‘Yes,’ observed his friend mildly, ‘it wasn’t the most tactful of remarks – though of course it was her last. And I daresay that in such circumstances one might not pick one’s words too carefully.’
‘What? Oh very funny, I’m sure … It’s all very well for you, Cedric, but you didn’t see that young constable’s face when he was making his notes. Wolfish it was, positively wolfish. And when I suggested that just conceivably the poison may have been meant for me and had they thought of that, all he could do was snigger!’
‘Have another martini – you’ll feel better,’ Cedric suggested smoothly.
Felix replied that he would have another martini but that in no respect would he feel better.
He bent forward, and lowering his voice said, ‘Thank goodness they approached us in Southwold and not here.’ He glanced around at The Sandworth’s decorously elegant lounge and winced. ‘Can you imagine the Keystone Cops blundering in here to interview me? It would have been too shaming! Frankly the sooner one gets back to London the better. I mean word does get about …’ He nodded towards an elderly lady in the far corner. ‘Take that one for instance. She may seem to be asleep but I bet her ears are flapping all right. It’s people like that who spread the gossip. You do realise that if my patron gets to hear that one of her warrant-holders has been fingered by the law they could take my plaque away!’
‘Oh no,’ said Cedric soothingly, ‘she would probably be simply fascinated. And you could tell such a good tale.’
‘Hmm. Perhaps.’ Felix looked slightly mollified, and Cedric suspected his companion was already beginning to weave some piquant fantasy for royal ears.
Left alone he considered the situation. The interview hadn’t really been as bad as Felix had made out. Routine really. Certainly the inspector had asked some searching questions about the purpose of their visit and when Felix had made the arrangements, and how well they had known the deceased before coming to Southwold. But these had not been especially provocative, just tiresome. The significance of the victim’s choking exclamation had naturally been gone over again more rigorously; but Felix had clung to his view of its having no meaning, and eventually they had seemed satisfied.
Nevertheless he sympathised with his friend’s agitation. The whole business was most unpalatable and not at all what they had envisaged. Once the funeral was over and Felix had done his bit at the concluding trophy ceremony they would indeed return swiftly to London. Apart from Chelsea it would be a very long time before another such flower festival would be graced by their presence!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Floyd glanced at the front page of the evening paper and noted the brief announcement regarding Delia Dovedale’s impending funeral. It was to be held a few days hence at St Edmund’s church with all welcome both to the service and refreshments afterwards. Somehow it seemed only right to attend – besides it was a chance to duck out of his afternoon with Betty. The girl had covered mounds of typing recently (and with unusual accuracy) and in a moment of thoughtlessness he had offered to take her to the cinema. The Dam Busters was on in Ipswich, and although having seen it once he was eager to see it again. But on reflection it seemed better to go on his own: she was bound to get bored or fail to follow the plot …
Thus substituting the dead for the rather tiresome living, some days later Floyd duly joined others in the magnificent medieval church to participate in Delia Dovedale’s obsequies.
Although in their initial exploration of Southwold Rosy and Lady Fawcett had seen the great tower of St Edmund’s looming from afar it was the first time they had been at close quarters and Rosy was enchanted with its setting of St Bartholomew Green. The afternoon was warm and sunlit, and its secluded triangle of grass and shrubs watched over by snoozing weavers’ cottages held an almost fairy-tale quality. More sombre, but equally peaceful, was the adjacent churchyard with its ancient tombstones and shadowy lofty yews. Church, green and graveyard exuded an air of unruffled calm and slumbering serenity. Rosy was glad that the woman she had never met would have the benison of so graceful a resting place.
Such reassuring sentiments were rudely broken by a jarring thought. Supposing the assassin was here amid the mourners and well-wishers! Here, bidding an ironic farewell to the enemy (for enemy Delia must have been); here, watching and gloating, assessing … Assessing? Assessing what for goodness’ sake? The effects of his or her handiwork? The reactions of the bereaved? Surely not. She glanced apprehensively at the knot of people standing in subdued groups by the cobbled wall chatting quietly before taking their places in the great nave. Absurd: the scene was too normal, too seemly to harbour such malevolence.
Rosy turned, and like Lady Fawcett ahead of her, walked firmly in the direction of the beckoning porch.
The service itself had been conducted with brisk efficiency by the vicar, who being ex-army was adept at managing large numbers with minimum fuss or indulgence.
‘“I am the resurrection and the life”,’ rang out with sombre clarity. The two popular hymns – mercifully kept to only three verses – were discharged at a sharp tempo, and the eulogy delivered by one who clearly knew the art of public speaking: succinct, loud and lucid. Floyd had only a hazy recognition of the speaker: his name was somebody Brightwell, a friend of the family. Actually he was slightly surprised that the son Hugh hadn’t assumed the task – in their late teens they had overlapped briefly at the same school where Hugh had invariably won the elocution prize. He was there in the front row all right, and from where Floyd sat, behind but well to the side, he had a clear view of his profile. The chap appeared to have his eyes shut throughout the entire ceremony. Searing grief or total boredom? It could have been either. Floyd didn’t like him much – a funny bugger in his view, always had been. So his instinct was to ascribe the latter. But of course one couldn’t be sure, appearances being so frequently deceptive. Take Betty for instance: looked as bright as a button, but as it was …
Briskly conducted though the service was, inevitably Floyd’s thoughts started to drift and he found himself furtively fingering his cigarette lighter and checking his watch. And then in a trice such fidgeting stopped and he stared in rapt excitement at a piece of angelic carvery above his head. Inexplicably a marvellous possibility had struck him – a possibility that if properly handled could see him on those ski slopes yet! And at Biarritz too he shouldn’t wonder!
Ever since the news of Delia’s fate, Floyd had been smarting from the blow to his publishing hopes. Earlier plans to capitalise on its potential for salacious gossip were now scuppered – death had seen to that. With only half the manuscript submitted and its author in no position to complete, the project had lost all commercial value. He had felt bitterly frustrated – something he knew to be ignoble but which dogged him all the same. Nevertheless with grim stoicism he had resigned himself to pursuing the usual spate of less lucrative submissions. The poor old girl was dead. End of story.
‘Not so,’ the carved angel had suddenly signalled from above. ‘Not so at all!’ Floyd stared upward, transfixed by the image and the ideas that were forming in his mind. Yes, the old girl was dead – but the point was she had been murdered. And authors who had been murdered surely had market value! Ideally of course if their novels were complete; hers was not. A slow grin spread over his face (wrong moment: the mourners had just been invited to kneel in prayer). Hardly an insuperable problem, he mused, the solution was clear: he would complete the novel and no one would be any the wiser!
As those around him murmured dutiful pieties, Floyd had a vision of the Times Literary Supplement and its headlines: DISGRACEFUL REVELATIONS FROM AUTHOR GRUESOMELY MURDERED! PUBLISHER DECLARES IT THE MOST EXTRAORDINARY DEBUT NOVEL HE HAS EVER HANDLED.
Floyd sunk to his knees with the others, and with head bowed offered up a tiny prayer of gratitude.
‘I must say,’ Felix Smythe was heard to whisper to his friend in the graveyard prior to the burial, ‘that publisher fellow clearly imagines he’s Caruso. I’ve
never heard “Fight the good fight” bellowed with such vigour. Even from behind I was totally deafened!’ He shot a baleful glance at Floyd de Lisle standing deep in thought beneath a yew tree.
‘Often happens at funerals,’ Cedric informed him, ‘people like to let off steam.’
‘Well kindly don’t let it happen at mine,’ Felix said, ‘it was enough to wake the dead.’ He clutched Cedric’s arm and whispered, ‘Oh my God what on earth is that werewolf thing doing tethered to the railings – look, over there by the war memorial!’
Cedric followed his gaze. ‘I think it’s something to do with the vicar,’ he whispered. ‘Apparently it’s his St Bernard, Alice. She likes to come along and watch. Quite docile I gather.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ Felix whispered nervously. Warily he returned his eyes to the coffin in time to see it lowered into its allotted space with neither let nor hindrance.
It had been a smooth graceful disposal utterly at odds with the subject’s demise. And with satisfied relief the mourners walked swiftly back to the church hall poised for cakes and gossip.
The former was rationed, the latter was not. And in low and decorous voices the congregation pursued the manner of the lady’s death with discreet tenacity. Even the dullish Claude Huggins was heard to speculate about the provenance of the poison. ‘I did enquire of that young Detective Constable – Jennings I think his name is – but the youth closed one eye and said it was top secret and not for the likes of me to know. Can you imagine! One really doesn’t know where they get the recruits from these days or indeed who is responsible for their training. I made a perfectly civil enquiry and I get that sort of lip!’ Frowning he slid off in quest of another Chelsea bun, but from what Rosy could make out was faced with a similar rebuff as the one given him by the young constable.
‘Poor old Claude,’ a voice said behind her, ‘takes himself too seriously. Lucas used to know him slightly years ago in Paris before we were married. He was younger then of course and apparently mildly more fun – which I don’t imagine is saying a lot! But nowadays he’s become awfully curmudgeonly.’ Freda Brightwell beamed at Rosy and offered her a sherry.
‘But I gather he has a splendid garden at Dunwich,’ she replied.
‘Oh yes, the garden’s all right; it’s just the gardener you want to watch … well not so much watch as avoid.’ She laughed: ‘I mean, ask the wrong question and he’ll immediately entrap you into listening to an interminable report on the latest section in his plant treatise. Delia once asked him if it wouldn’t be more sensible to condense the whole thing into six paragraphs and submit it to the Reader’s Digest. I can tell you, that didn’t go down at all well!’
Rosy smiled and enquired what Huggins had been doing in Paris.
‘Oh nothing very exciting, you can be sure of that. Some sort of minor official in the lower echelons of the British embassy there; Lucas still sometimes refers to him as “Huggins the pen-pusher”. But now he’s pushing his pen elsewhere – among the plants in his Dunwich conservatory, and don’t we know it!’
She moved away to speak to some of Delia’s festival colleagues; and at the next moment was replaced by her husband. ‘Ah,’ said Lucas Brightwell, ‘good to see you again but so sorry it should be in such sad circumstances.’
Rosy agreed and murmured congratulations on his moving tribute in the church.
‘She deserved it,’ he said earnestly, ‘it was the least I could do.’ He paused, and then clearing his throat said, ‘So sorry I wasn’t more communicative the other day when you telephoned. As said, we were on the verge of driving up to London and were in rather a hurry. However, I would like my briefcase back. Absurd of me to leave it like that! I could come over to Laurel Lodge tomorrow to collect it but as it’s the day after her funeral I doubt if Hugh will welcome random visitors.’
Rosy agreed and said that in any case she and Angela had tickets for one of the flower events and had been invited to lunch by the organisers.
‘In that case what about twelve o’clock at The Crown on Friday? I have some business in Southwold to attend to – rather tedious really – and a little break would be most welcome. Meanwhile I know it couldn’t be in safer hands!’ He flashed her a lavish smile and Rosy felt a twinge of guilt knowing she had already rifled the wretched thing.
Gripped by his sudden inspiration and impatient to rise to the challenge he had set himself, Floyd was poised for flight. But he was forestalled by a willowy middle-aged woman of fine features and bland expression.
‘Weren’t you one of poor Delia’s colleagues on the judging platform?’ she enquired. ‘A friend of mine, Felix Smythe, was there too and he says you had been awfully distressed. It must have been a terrible shock. I do so sympathise.’ She gazed at him earnestly, and added, ‘Delia and I had been at school together, and it seems so strange to think of her now lying under that lovely yew tree rather than sprawled on the hockey pitch.’ She sighed, ‘Ah well, none of us knows when the Reaper will strike I fear … I say you couldn’t possibly get me some sandwiches, could you? I find these occasions make one utterly ravenous!’ She smiled sweetly.
Genuine though the woman’s concern had seemed Floyd had nevertheless been annoyed by her curtailment of his flight. However, reference to the hockey pitch had instantly altered things. His manner switched from taut civility to cringing compliance. ‘Of course!’ he beamed. ‘Which would you like, the salmon or cucumber – or how about a few of each?’ Seeing a spare chair which the loitering Claude Huggins had his eye on, he thrust it towards her and elbowed his way to the refreshment trolley.
Despite grumbles from the guardians Floyd swiftly piled the plate with the requested sandwiches and hurried back to what he was now sure could be a valuable source of promotional spin. ‘So you were a school chum of Delia’s, were you?’ he began eagerly. ‘How fascinating. She must have been quite a girl in those days I bet – full of jolly japes and all that!’ He smiled encouragingly.
‘Ye–es,’ Lady Fawcett agreed hesitantly, bemused by his interest. ‘She was certainly always very busy – quite inventive really: plays and things …’ She broke off. ‘Oh but aren’t you a publisher? I hear you have a thriving concern on South Green. Very nice but rather exhausting I imagine – all these aspiring authors thrusting questionable manuscripts at you. Must be difficult making the right choices; and after all some must be deadly dull!’
‘Many are but not all. Sometimes you get a winner – not often, just occasionally. In fact,’ and Floyd lowered his voice and leered, ‘between you and me, I happen to have something in hand just now which could become a bestseller, something which could cut quite a dash and make yours truly a nice little packet.’ He nodded happily.
His companion, thoroughly relishing her sandwiches, appeared riveted. And such evident appreciation from his author’s school friend persuaded Floyd to go further ‘Actually,’ he confided, ‘it’s something Delia gave me, something that has dynamite potential!’
‘Really?’ Lady Fawcett exclaimed, visibly impressed. ‘You do surprise me. I hadn’t realised that Delia had such talent …’ she trailed off with a puzzled frown.
At that moment they were interrupted by one of the catering organisers eager to relieve Lady Fawcett of her empty plate. ‘I take it you won’t be wanting anything further,’ she said rather pointedly.
Lady Fawcett agreed meekly that she would not, and stood up to go. Floyd too was ready to go but not before putting his finger to the side of his nose and warning his agreeable confidante to keep it all ‘under that very smart hat.’ He moved towards the exit making a mental note to ask the lady for more biographical snippets nearer publication. He had gathered she was a guest at the Dovedale house so renewing the contact shouldn’t be too difficult. He would enquire of the Iris woman, she was generally quite helpful.
He smiled: it really had been the most productive of funerals.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘No, I am not trying to get out of it,’ Cedric explaine
d patiently, ‘it is just that I feel one of my fatigues coming on and so I couldn’t possibly do justice to his kind invitation. Why, I should be like the spectre at the feast all pale and wan!’ He contrived to look so.
‘Take a couple of aspirin,’ Felix said shortly.
‘Well I would – but you know how the combination of pills and wine plays havoc with my digestion, and it would be so unfair to our host if I just nursed a tumbler of water all evening … No, I fear I shall have to sacrifice the pleasure and settle for an early night.’ Cedric smiled sadly, and then said, ‘Besides, without my being there the two of you can rattle on endlessly about matters horticultural without fearing that I might be bored … not that I should be of course,’ he added quickly.
‘Hmm. Perhaps,’ said Felix sceptically.
Cedric beamed. ‘I knew you would understand. Now I really must go and have a quiet lie-down or I shall find myself literally felled by fatigue.’
‘Felled by fatigue, my arse!’ Felix muttered after his friend had left the room. ‘He just can’t face the prospect of Claude Huggins prosing on, that’s what!’
They had encountered Claude during their first day at the festival, indeed had been introduced by Delia Dovedale, and while finding him perfectly pleasant had also noted his tendency to talk about few things other than his garden and the tome which had preoccupied him for the last decade, The Huggins’ Encyclopaedia of Horticultural Anomalies. In themselves the two topics could have been entertaining but it rapidly became clear that Claude was one of those people whose hobby horse was ridden at an unswerving plod. As an amateur his knowledge of plant life was indeed remarkable but its delivery showed little sign of zest, merely an earnest intensity. Thus when he had pressed Cedric and Felix to dine at his Dunwich domain they had been hesitant, but taken by surprise had no ready excuse to decline. Since then, however, Cedric’s nerve had clearly failed.
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