Doom and Bloom

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Yes, Miss Lancaster?” said Sergeant Lee again, even more impatiently. Then he noticed her looking over his shoulder. “What are you staring at?” He frowned and began to turn around.

  “Uh—nothing! Nothing!” said Poppy brightly, grabbing his arm and yanking him back to face her. “Er… my mind wandered for a moment… Listen… um… I wanted to ask you about… about Betsy. It’s really just one of those circumstantial evidence situations, isn’t it? I mean, it doesn’t have to mean she’s guilty. In fact, her being honest about burying the knife should count in her favour, right?”

  As she was talking, Poppy purposefully led the sergeant back the way they had come, retracing their steps around the house. She darted a quick look over her shoulder just as they rounded the corner and saw the young boy sagging with relief against the side of the outhouse. Then she turned her head back hastily as she realised that Lee was responding to her:

  “…connection to the murder weapon is always suspicious, and in this case the subject has even confessed to trying to conceal the weapon. I shall be arresting her and taking her down to the station—”

  “What?” Poppy stared at him, aghast. She was horrified to discover that Betsy had been right about the police’s reaction “No, you can’t do that!”

  Sergeant Lee bristled. “I can do what I like. I’m the investigating officer in this case.”

  “No, I mean… don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions again?”

  “It’s not jumping to conclusions when the suspect has confessed to burying the murder weapon and to having her prints on it too.”

  “But she could have been framed!” Poppy protested.

  “What—that story about someone planting the knife under her mattress?” scoffed Lee. “Do me a favour! A kid wouldn’t believe that story!”

  “But it could be true,” Poppy insisted. “You need to give her the benefit of the doubt and start new lines of investigation—”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job,” snapped Sergeant Lee.

  No amount of arguing would change his mind, and finally Poppy had to follow him back into the house, where she stood and watched miserably as Betsy was arrested and escorted to the police car. She felt racked with guilt. Had it actually been the right decision for her to call the police? Should she have made more of an effort to speak directly to Suzanne? An innocent girl could end up going to jail now—and it could be all my fault.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The police had cordoned off most of the rock garden—especially the area where the knife had been found—with crime-scene tape, which meant that Poppy would have been unable to continue work on her new project even if she had wanted to. But in any case, she felt too miserable to concentrate and was only too glad to have an excuse to leave Duxton House and return home.

  As she walked down the lane leading to the cul-de-sac where Hollyhock Cottage was situated, she passed Nick Forrest’s large, elegant property and looked hopefully towards the wrought-iron gates. Oren always managed to bring a smile to her face and she had a sudden longing to see the demanding, talkative feline. He was often waiting by the gate for her, but today there was no sign of the ginger tomcat.

  Poppy hesitated for a moment outside the iron gates, and then, on an impulse, pushed them open and went up the path to the front door. She rang the bell and waited for several moments before the door was flung open and a glowering Nick Forrest stood on the threshold.

  “WHAT?” he snapped.

  For a moment, Poppy had a sense of déjà vu as she flashed back to the first night they’d met here in Bunnington. She had brought the wandering Oren back to his owner and Nick had opened the door with a similarly grumpy demeanour. Since then, she had got to know the crime writer a lot better, and knew that his moods were usually tied to his books. When his writing was going well, he could be the most affable, charming man in the world—and when it wasn’t, he was worse than a T-Rex with a toothache.

  “What do you want?” he growled.

  “I…” Poppy paused. She wasn’t sure herself why she had suddenly come to see Nick. Perhaps she had hoped to find someone to talk to—someone to soothe her troubled conscience about Betsy’s arrest. Well, it didn’t look like she was going to find a sympathetic ear. She hesitated, eyeing his scowling countenance, then mumbled:

  “Er… um… never mind. It’s nothing.”

  She started to turn away, but Nick put out a hand to stop her, saying irritably:

  “Hang on, hang on—you interrupt my writing, make me come out here… just to tell me it’s nothing?”

  “Well, all right… it’s not nothing. I just… A girl’s been arrested—one of the maids at Duxton House—and, well, it might be my fault,” said Poppy in a rush. “I mean, I had to tell the police about the murder weapon—I couldn’t not say anything—but I honestly didn’t think they would jump on Betsy like that!”

  “What?” Nick looked even more irritable. “What are you rabbiting on about?”

  Quickly, Poppy told him everything that had happened. He listened, then shrugged and said:

  “You did what was right. It’s a shame about this girl but, if she’s really innocent, I’m sure it’ll sort itself out.”

  “But what if it doesn’t?” asked Poppy. “I mean, people have been wrongly convicted before, haven’t they? Put away for a crime they didn’t commit? What if that happens to Betsy? I’ll feel awful. I already do.” She shook her head in frustration. “If only Sergeant Lee would consider investigating other suspects!”

  “Like who?”

  “Like… like Henry Farnsworth!” said Poppy. “Betsy told me that she heard him having a fight with Ursula the night before she was killed. He even threatened her. And he lied and gave a false alibi for the day of the murder: Bertie saw him in the woods behind the Duxton House estate, when Henry said he was in Oxford. Plus,” she added excitedly, “Henry was making a phone call just around the same time that Ursula got her call!”

  “Well, the answer’s obvious then, isn’t it?” said Nick. “You need to find out if Henry was the person calling Ursula. If you can establish that, even Lee won’t be able to ignore this new lead.”

  Poppy frowned. “Ursula’s phone is still missing—– the police haven't been able to find it—so we don’t know who her last caller was.”

  “Then check Henry’s phone,” said Nick impatiently. “See who he was ringing that day around the time of the murder.”

  Poppy stared at him. “But… but how would I do that? How would I even get a chance to look at his phone?”

  “Well, one way could be if you accept his dinner invitation.”

  “What? Go out to dinner with Henry?”

  “Don’t look so scandalised. It’s not as if I’m suggesting that you sleep with him.”

  “I… I didn’t think you were,” said Poppy huffily. “Anyway, I don’t see how—even if I were to go out to dinner with him—I could get into his phone. Most people have a passcode or something to unlock their devices. How would I get past that?”

  Nick heaved a sigh. “I don’t know! Use your imagination. Do you need me to do everything for you? Figure it out yourself.”

  Poppy stepped back, stung. She muttered a curt “Thanks” and was just turning away to leave when Nick added quietly:

  “My father would know.”

  Poppy whirled back, her eyes wide. She had never heard Nick voluntarily mention Bertie and had certainly never expected him to acknowledge the father-son relationship.

  “You mean Bertie?” she said.

  Nick gave her an ironic look. “He could figure out how to hack Henry’s phone. Something like that would be child's play to him.” He paused, then added, “Don’t forget, though, if you don’t find Ursula’s number, that might not mean anything. Henry could have simply deleted—”

  “That’s a great idea about asking Bertie!” Poppy cried. “Thanks, I’ll go and ask him now.” She gave him a hesitant smile. “Um… would you like to come with me?”
>
  “What? No, I’ve got to get back to the book. I’ve already wasted enough time discussing this bloody murder as it is!”

  With another scowl, Nick retreated into the house, slamming the door behind him. Poppy stared speechlessly at the shut door for a moment, then turned and stomped back to Hollyhock Cottage. Half of her was seething, furious and indignant at Nick’s offhand manner, but the other half of her was reluctantly grateful for his help and ideas. She also found, to her surprise, that although she hadn’t got the sympathetic ear she had hoped for, her encounter with Nick had left her feeling in better spirits. She might not have been able to help Betsy directly, but just having a plan and being proactive, rather than watching helplessly from the sidelines and waiting for the police to act, made her feel a lot better.

  Then the sound of a loud engine broke the peace. Poppy paused halfway to her own gate and turned to see a grey Bentley roar into the cul-de-sac and pull up beside her. A man in a chauffeur’s uniform jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran around to the rear passenger door on the other side. A minute later, the top of Muriel Farnsworth’s head emerged.

  Poppy stepped forwards, a polite smile on her face, thinking that perhaps her client had come to see her—then her smile faded as Muriel rounded the side of the car and Poppy saw that she was holding a black terrier by the scruff of his neck. It was Einstein! The terrier was squirming and wriggling, trying to get free, and whining indignantly.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” said Muriel, tightening her hold on him. She glared down at the dog. “Thought you could sneak into Duxton House when nobody was looking, eh? Trying to get your filthy paws on Flopsy, are you? Well, you won’t succeed—you mangy little beast!”

  “Ruff!” said Einstein, giving her a defiant look. “Ruff-ruff!”

  Muriel looked up and saw Poppy. “Look who I caught trying to get in the front gates when I arrived back from Oxford?” she said indignantly. “Where is the man who owns this dog?”

  “Oh, that’s Bertie—I mean, Dr Bertram Noble. He lives there.” Poppy pointed to the garden gate several yards down from hers.

  She followed anxiously as Muriel marched up to Bertie’s door and jabbed her finger on the doorbell. A minute later, the door was opened and Bertie shuffled out, wearing nothing but a pair of baggy boxer shorts and a scuba mask. Muriel gave a scandalised gasp.

  Bertie hurriedly removed his mask. “Oh, I do beg your pardon!” he said. “Please excuse my state of undress—I was just cleaning my fish tank… Goodness gracious me! You’ve got Einstein!” he exclaimed as he saw his dog.

  Muriel shoved the terrier at him. “Your mongrel, Dr Noble, was found trespassing at Duxton House.”

  “Really?” Bertie scratched his head and glanced back towards his own house. “But… I could have sworn that he was sleeping in the sitting room…”

  “He’s a menace!” snapped Muriel. She wagged a finger at him. “And if you don’t control him, then I will be forced to take drastic measures. I will not have him besmirching Flopsy’s pure breeding with his flea-ridden—”

  “Oh no, Einstein doesn’t have any fleas,” said Bertie brightly. “I dose him every month myself with my special formula. Would you like to try some?”

  “Me?” said Muriel, looking outraged. “Are you suggesting that I might have fleas?”

  “Oh no, not fleas—but you most definitely have mites.”

  “How dare you!” gasped Muriel.

  “I wasn’t passing judgement on your standard of personal hygiene,” said Bertie earnestly. “I was referring to demodex mites. We all have them in our eyelashes. They eat our dead skin—which is a lot more in your case, of course, because of your advanced age.”

  Poppy groaned inwardly as she saw Muriel go very red in the face and start to splutter angrily. One of the things she found the most charming about Bertie was his childlike candour and the way he would voice the things so many people thought but were too afraid to say. Still, there were times when she wished the old inventor would learn a bit of tact and diplomacy… like now. She hurried to intervene as Bertie leaned forwards, peering at Muriel’s heavily made-up face, and said:

  “You probably have a larger population of mites than normal, you know, due to your excessive mascara usage. They love to breed in mascara—”

  “Er… hadn’t you better go and check on your experiments, Bertie?” Poppy cut in hastily as she stepped between him and Muriel Farnsworth.

  The old lady looked like she was going to spontaneously combust at any moment, if her livid colour was anything to go by. Poppy was relieved that Bertie trotted back into the house, taking Einstein with him, without further argument.

  “Really! I have never been more insulted in my life!” Muriel seethed, her bosom heaving. She wagged a finger in Poppy’s face. “I will not abide any more nonsense from that man or his dog! If I find that mongrel at Duxton House again, I will tell my gardeners to shoot him!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Poppy was up early again the next morning. She was eager to get into the cottage garden and pick the flowers for her first order—the posy for the lady who was visiting her mother in the nursing home—but first she went to check on her new plant arrivals in the greenhouse. As she surveyed the trays of plug plants laid out on the central bench, she found it strange to think that these seedlings were going to provide the first sales for her fledgling nursery business. Despite being bigger than the ones she’d grown herself from seed, these baby plants still looked so small, so insubstantial—she could hardly believe that they would grow into flowering plants that people would want to buy.

  And yet just seeing all the trays laid out on the bench like that suddenly made her feel a lot more grown up and professional. When she’d just had that one batch of seeds she’d sown herself, it hadn’t felt very “real” yet—but now that she’d invested in all these trays of plug plants, it was really beginning to hit her: she was going to open a plant nursery!

  Poppy bent over each tray to check the tiny plants individually. She would have to spend some time transplanting each one into small individual pots to grow on, but there was no rush. According to the instructions she had been given by the wholesale growers, she could wait a couple of days as long as she kept them moist and in a cool, bright, and airy place.

  She used a finger to feel the compost that they were growing in; they had been watered yesterday, straight after they’d arrived, but they seemed to have dried out a bit, so she watered them again, careful not to get any water on the leaves and to make sure that there was ample drainage. Then she left them spread out across the bench, so that there would be good airflow between them, and headed outside to create her first official customer order.

  For several minutes, Poppy wandered through the flowerbeds, carrying a bucket of cold water and a pair of secateurs, and selecting flowers as they caught her eye. She cut several long stems of delicate white cosmos, some velvety snapdragons in a blend of peach and lemon colours, clusters of sweet Williams in a pretty pink, and finally a couple of penstemon stalks with bells of lavender flowers that contrasted beautifully with the other colours. She placed these all into her bucket, then added some stems from plants which didn’t have big colourful blooms but which provided beautiful foliage to surround the flowers.

  With her bucket brimming, Poppy returned to the cottage and took everything into the greenhouse extension at the back. She set the flowers on the bench, then hesitated for a moment as she wondered how to arrange them. She knew that a bouquet of flowers was traditionally tied in a symmetrical bunch, with spiralling stems, and then wrapped in decorative tissue paper or cellophane, but she wasn’t confident that she had the skills to produce a professionally hand-tied bouquet. Besides, she felt that the whole difference of what she was offering was that her flowers looked as if they had been freshly cut from your own garden, naturally arranged in any convenient container—a simple, home-grown look, not a slick, commercial product. She also thought her client might appreciate someth
ing that could be placed immediately by her mother’s bedside, without the need to hunt for a vase and transfer things into water.

  So Poppy decided to follow her instincts. Instead of tying the flowers into a traditional bouquet, she arranged them loosely in a jam jar, which she decorated with a length of straw ribbon around its neck for a country look. As a final touch, she cut a square of brown paper and carefully wrote “Hollyhock Cottage Flowers” on one side, with little doodles of leaves and flowers surrounding the words, and the cottage’s address and telephone number on the other. Then she punched a hole in one corner and strung the label into the ribbon round the neck of the jam jar. When she’d finished, she stood back to admire the effect and felt pleased.

  “My—that looks lovely, Poppy!” exclaimed Nell as she came into the greenhouse. “Very professional, and yet somehow simple and home-made too.”

  “Do you think so?” said Poppy, delighted. “I hope you’re right. Well, I’d better get these flowers to my first customer while they’re still fresh.” She picked up the jam jar and laughed. “‘My first customer’—oh, that sounds so official!”

  “Well, I’m off to work; I’ve got a couple of houses in Oxford to do, so I won’t be back until this evening,” said Nell, turning to go. “I might see you, though, before your dinner tonight?”

  Poppy nodded. “I’ll be here most of the day. I’ve just got this posy to deliver this morning, and then another flower order for a birthday party—”

  “Aren’t you going over to work on the scent garden in Duxton House today?”

  “I’m not sure if the police are finished with the place yet. They put up crime-scene tape all round the rock garden yesterday and it sounded like they’re going to be doing a thorough search of Betsy’s room, plus the rest of the house and the grounds today. But anyway, it doesn’t matter because I’d arranged for Muriel to bring Flopsy over today just before lunch… you know, to check out some of the scented plants here. So I’ll still be sort of working on the new garden.”