,’ Rosy interposed dryly.
‘My goodness, Miss Gilchrist,’ Cedric said in not entirely mock surprise, ‘you don’t mince your words! It must be this invigorating Southwold air – it sharpens the tongue. I must remind Felix to wear a thick muffler.’
‘And where is Felix?’ Rosy asked.
‘Being loquacious among lilies. It helps him to keep his mind off things, especially the prospect of more questions from the police. He’s convinced that he is their prime suspect. But he is equally convinced that he was the intended target.’
‘Pure paranoia,’ she laughed. ‘Would you like the other half of this scone? It’s too mammoth for me.’
Cedric graciously accepted the offering, spread it carefully with a thin layer of jam and ordered some coffee. As he did so a man wearing a trilby and a raincoat with a turned up collar entered the café. He had a small moustache.
‘Do you think he’s a detective?’ breathed Lady Fawcett.
‘Either that or a tax inspector,’ Rosy replied.
Cedric looked up. ‘He is neither. His name is Floyd de Lisle.’
‘There you are, you see, straight out of Casablanca! But how do you know his name?’ Lady Fawcett asked.
‘Because he was one of the judges on the platform when Mrs Dovedale collapsed. He was among those interviewed with Felix.’
‘Really?’ asked Rosy. ‘He doesn’t look very horticultural. I shouldn’t have thought he would know a hoe from a turnip.’ She watched as the man strode over to a far table where a young woman was sitting on her own, removed his hat with a flourish and planted lavish kisses on her outstretched hand. She simpered and knocked over her tea cup.
‘Hmm,’ murmured Cedric, ‘not quite in the Bogart and Bergman style I should say.’ The other two nodded agreement and returned to the more interesting subjects of hats and homicide.
‘I wonder if they know yet what sort of poison was used,’ Rosy mused.
‘I believe cyanide has been mentioned,’ Cedric replied. ‘Apparently one of the other panellists told a reporter he had heard her mutter the word “almonds” just before crying out Felix’s name. One gathers that some victims have an acuter sense of smell than others. Still, people tell the press a lot of things that aren’t strictly true …’
‘Such a ghastly way to go,’ Rosy said with feeling.
�
��Oh putrid,’ Lady Fawcett agreed with slightly less feeling, ‘especially as she hated it.’
Cedric was startled. ‘What on earth do you mean? Surely you are not suggesting she had some familiarity with the stuff!’
‘Oh no. It was simply that she had an aversion to the taste of almonds. I remember at school, matron tried to give her an aspirin dissolved in some almond milk and she spat it out all over her gym shoes.’
‘An example of age retarding reaction,’ observed Cedric. ‘A few seconds quicker and she might have survived …’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Now,’ he said briskly, ‘I’ll get the bill and then I propose we go and book a table at The Swan for two days hence. We haven’t dined together for some time, not since you were our guest at Covent Garden. What a pleasant evening that was!’ He flashed Angela an encouraging smile.
She blinked and after a fractional pause, said, ‘Yes, simply delightful – and now I can return the favour.’
‘How kind,’ Cedric murmured.
Afterwards in the car going back to Laurel Lodge, Lady Fawcett remarked to Rosy that in her view Cedric Dillworthy was getting too sharp by half and it was just as well she had remembered to bring her cheque book.
CHAPTER SIX
Like a number of others in Southwold, Floyd de Lisle, proprietor and sole representative of The Select Publishing Co., was more than puzzled by the horrific nature of Delia Dovedale’s death … it had been shocking, grisly and so appallingly public. When she had begged him to appear on the platform as a replacement for Claude Huggins (laid low with one of his usual footling colds) he had been quite amused, flattered really; after all, his knowledge of gardening was nil and the only vegetables he ever ate were spuds. But presumably the organisers had felt he might add panache to the panel – a touch of wit and colour notably lacking in old Huggins. Still, had he known that this was going to happen he would have stayed well away – as presumably would she!
A Southwold Mystery Page 4