by H. Y. Hanna
“Woohoo! Come on, Einstein!” she yelled, jumping up and down, and waving her fists.
The scruffy black terrier put on another burst of speed, surging ahead of the other dogs as he chased the lure with single-minded determination. He was reaching the end of the course now. The lure disappeared through the gap between the straw bales and the winning dog was supposed to dive through the opening after it, but Einstein ignored the hole, launching himself into the air and leaping over the bales instead.
The crowd cheered, delighted with his acrobatics, and waited expectantly to see him grab the lure on the other side. But to everyone’s surprise, instead of pouncing on his prey, Einstein kept running… straight up to the trophy table where Muriel and Flopsy were sitting. He sprang onto the table and rushed up to Flopsy, who jumped back, startled.
The two dogs faced each other, then Einstein gave an inviting bark and dropped into a “play bow”, his tail wagging. Flopsy stared at him and, for a moment, Poppy thought she was going to take a chunk out of the terrier’s nose. The poodle lifted a paw, looking uncertain, an expression of snooty disdain mingled with reluctant interest on her furry face. Pampered and protected as she was, Flopsy had probably never mixed with “common mutts” and certainly never had another canine come up to her and introduce himself in this way. She looked like she didn’t know how to respond to the cheeky terrier.
Her owner didn’t seem to share her feelings, however. Muriel sprang up with a cry of outrage as Einstein continued bouncing up and down in front of Flopsy, trying to invite the poodle to play.
“Ugh! Get away from her!” cried Muriel, waving her hand. “Get away—you disgusting mongrel!”
Einstein paid her no heed. Instead, he darted forwards and stuck his nose boldly into Flopsy’s bottom, going straight in for a canine hello.
“Aaaahh!” Muriel shrieked, her eyes bulging. “How dare you smell her bum, you filthy animal!”
She tried to pick Flopsy up but the poodle had jerked away, a scandalised expression on her furry little face as she whirled to face the terrier who was sniffing her backside. Flopsy lifted her lip, showing her teeth, but Einstein was undaunted. He gave another cheeky bark, then turned and presented his own bum to her, his tail wagging invitingly. The poodle hesitated, then—trying to look nonchalant—stretched forwards to take a delicate sniff. Soon, the two dogs were circling each other, noses to bums, and Muriel was shrieking with horror.
“What are you doing to Flopsy? Get away! Get away!” she cried, flapping her hands and trying to shoo Einstein away. “Kirby! KIRBY! Where are you?”
The pet nanny came running out of the crowd and attempted to catch Einstein, but the scruffy terrier was too fast for him. He darted aside at the last minute, causing Kirby to trip and fall over himself. The crowd roared with laughter. They were enjoying the drama immensely—it was even more entertaining than the race! Several people began cheering Einstein on, but Poppy also saw some of the fête organisers rushing to catch the terrier. She was relieved when Bertie himself hurried up to the trophy table and grabbed Einstein’s collar.
Muriel snatched the poodle into her arms and glared at Bertie. “How dare you let your dog harass Flopsy like that?”
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Bertie. “Einstein is very friendly. I’m sure he just wanted to say hello—”
“He was tryin’ to find himself a girlfriend,” someone from the crowd called out, laughing. “It’s a real case of ‘puppy love’!”
Muriel did not look amused. She gave a contemptuous sniff and said: “Flopsy would never associate with a scruffy mutt of no breeding! She is descended from some of the top show poodles in the UK and I’m very careful about who I let her mingle with. If she ever were to have a ‘romance’, it would only be with select stud dogs from approved breeders and certainly not with some common mongrel!”
“Oh, Einstein isn’t a mongrel,” said Bertie earnestly. “They didn’t know his exact parentage at the rescue, but they were sure that he has a lot of Cairn Terrier in him, although—” Bertie tilted his head and looked at his dog assessingly, “—he could also have Skye Terrier in his breeding or Norwich Terrier or even a touch of Westie… I’ve often thought of extracting some DNA and sequencing his genome to determine for certain—”
“I don’t care what he is!” Muriel roared. “He’s certainly not good enough for my Flopsy!”
Cuddling the poodle close to her chest, she turned her back pointedly and retreated to the other side of the trophy table. It was incredibly rude and it left Bertie standing alone, looking rather lost and bewildered. Poppy felt a pang of pity for him and broke out of the crowd, hurrying up to him.
“Never mind, Bertie,” she said gently, taking his arm. “Come on, let’s go.”
The old inventor clipped Einstein back onto his leash and tried to lead him away but the lovelorn terrier resisted. He strained on his collar, his eyes still on Flopsy as he was pulled away from her. His sad whining was heartbreaking, and the crowd booed and hissed angrily. Several people began shouting at Muriel.
“Poor thing! You’re breakin’ his heart!”
“Aww, come on—they were only having a bit o’ fun!”
“Yeah! They were cute!”
“What about the race?” someone suddenly demanded. “Who’s the winner?”
“The black terrier—he was the fastest.”
“Yeah, but he left the track—doesn’t that mean he’s disqualified?”
“That Jack Russell should be the winner!”
“Yeah—look! He’s still got the lure!”
Everyone turned to see the Jack Russell with his teeth clamped on the lure, shaking it furiously and growling like a demon. Two men were trying to prise his jaws open to make him release the furry bait, and they were practically lifting him into mid-air, but still the little terrier wouldn’t let go. Some people began to laugh, whilst others argued passionately about who should be the winner and still others booed Muriel and cheered for Einstein. It was total mayhem and Poppy heard the voice from the megaphone shouting desperately to make itself heard, trying to calm things down and restore order.
Then a sound pierced through the hullabaloo—a terrified scream that sent a chill down Poppy’s spine. She turned and saw a woman running from the marquee. It was Sonia. She was gasping and panting, and her eyes were wide with horror.
“There’s been a murder!” she cried. “Murder!”
Someone in the crowd guffawed loudly. “Yeah, right—you’re not going to fool us again!”
“Murder, my foot!” someone else scoffed.
“Nice try, lady!”
Sonia stared at the crowd in disbelief. “I’m serious! There’s been a horrible murder!”
She was greeted with more laughter and Sonia looked as if she would burst into tears. Mrs Peabody marched up to her and said impatiently:
“Sonia! You’ve got to stop these hysterical outbursts! I’m sure it’s just your wild imagination again—”
“No, no… it’s not!” Sonia shook her head vehemently. “You’ve got to believe me!”
But the crowd just jeered and laughed even more. Then, to Poppy’s surprise, she saw Nick Forrest push his way out of the mob and go up to Sonia. His voice was gentle as he took her arm and asked:
“What happened?”
Sonia turned and pointed a shaking hand towards the marquee. “It’s… it’s…” She broke off and started sobbing.
Nick let go of her arm and started towards the marquee. The jeering and laughter faded away, to be replaced by an uneasy silence. Several people began whispering and talking in urgent undertones. Poppy hesitated, then ran after Nick, catching up with him just as he was about to enter the marquee.
They stepped in together. The large tent was empty, all the ladies who had been serving tea and cakes having left to watch the Terrier Racing, and the only movement was the steam rising lazily from the spout of the kettle on one end of the trestle table.
Then Poppy caught her breath.
There was a body slumped on the ground next to the trestle table. But this time, the victim did not stir and sit up, complaining of a headache… Poppy swallowed convulsively. No, this victim was not going to be sitting up ever again.
Ursula lay face down, her arms thrown out and her legs splayed in a funny position, the skirts of her long floral dress tossed around her ankles. Her face was turned away but there was no doubt that she was dead. A dark red pool was spreading ominously from beneath her body and Poppy could see a vicious tear in the fabric of her dress, just between her shoulder blades, where something sharp had stabbed into her body, then pulled out again, leaving a deep wound.
Sonia was right: it was murder.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Poppy sighed wearily as she pushed open the rickety wooden gate, ducked under the hanging vines of fragrant honeysuckle, and stepped into the garden. The stone walls encircling the property seemed to shut out the world outside, and she felt instantly transported into a place of fairy-tale enchantment as she gazed around.
Hollyhock Cottage had the quintessential English cottage garden: wide, rambling beds brimming with flowers and lush foliage, with bees buzzing merrily amongst the abundant blooms and climbing roses festooned with romantic rosettes of pink and cream. Everything was crammed together in a harmony of colours and a profusion of shapes and sizes. Plants spilled onto the narrow gravel path which wound from the gate to the front door of the cottage, as well as branching off into tracks that led to the rear of the property. After the grandeur and formality of Duxton House, with its carefully clipped hedges, well-chosen plantings, and landscaped grounds, it felt wonderfully refreshing to step into a wild, unstructured place which looked as if had sprung up exactly as Nature intended.
Poppy sighed again but this time with pleasure. The mayhem of the day at the fête, with the jostling crowds, the constant hubbub of talking, the hysterical screams, and the horror of the discovered murder, slowly began to fade away as the peace and beauty of the garden surrounded her.
It was early August and the days were beginning to draw in, the sun starting its slide down the horizon a little bit earlier each day. It was low in the sky now, casting a warm orange glow on the landscape, with a few rays glinting off the bronze pointer on the stone sundial in one of the flowerbeds. Poppy smiled as she saw an enormous ginger tomcat, with big yellow eyes and a glossy orange-striped pelt, perched on the edge of the sundial. He glanced reproachfully at the time on the sundial, then looked at Poppy and meowed, sounding as he always did to her ears as if he was saying:
“N-ow?”
“Sorry, Oren…” said Poppy with a rueful laugh as she stepped off the gravel path and waded between the plants, making her way towards the sundial. “I had planned to get back earlier, but who would have known that a day at a nice village fête would end in murder?”
The ginger tom jumped down and trotted over to her, pausing beside her legs to rub his chin against her knee.
“N-ow!” he said, looking up at her.
Poppy dropped down next to him and reached out to pat him. Touching his soft fur was strangely soothing and there was silence for several minutes as she crouched beside him and moved her hands rhythmically down his body. As she stroked him, her gaze wandered around the garden again, lingering thoughtfully on a section of the stone wall farther down which was covered by ivy and looked very overgrown. The ivy had been left unchecked for several months and was now a matted mass of stems and leaves clinging to the stone wall; as she had mentioned to Mrs Peabody, untangling it was one of the jobs she hadn’t had the time or heart to tackle yet.
“N-ow!” said Oren, butting her hand with his head and reminding her that she was supposed to be stroking him, not staring into space, thinking.
Poppy chuckled, wondering what had possessed her to fall in love with such a noisy, demanding feline. Then she heard the garden gate creaking open and steps hurrying up the gravel path. She turned her head and caught a glimpse of Nell walking towards the cottage, her arms laden with carrier bags.
“Hi, Nell—do you need a hand?” asked Poppy, rising up from where she had been crouching.
“Poppy! Oh my lordy Lord—you gave me such a fright!” cried Nell, clutching her chest. “What on earth are you doing, hiding in the bushes there and jumping out to scare people?”
“I wasn’t doing it on purpose,” said Poppy. “I just crouched down to stroke Oren.”
The ginger tom followed Poppy as she joined Nell on the path and he marched over to inspect the carrier bags, sniffing them inquisitively.
“N-owww?” he said, looking up at the older woman.
“Don’t you ‘N-ow’ me, you rascal,” said Nell with mock severity. “There’s nothing in here for you! Really, I have never known a cat to be so greedy and always asking for food.” She gave Poppy a stern look and wagged a finger. “It’s all your fault, you know. It’s because you keep feeding him—that’s why he comes over every night expecting it now. I’m sure he gets more than enough food at home.”
Poppy sighed. “Yes, I know Nick feeds him, but Oren always looks so hungry—”
“Rubbish!” said Nell, putting her hands on her hips and frowning down at the ginger tom, who gave her an innocent look in reply. “He just knows how to wrap you around his paw.”
“Well, you feed him too—I know you do,” said Poppy defensively. “I’ve seen you giving him a dab of cream or some bits of chicken or bacon when you’re cooking.”
Nell’s cheeks reddened. “That’s… that’s different,” she insisted. “I’m just giving him scraps that would have been thrown out otherwise. Anyway,” she added, briskly changing the subject, “why are we standing out here? It’s going to be dark soon. Come on—time to draw the curtains and turn on the lights.”
She bustled towards the cottage, with Oren a few steps ahead of her, his tail up in the air. He stopped by the front door and looked expectantly at them, for all the world as if waiting for his staff to open it for him. Nell muttered something under her breath, but Poppy noticed that her old friend paused to let Oren enter the house first and she smiled to herself. Once in the kitchen, Oren trotted up to the pantry door and gave them another expectant look. Ignoring Nell’s disapproving expression, Poppy retrieved a tin of cat food from one of the pantry shelves and filled a bowl, which she set down in front of the ginger tom. Soon, the kitchen was filled with the sound of his loud purring as Oren polished off his second dinner of the day.
“I thought you had left the fête already—otherwise I would have waited for you,” Poppy said to Nell.
“I was helping some of the other ladies clear up in the marquee,” said Nell. She shook her head, tutting. “What a dreadful way to end the fête… Poor Ursula… The other ladies were so upset, you know. Everyone loved her. Nobody can understand how anyone would want to kill her.”
“Don’t the police think it was just a tragic case of Ursula being in the wrong place at the wrong time?” asked Poppy.
“Pah! What a load of nonsense!” Nell made a face. “That’s what happens when they send an inept sergeant instead of a proper detective inspector. Why wasn’t she there—that pretty lady inspector?”
“Suzanne? I don’t know—maybe she was busy on another case,” said Poppy with a shrug. “The CID handle other serious crime, you know, like kidnapping and sexual abuse, so Suzanne doesn’t just deal with murder investigations.”
“Hmm… well, he should have called her,” said Nell.
“Who?”
Nell jerked her head towards the kitchen window that looked out on the large house next door to Hollyhock Cottage. “The crime author chap. She’s very chummy with him, isn’t she?”
“Nell…” Poppy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Her old friend was so nosy when it came to other people’s love lives—or past love lives, in this case. “Suzanne is Nick’s ex-girlfriend, and yes, they’re still on good terms—but that doesn’t mean that she can drop everything she’s working on just to come when he calls.”
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“In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Nick did try to call her,” added Poppy, thinking of how impatient the crime author usually was. “That’s what happened when I first arrived here and discovered the body in the garden. Nick just bypassed the usual call to emergency services and rang Suzanne directly. But obviously this time she couldn’t come and sent her sergeant instead. Anyway, I’m sure Sergeant Lee knows what he’s doing,” she added with more conviction than she felt.
“Oh, that twit doesn’t know anything,” said Nell with a contemptuous sniff. “Just look at his ridiculous theory about Ursula being the victim of a vicious mugging.”
“But I thought the police arrested someone in the crowd who was a convicted robber—”
“That man has done his time and he was out on parole for good behaviour!”
“How d’you know that?” asked Poppy in surprise.
“Because Mrs Rogers heard it from Mrs Wilmott, who was chatting to the vicar before he left the fête, and he happened to be nearby when the officers arrested that man and he heard them questioning him.”
Poppy shook her head and laughed. She still couldn’t get over the power of the village grapevine.
“But people do relapse,” she pointed out to Nell. “Maybe this man assaulted his victims in the past.”
“So the police think that an ex-robber who happened to be out enjoying a nice day at the village fête would suddenly decide to throw his chance of freedom away by attacking a woman he doesn’t know?” Nell asked with uncharacteristic sarcasm. “And what on earth was he trying to steal anyway?”