Doom and Bloom

by H. Y. Hanna

  Twenty minutes later, Poppy arrived at the house of the lady who had ordered the posy and nervously rang the doorbell. But her apprehension evaporated when the door was opened and she saw the smile of delight on the other woman’s face.

  “Oh! That is absolutely gorgeous!” cried the lady, reaching out to take the flowers. “And how clever of you to put them in a jam jar. That will be so much easier for me to carry to the nursing home, and I can put it by my mother’s bedside right away. Thank you so much!”

  “You’re welcome,” said Poppy, smiling. “I’m so happy you like it.”

  “You know, you should really charge a bit more if you’re going to provide your flowers in containers,” said the lady. “Otherwise you’ll be losing the cost of the materials.”

  “Oh… well, I thought I’d just use recycled glass jars,” Poppy explained. “I could collect unwanted ones from the houses in the village.”

  “Yes, but there’s still your time and energy spent collecting them.” The lady smiled and patted her hand. “Trust me, dear—people don’t value things they don’t have to pay for. You’re offering a wonderful product so don’t be afraid to charge for it.”

  As she walked away a few minutes later, with her first payment safely tucked in her pocket, Poppy reflected ruefully that there was still an awful lot she had to learn about running a business. She hadn’t even thought about “cost” and “profit” but the lady was right—it might have been fine to ignore those things with one order, but she couldn’t afford to keep doing that if she hoped to make money from her venture.

  As she retraced her steps along the high street, the window of a shop on the other side of the road caught her eye. Poppy crossed over to take a closer look. There was a collection of assorted old jars and bottles in beautiful vintage shades of green and brown. I wonder how much they are, she mused. They’d be perfect for my flower arrangements!

  She glanced absently upwards at the shop sign, then did a double take. It was Norman Smalle’s shop. She turned back to peer through the large display window. Through the various shelves of antique curios and vintage furniture stacked beside the aisles, she could see a balding middle-aged man sitting at a desk at the back of the store. He seemed to be busily polishing something. She couldn’t see any other customers in the shop, and for a moment she hesitated, recalling the gossip in the post office shop yesterday morning and wondering if it was wise to go in by herself. Don’t be silly! she berated herself. It was broad daylight, after all, and besides, no matter what the village gossips said, she just couldn’t believe that Norman could be Ursula’s killer.

  She pushed the door open and stepped inside. A tinkling bell announced her arrival and Norman looked up from his job as she approached him. She eyed him curiously, wondering if she would see the changes that the postmistress had mentioned. He did look haggard, his hair greyer and his shoulders drooping, and, for a moment, Poppy felt her heart go out to him. Then she reminded herself that he might’ve looked strained because he was worried about the ongoing investigation into Ursula’s murder. Guilt could make you lose sleep at night, just as much as grief did.

  “Hello… can I help you?” Norman asked politely.

  Poppy gave him a perfunctory smile. “Yes, I wanted to ask about the old glass jars and bottles in your window. I was wondering—” She broke off suddenly as she caught sight of the item he was polishing.

  It was a pruning knife, the long, hooked blade gleaming against the dark wooden handle. It looked almost identical to the one that had been donated to the fête raffle and which she had found buried in the rock garden—the one that had probably been used to kill Ursula.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Norman followed her gaze and flushed as he guessed where her thoughts were straying. He fumbled with the knife, hastily rotating the blade and slotting it back into the handle, closing it. Then he put it down quickly on the desk, as if it’d burned him.

  “I… I’m sorry…” Poppy swallowed. “That looks just like the pruning knife that Ursula—”

  “Yes… well…” Norman cleared his throat. “It was part of the same collection of gardening tools that I’d obtained at an auction.”

  There was an awkward silence, then Poppy said, “I’m sorry about Ursula. I understand that she was a good friend.”

  Norman looked agonised. He opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, then suddenly burst out: “Ursula was more than just a friend!”

  Poppy hesitated, not knowing how to respond.

  Norman gave her a sulky look. "Don't tell me you didn't know. Everyone in the village spends their spare time gossiping about Ursula and me. And they think I murdered her too, don't they?” he demanded. “I see the way they look at me now when I go out and about in the village. They all think I’m some kind of lunatic or psychopath…” His face crumpled. “How could they think that I would kill her? Ursula was my sun, my moon, my stars! We were going to be together forever—”

  “I didn’t realise that you were together!” said Poppy in surprise.

  “Oh… well… we weren’t ‘together’ in the conventional sense,” Norman said, fussing with a packet of “sour cream and onion” crisps on his desk and avoiding her eyes. “Ours was a much purer relationship than the usual sordid romances you see. I expressed my love and devotion through poetry and gifts…”

  “And Ursula?”

  Norman looked shifty. “Ursula was a lady. A lady never shows her emotions in public.” He raised his eyes suddenly to her, his face aglow. “But I knew—even though she showed no outward sign of it—that she really loved me. I knew!”

  Poppy looked at him askance. It sounded to her like Norman was living completely in his fantasies.

  “I still can’t really believe that she’s gone, you know,” he continued in a sad voice. “I keep thinking the whole thing is a bad dream and that I’m going to wake up and see Ursula walking past my shop.” He smiled in reminiscence. “She always pretended to be very busy and hurried past my window, but…” He smiled smugly. “I knew that she must have come past my shop on purpose, just so she could catch a glimpse of me.” He patted his balding head, smoothing his comb-over across his forehead. “She was always too shy to say it, of course, but I think she found me quite attractive.”

  The man’s delusional, thought Poppy, eyeing him with a mixture of pity and amusement. She could just imagine how cloying and irritating he had been to Ursula but, as usual, the woman had probably been too kind-hearted to tell him bluntly to his face that she had no feelings for him.

  “Um… have the police questioned you about the day of the murder?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Well, a constable took my statement at the fête but that was it. No one has spoken to me since.”

  What is that Sergeant Lee doing? wondered Poppy in annoyance. At the very least, he should have found out the gossip about Ursula and Norman, and come to question the antique dealer himself.

  “When was the last time you saw Ursula at the fête?” she asked.

  “Oh, it was after the paramedics left. We walked to the manor together and she showed me to one of the smaller sitting rooms at the back of the house, where there was a chaise longue for me to lie down. I knew she was probably secretly hoping that I would ask her to join me—but I was much too much of a gentleman to do that,” he added virtuously.

  “Er… right,” said Poppy, restraining the urge to roll her eyes. “So then she left you there and went back to the fête?”

  “Yes, I lay for a while, trying to shut my eyes and rest, but I just couldn’t settle. I could hear a lot of shouting and cheering, and I kept wondering what I was missing.”

  “That must have been the Terrier Racing,” said Poppy. “The crowds were really rowdy then.”

  “Yes, that’s right! I could faintly hear this chap speaking on the megaphone… Anyway, I got up in the end and decided to go back to the fête. And then—just as I was leaving the house—I heard a woman screaming. I rushed ba
ck and then I saw the crowds around the marquee…” He clenched his fist. “If only I had been there! I could have protected Ursula, grabbed that knife from her attacker, saved her life!”

  Maybe in your dreams, thought Poppy, eyeing his weedy form. More likely there would have been two dead bodies in the marquee for Sonia to find.

  “I don’t suppose you saw anyone who could be her attacker?” she asked without much hope. “When you were coming from the manor house, you must have had a view of the marquee from a distance—did you see anyone running away?”

  He took a crisp out of the packet and chewed it thoughtfully. “No, I didn’t see anybody. Even the house seemed to be empty—all the staff were helping at the fête, I think… Oh, wait… actually, I did hear someone come in earlier, when I was lying down. I think it was that pet nanny chap—Kirby. I heard him cursing. He uses disgusting language.” Norman made a fastidious face.

  Poppy thought of the colourful cursing she had overheard yesterday morning, when she had stumbled upon Kirby grooming Flopsy.

  “Yes, Kirby did return to the house to get a special brand of mineral water for Flopsy,” she recalled. “He was gone for a long time; I remember Muriel complaining about it. Kirby said it was because he’d had to go down to the cellar, as they were out of Perrier in the kitchen—”

  Norman frowned. “Down to the cellar? No, I don’t think he went there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m sure I heard his footsteps on the other side, in the wing that houses the old servants’ quarters.”

  Poppy caught her breath. “Servants’ quarters—you mean, where the maids’ rooms are?”

  “Well, only one of the maids lives in. The other one lives in the village—”

  “Yes, but Betsy—she’s the maid who lives in, isn’t she? She has a room at the manor?”

  Norman nodded. “I don’t understand why Kirby would have been going to her room, though, unless…” He brightened suddenly. “Do you think he might be in love with Betsy? Perhaps he is suffering from a secret, hopeless passion too—er, I mean, unlike me…” He coughed and cleared his throat. “I do so sympathise with those who haven’t found their soulmate.”

  Poppy was barely listening. No, Kirby isn’t secretly in love with Betsy, she thought grimly. I can think of a different reason why he would have gone to her room: to hide the murder weapon…

  “Listen, Norman—did Ursula ever say anything to you about Kirby? Did she like him?”

  “That man is a snake,” spat Norman. “Muriel should never have hired him. In fact, he wouldn’t have got the job except that Ursula felt sorry for him and put in a good word with Muriel. Kirby used to work at a dog groomers’ salon in London, you know, but he was fired.”

  “Why was he fired?” asked Poppy quickly. “Did he get violent with the customers or something?”

  Norman shrugged and ate another crisp, chewing noisily. “I don’t know… I don’t think so. He told Ursula that the salon’s owner had a grudge against him.”

  “And she believed him?” said Poppy. She was beginning to think that Ursula’s propensity to always see the good in others and feel sorry for everyone was less a virtue and more a weakness.

  Norman shrugged again. “Flopsy’s last pet nanny had just resigned, you see, and Ursula knew that Muriel was looking for a replacement, so she recommended Kirby for the position.” He gave her an indignant look. “But you know what? The minute he was settled at Duxton House, that arrogant sod began taking advantage. He should have been grateful to Ursula, you know, for helping him get such a cushy position, but he was always giving her lip and saying things to the other staff behind her back. And he would fawn and grovel in front of Muriel, but then show a totally different face to everyone else. He was abominably rude to me whenever I went up to the manor!”

  Poppy thought back to the scene she had witnessed when she was eavesdropping through the drawing room window and her distaste at the pet nanny’s smooth, insinuating manner.

  “Did you tell Ursula?” she asked.

  “That Kirby was rude to me?”

  Poppy rolled her eyes. “No, that he was trying to undermine her authority and maybe even badmouth her behind her back.”

  “I didn’t want to spend my precious time with Ursula speaking about Kirby. We had other, more important things to talk about,” said Norman peevishly. “Anyway, I doubt she would have listened. Ursula always thought everyone was just misunderstood and—” He broke off suddenly and stared at her. “Do you think Kirby could have killed her?” he asked in hushed tones.

  “Do you?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised! I told you the man was a snake—he’s a greedy, two-faced liar who’s out to get whatever he can for himself—”

  “But why would he want to kill Ursula? Does he benefit from her death?” asked Poppy.

  “Well, I suppose not,” said Norman grudgingly. “It’s not as if he would get a pay rise if Ursula was dead.”

  No, but perhaps his eye was on a bigger fish, thought Poppy, remembering once again the man’s creepy pandering and suggestive words to Muriel. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking of his job but of his future. Undermining Ursula was one step towards replacing her—especially in the affections of a wealthy old lady who had a large estate to bequeath…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Her chat with Norman had delayed her and, as she left the antique store, Poppy cast a worried glance at her watch and realised that she would have to hurry if she was to deliver her second order to the birthday party in time. Remembering Moira’s special request for pink flowers, she set off once more around the cottage garden with a bucket and pair of secateurs, and picked everything in every shade of pink she could find, from salmon to fuchsia, blush to magenta. She was delighted to see several dahlias already in flower, with their striking pompom blooms almost as big as dinner plates, and a few stands of sweet peas still producing lovely ruffled flowers as well. There were also wallflowers in a deep mauve and phlox in a bright bubblegum pink, and even dainty daisies with pretty pink and white flowers and yellow centres.

  When she passed the rose bushes, Poppy hesitated. Several were flowering again and their pink cupped blooms, filled with petals, looked so beautiful. But she remembered that it was a children’s party and decided not to include anything with prickles. Likewise, she avoided the tall spires of foxgloves, despite their lovely magenta flowers, and also the delphiniums, remembering from her recent brush with another murder case that both were plants that contained poisonous alkaloids.

  At last, she stood back and examined her bucket. Because this was going to be a table centrepiece, she wanted a very full arrangement. She had a lot of different flowers, but somehow, something seemed missing. She realised it was because they were all mostly small blooms—aside from the dahlias, there was nothing really big and dramatic, to make a strong impact. Then her gaze strayed to the patch of the border closer to the stone wall, where several large hydrangea bushes were growing under the shade of the trees. Their enormous mophead flowers looked like cheerleaders’ pompoms and lit up that corner with romantic spheres of soft pink and mauve.

  Of course! She could include some hydrangea blooms! Eagerly, Poppy went over to cut several stalks. She found some blooms that were still fresh and vivid, and others which had started to fade, the pink blending into a beautiful mix of soft bronze and green. They were the perfect last addition to her collection, and when she had returned to the greenhouse and arranged everything into an old metal milk jug, she was really pleased with the result.

  The trip across the village took longer this time—the jug filled with water and flowers was heavy—and Poppy arrived at the big Tudor house slightly late. But her apologies were waved aside as she was met by another big smile from another delighted client.

  “Oh, don’t worry—people have only just started arriving. The party hasn’t officially started. My goodness, this looks fabulous!” Moira gasped as she took the jug. “And you’ve done
all pink flowers too! Look, Emma—the nice lady has picked these especially for you, because pink is your favourite colour, isn’t it?”

  The little girl who was clutching her mother’s skirts nodded and eyed Poppy shyly. She looked no older than three and still had a thumb in her mouth. Beyond her, Poppy could see the hallway opening into a large living area which already seemed to be filled with screaming babies and toddlers.

  Moira caught her expression and gave a laugh. “I know—everyone told me I was mad to organise a birthday party for three-year-olds and then invite all their baby sisters and brothers too. What was I thinking!”

  Poppy left a few minutes later, after having met several of the other mothers, who oohed and ahhed over the arrangement, and asked for her details. As she walked slowly back to Hollyhock Cottage, she felt flushed with pride and happiness. For the first time since leaving her old life in London and moving to the countryside, she felt like things were finally on track. She had found something she loved and could do well, and was a great solution for bringing in extra income too!

  It was nearly lunchtime by the time she got back to the cottage and she wondered suddenly if Muriel might have arrived already. It would be terribly bad form to keep the old lady waiting. When she walked through the garden gate, however, she was surprised to see that Flopsy was not accompanied by her elderly owner but by Kirby. The pet nanny was smoking and busily texting on his phone, completely ignoring the toy poodle who stood straining at the end of her leash.

  Poppy eyed the man warily, her conversation with Norman that morning still fresh in her mind. Could Kirby be Ursula’s killer? She’d never liked his insincere, two-faced manner and she had certainly seen the vicious streak in him when she spied him mistreating Flopsy yesterday. But did he really have a motive for killing Ursula? The idea that he’d done it on the off-chance that he might benefit from Muriel’s will in the distant future seemed so far-fetched, even ludicrous.