The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  The social life of Morton-cum-Budely had been compared by one rather venturesome local to “a stationary cruise”. Gainful employment did not feature in anyone’s daily routine, and housework was generally done by women shipped in from adjacent, but less picturesque and well-heeled, villages. At lunchtimes some of the residents might meet in the local pub, The Old Trout; substantial cream teas were ingested at the Chintz Café; and in the early evening there was usually an exchange of gin-and-tonics in one or other of the daintily appointed cottages. At all of these encounters the same topics of conversation were recycled, rather like the air in a hotel lounge. Excitements, except for the regular anno domini demise of the older of the little old ladies, were rare. In recent years the only mystery in Morton-cum-Budely to make the pages of the local newspaper had been solved by the headline, “Dead Ducks: Ferrets Blamed”.

  That was, until the murder of Joan Fullerton on May the first.

  * * *

  Initially her death was assumed to have been natural and, though greeted with more relief than regret, not so different from any other in the village. It was only when the victim’s home, Arbutus Cottage, was taped off as a crime scene, and policemen arrived from as far afield as Exeter, that the word “murder” came to be used – with appalled excitement – in Morton-cum-Budely.

  Theories as to the reason for Joan Fullerton’s killing grew more exotic as the days passed. The suggestion that she had been hit over the head by a burglar surprised in the course of his theft quickly gave way to stories of a homicidal prisoner escaped from Dartmoor. By the end of the week Joan Fullerton was said to have fallen foul of Triad gangs operating out of Plymouth Chinese restaurants, and some people spoke in hushed tones of her past as a double agent during the Cold War having finally caught up with her. In none of these conjectures did the inhabitants of Morton-cum-Budely allow their imaginations to be inhibited by complete lack of information about the circumstances of their neighbour’s death.

  Brenda Winshott had her own views about how and why the murder had happened, but characteristically she kept these to herself.

  And would have continued to do so, had she not been visited by Detective Inspector Dromgoole.

  He was a bulky man, whose bluffness of manner, Brenda could tell, masked a sharp intellect. He wore plain clothes, a shapeless sports jacket and thick cords whose nap had here and there been worn away. He arrived at her home, Honeysuckle Cottage, alone and was at pains to insist that his visit was not official.

  “Just come for an informal chat really,” he said, his voice softened by a Devonian burr. “Not taking witness statements or anything like that. Just trying to get a flavour of what life’s like in Morton-cum-Budely.”

  Brenda Winshott smiled. Wrinkles radiated out from her perceptive blue eyes and deepened the lines on her powdered pink face. Sitting in her little tapestry-covered armchair, with a cup of tea on the adjacent table and her voluminous leather handbag at her side, she looked the archetypal harmless little old lady.

  “And why have you come to me, Inspector?” she asked. “I’m hardly one of the movers and shakers of the village. I keep myself to myself.”

  “Which is exactly why I have come to you, Miss Winshott. You may keep yourself to yourself, but everyone knows you and everyone seems to like you. They all mentioned how quiet you were.” He left time for a reaction, but she gave none. “I find, Miss Winshott, that quiet people are the ones you have to watch. They are frequently more observant than their neighbours. Those you call ‘the movers and shakers’ tend to be so busy thinking about themselves that they don’t notice anything else that’s going on.”

  Brenda Winshott nodded, accepting the accuracy of his assessment. “But you’ve been round Morton-cum-Budely for nearly a week, Inspector. You must have got some impression of what’s going on.”

  “Maybe, but I think I need an insider’s view.”

  He was rewarded with another smile. “You mean,” Brenda asked, “that you can’t find anyone who had a motive to kill Joan Fullerton?”

  The Inspector shared the joke with her. “Hardly that. Spoilt for choice in this place. Once I get through their good manners and their mustn’t-speak-ill-of-the-dead pretences, everyone seems to have hated the old bat.” Again Brenda Winshott didn’t comment. “Quite frankly, what I want from you is a bit more background. You know how a village like this works. I want you to sort of keep an eye open … let me know if anything happens that you think’s odd …”

  “Keep a watching brief, as it were, Inspector?”

  “Yes, precisely that.”

  “You’re not telling me the police are baffled, are you?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “There was a tradition in Golden Age crime fiction that in the investigation of village murders the police were always so thoroughly baffled that they ended up asking a little old lady to solve the case for them. Is that the situation you find yourself in, Inspector Dromgoole …?” Brenda Winshott enquired sweetly.

  He coloured. “Not exactly. Mind you, any thoughts you have … don’t be shy about sharing them with me.”

  * * *

  She rather relished having an official mandate from the police to do what she had intended to do anyway. Brenda Winshott had her own reasons for wanting to construct a watertight case that would have someone arrested for the murder of Joan Fullerton.

  And maybe Inspector Dromgoole and his professional colleagues really were baffled … He’d certainly been surprisingly ready to supply her with information, more information than the police traditionally vouchsafe to curious amateur detectives.

  He had told her that Joan Fullerton had been poisoned, and expressed the opinion that poison was a murder method favoured by women. He didn’t say “little old ladies”, but somehow the implication was there.

  The poison too had a “little old lady” quality about it. Lily of the valley. A flower whose delicate aroma belies its toxicity. And, coincidentally, a perfume much favoured by little old ladies.

  What was odd, though, the Inspector confided, was that no traces of lilies of the valley had been found anywhere inside or in the grounds of Arbutus Cottage.

  Inspector Dromgoole had also been generous to Brenda in filling in details of the last evening of Joan Fullerton’s life. The deceased had had tea with her younger son Tristram in the cottage at Grantley House which came with his teaching job. She had then moved on to an early dinner at The Garlic Press, which, because it was run by her son and his wife, Joan Fullerton regarded as her private canteen. After the meal, she had visited Queenie Miles at Yew Tree Cottage for a nightcap, what she always insisted on referring to as an “O be joyful”. On that occasion she had opted for a gin and lime juice.

  Back at Arbutus Cottage, forensic examination of the premises suggested that Joan Fullerton had started to feel unwell, vomited profusely, fallen into a coma and died in the middle of the night. The poison contained in lily of the valley, a glycoside called convallatoxin, would not automatically be fatal, but could easily have put paid to someone as old and frail as Joan Fullerton.

  And indeed, had she received prompt medical attention, her death could probably have been prevented. But when she started to feel ill, she had been unable to summon help, as both her mobile phone and her two landline handsets were missing from Arbutus Cottage. The finding of those, Inspector Dromgoole confided to

  Brenda Winshott, together with the revelation of who had stolen them, would make identifying the murderer considerably simpler. Brenda had decided, as soon as the Inspector left, that the best procedure in her investigation would be to retrace Joan Fullerton’s movements on the evening of her death, and to pay her visits at the same times as the victim had done. So four o’clock the following day found her driving in her neat Volkswagen Golf to Grantley House.

  * * *

  The school did not pride itself on academic achievements. Few of its girls ever made it to proper universities. The nearest any of them came to further education was thr
ough cookery courses, wine appreciation classes, model agencies or marriage to well-heeled young men with degrees. But Grantley House did have its own stables, tennis courts and swimming pools, and no pupil was allowed to leave without having had her thighs thickened and her vowels ground to cut-glass perfection.

  The quality of the teaching staff in non-sports subjects reflected the school’s priorities. Which is why someone as inept as Tristram Fullerton could get a job teaching French there.

  He had showed no surprise when Brenda Winshott asked if she could drop round “to express her condolences about his mother”. When she arrived at his small school house, he offered her tea, just as he must have done to his mother the previous week. Brenda accepted the offer, wishing to replicate that encounter as closely as possible – though one might have thought not too closely, if Tristram turned out to be the murderer.

  He was a harassed man in his forties, whose hair and confidence were thinning. Being one of the few males in a girls’ school might be some men’s idea of heaven, but for Tristram Fullerton it was clearly nothing but a source of stress. Teenage girls, like hyenas, have an uncanny knack of identifying weakness and, when they’ve found it, going in for the kill. Every pupil in the school had perfected her own impersonation of the French teacher’s hesitant manner, and they paid him the ultimate insult of not treating him like a man at all.

  His sitting room reflected his despair. The gloomy, downhearted furniture looked as if it had seen out many tenants. The only personal touches were a few French books and dictionaries slumping against each other on the dark shelves, and a faded fold-out calendar entitled “Les Jours de Fête de la France”.

  “I was very sad to hear about your mother,” said Brenda Winshott, placing her capacious handbag on the grubby carpet. What she said was a lie, but in places like Morton-cum-Budely certain formalities had to be observed.

  “Thank you.” Tristram Fullerton stood awkwardly, teapot in hand, his eyes darting constantly downwards, as though he were afraid his flies were undone.

  “And how’s the teaching going?”

  “Well …” A lifetime of disappointment was expressed in that single monosyllable.

  “I suppose you learnt your French when the family was living in Bordeaux …?” Brenda remembered Joan talking at great length about how her husband’s job had necessitated various foreign relocations, where she had always made a point of learning the local language. This had enlarged the repertoire of tongues in which she could lash her spouse’s shortcomings.

  Tristram Fullerton agreed that he’d started to learn French while living in Bordeaux. “Not that I was ever very good at it. I’m still not.”

  His personality’s default mode seemed to be apology. Having known the poor young man’s mother, Brenda Winshott had no doubts as to what had caused his abject surrender to life. And she was well aware of how dangerous the suppression of his inevitable anti-maternal feelings could have been. But whether the frustration within might ever build up sufficiently to turn Tristram Fullerton into a murderer she could not be certain.

  “Presumably the police have spoken to you about your mother’s death?”

  He was startled by the directness of her question. “Yes, yes, of course,” he stuttered. “I still can’t really believe that … you know, what they say happened actually did happen.”

  “They seem pretty sure of their facts.”

  “Yes. But who on earth would want to do that to my mother?”

  Brenda Winshott bit back her instinctive response: anyone who had ever met her. Instead, she enquired, “I take it the police asked you what you were doing the evening she died …? After she came to see you here, that is?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, they did.”

  “And I’m sure you were able to give them a perfect alibi …?”

  “Well …” He looked more hangdog than ever. “Not really. I mean, I was here, marking some books. But nobody saw me here. Nobody can vouch for me.”

  “Ah.” There was no intonation in Brenda’s voice, certainly no sign of suspicion or accusation. “And did the police tell you what killed your mother?”

  “Some poison. Convalley … something or other …”

  “Convallatoxin.”

  “Right.” He had sat down by now, and had his cup of tea raised to his lips.

  “A poison found in lilies of the valley,” Brenda pressed on. “Muguets.”

  The effect of the French word was instantaneous. Tristram Fullerton’s hand shook as if he had a sudden onset of Parkinson’s. Tea slopped down all over his thighs. He leapt to his feet in pain and confusion.

  Brenda Winshott did not appear to have noticed his reaction. She just looked curiously up at the French calendar on the wall. “Le premier mai,” she said. “La fête du Muguet.”

  The schoolteacher slumped back down into his chair with an air of defeat.

  “The day,” Brenda went on, “when the French give to those they love little bouquets of muguets – or lilies of the valley – to celebrate the arrival of spring. Now, your mother told me that that was a little custom that you’d picked up when you were in France, and that she’d be very out of sorts if a first of May came round and she didn’t receive her bouquet of muguets from you. Surely you wouldn’t have let your mother down this year, would you?”

  “No,” Tristram Fullerton replied brokenly. “I did give Mummy a bouquet of lilies of the valley this year.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” said Brenda Winshott politely. “Strange, though, that you didn’t mention that to the police …”

  * * *

  The Garlic Press was not particularly full that evening. Indeed, it was never particularly full. The residents of Morton-cum-Budely might use the place to entertain visitors they wanted to impress, or cadge meals there from passing relatives who they reckoned could afford it, but their general view was that the restaurant was ridiculously expensive. The principle of local organic sourcing of ingredients was one to which they might pay lip-service, but not at those prices.

  The other drawback of The Garlic Press was that its ambiance was very definitely affected by the barely concealed hostility between the couple who ran it.

  Of this Brenda Winshott was made aware as soon as she arrived that evening. In spite of the likely emptiness of the restaurant, she had booked a table for one at 7.15 (again mirroring the movements of the murder victim). She had arrived and parked the Golf in characteristically good time, but found no one there to greet her. From the kitchen, however, came the all-too-recognizable sounds of a marital row.

  “You are not going to buy a new car!” shouted a voice Brenda identified as Lynette Fullerton’s. “When we finally get the old bat’s money, we are going to pay off the debts on this place and then start investing in it. That’s what’s been holding The Garlic Press back all these years – lack of investment. Constantly having to cut down on staff, doing everything ourselves, relying on you to do things that never get done properly. Huh. Now we’ve actually got the prospect of some money, you’re not going to get your filthy paws on any of it!”

  “Look, she was my mother,” came Piers’s whining reply. “So I deserve to benefit from her will.”

  “Why?” demanded his wife implacably.

  “Because of everything I’ve done! There was no point in her dying if I don’t get to see any of the money!”

  At this undeniably interesting stage, the conversation stopped. The arrival of a brash young man who, to impress his sluttish girlfriend, had immediately banged the bell on the desk, interrupted more tantalizing revelations from the kitchen. Piers Fullerton issued forth, ignoring the solitary little old lady, and oozed welcome over the young couple.

  Brenda Winshott was finally seated at a table laid up for two and, after lengthy sycophantic joking between Piers Fullerton and the other diners, she was granted a menu. This she made a great display of studying, though she had long known what she was going to have. Exactly what Joan Fullerton had ordered the week before. />
  What particularly interested her was the starter. “Devon Field Mushroom with Locally Sourced Forest Salad Garnish.” Brenda wasn’t aware of many forests in the locality of Morton-cum-Budely, but it was not her mission to question the authenticity of the menu’s claimed provenance. Her concern was for more serious crimes.

  Piers Fullerton delivered her Field Mushroom with great condescension. He had mumbled something earlier about the “regular staff being absent due to illness”, and every bone in his body conveyed the conviction that he was not used to such menial tasks as being a waiter. Brenda Winshott, from the conversation she had overheard earlier, reckoned that he performed that function most evenings.

  The Field Mushroom was juicy and Brenda enjoyed it. But the garnish was what interested her. Lamb’s lettuce, chives and wild garlic. She waited for a moment when Piers Fullerton was in the kitchen and, having checked that the noisy couple were too interested in each other to notice her, put her plan into action.

  From her handbag she produced a small spray of lily of the valley and quickly substituted it for the wild garlic. Then she ate up the lamb’s lettuce and chives.

  When Piers Fullerton arrived to collect her plate, he looked down at what lay on it and observed rather sniffily, “One of those hidebound English people who can’t stand garlic, are you? I’ll have you know that the wild variety has a much more subtle flavour than the kind you’ve usually had.”