The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “I’m actually very partial to wild garlic,” she said calmly. “It’s just that that isn’t wild garlic. It’s another plant that looks very similar.”

  “What?” demanded Piers Fullerton brusquely.

  “Lily of the valley.”

  His pale-blue eyes seemed to wobble in their sockets. For a moment he gaped and gulped. When he finally found words, he said, “I’ll go and fetch my wife.”

  Lynette Fullerton might well have once been a pupil at Grantley House, certainly if the breadth of her thighs and the cut-glassness of her vowels were anything to go by. Her husband hovered and havered behind her, like a fly around the tail of a large horse.

  “What’s the problem?” Lynette’s tone implied that, whatever had gone wrong, she was not the one to blame for it.

  “It’s just …” Brenda Winshott repeated meekly, “that what is supposed to be wild garlic is in fact lily of the valley.”

  The anger rose in Lynette Fullerton like water in a kettle coming to the boil. But it wasn’t directed at the little old lady who had made the complaint. No, as usual, it was her husband who was due for a sand-blasting.

  “You idiot!” she screamed. “Are you incapable of doing the simplest thing right? Because of the way you spend all our money, we can no longer afford to get our salads from the organic farm. Which is why I have to send you out into the countryside to collect the stuff. And you can even screw that up, can’t you, Piers? I’ve shown you enough times what the plants you’re meant to be fetching look like, but you still get it wrong. Of all the incompetent, useless, lame-brained …”

  The diatribe was set fair to continue for some time. While Brenda Winshott let its tides wash over her, she observed the warring couple. Lynette Fullerton’s anger was triggered only by her husband’s eternal inadequacy. Lily of the valley had no particular resonance for her.

  It did for Piers Fullerton, though. On his face was the greenish pallor of guilt.

  * * *

  “Now you will have an ‘O be joyful’, won’t you, Brenda?” Queenie Miles offered winsomely.

  This description of a late-night drink had been introduced by Joan Fullerton, and soon everyone in Morton-cum-Budely was using the expression. Brenda Winshott found it an irritating affectation, another example of the many things that had annoyed her about her deceased neighbour. But as ever she kept such thoughts to herself.

  She loathed Queenie Miles’s taste in interior décor too. Brenda would never have given houseroom to the little coloured glass animals, clowns hanging from balloons or Italian ceramic figurines of urchins with large tear-filled eyes, which covered every surface of Yew Tree Cottage. Even the profusion of fresh flowers in evidence was spoiled by the over-elaborate crystal vases in which they had been placed. But Queenie would never have suspected this repulsion from her guest’s courteous demeanour.

  Brenda Winshott asked for a gin and lime juice, just as Joan Fullerton had done the week before. Queenie’s drink of choice was a gin and bitter lemon. She raised her glass, and made the toast “O be joyful”, which Brenda echoed without evident rancour.

  As she had driven in her Golf the short distance from The Garlic Press to Yew Tree Cottage, she had had some anxiety about raising the subject of the murder, but she needn’t have worried. The first sip of gin was scarcely past Queenie’s lips before she said, “Terrible what happened to Joan, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, appalling,” Brenda agreed. “The things people do these days defy belief. Standards of behaviour in this country have never been the same since they ended National Service.”

  This was not necessarily her own view, but it was an article of faith amongst the little old ladies of Morton-cum-Budely. Brenda had only said it to put Queenie Miles at ease – or possibly even off her guard.

  “Is it true about her having been a Russian agent?” asked Queenie.

  “Oh, I don’t think so, dear,” Brenda replied. “I can’t imagine Joan ever having the discretion to keep any kind of secret. No, I don’t think we should give credence to every opinion expressed at the bar of The Old Trout.”

  “Maybe not …” Her hostess was thoughtful for a moment. “Of course it means there’ll have to be a new Chair of the Village Committee …” she observed.

  Brenda Winshott’s benign face registered mild surprise. “I hadn’t thought of that. But yes, it will.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of putting any pressure on you, Brenda dear …”

  “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

  “… but I was very surprised, at the last election, that Joan was selected as Chair, when I – putting false modesty aside – was obviously much the most qualified person in Morton-cum-Budely for the job.”

  “Mm.”

  “So, come the moment, I hope I can rely on you to do what’s right.”

  “Oh, you can certainly rely on me to do that,” said Brenda Winshott with quiet conviction. She looked around the cluttered surfaces of Yew Tree Cottage’s sitting room. “The flowers look lovely. Very natural.”

  “That’s the effect for which I always aim.” Queenie was totally unaware of how markedly she failed in her ambitions.

  “No lily of the valley, though, I notice … When I was last here, I’m sure you had lots of lily of the valley …”

  “I think you must be mistaken, Brenda dear,” came the firm reply. “I’ve never much liked lily of the valley.”

  “You know, I would have sworn that the last few times I’ve been here—”

  “I can assure you,” Queenie insisted, “that I have never had lily of the valley in my house.”

  “I must be mistaken. Dear oh dear, getting so absent-minded these days. Anno domini catching up with me, I’m afraid.” Brenda let a silence hang between them. Then she said, “I suppose you’ve heard the rumour that it was lily of the valley that killed Joan?”

  “I’ve heard it, yes.”

  “One theory somebody had,” Brenda went on vaguely, “was that Joan might have drunk the water from a vase in which lily of the valley had been standing. Apparently in certain circumstances that can be fatal.”

  “By why on earth would she want to do that?”

  “I’m not sure that she wanted to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s possible someone may have made her do it.”

  “Forced her to drink it down?”

  “Yes.” Brenda Winshott nodded charmingly. She raised her glass and looked at the light through it. “Funny, gin and lime juice isn’t a very attractive drink to look at. That pale green. Looks almost like water that flowers have been left in too long, doesn’t it?” There was no response from her hostess, except for a narrowing of her beady eyes. “And now, if I may before I go, Queenie dear, could I take advantage of your facilities to go and powder my nose?”

  “Of course. You know the way.”

  “Oh yes. I know the way.” And picking up her bulky handbag, the little old lady went to find the “facilities”.

  * * *

  When she got back to Honeysuckle Cottage, Brenda Winshott poured herself another gin, and this time didn’t bother about the lime juice. As she sipped, she couldn’t suppress a feeling of satisfaction at her evening’s work.

  She had met three people who might have killed Joan Fullerton. Three people who certainly had a motive. Tristram Fullerton could have done it as revenge for the humiliations his mother had heaped on him from the cradle; his brother Piers for the inheritance that might transform The Garlic Press and perhaps get Lynette off his back; and Queenie Miles for the opportunity to take over as Chair of the Village Committee. To an outsider the last might have sounded like insufficient motive, but Brenda Winshott had lived long enough in villages like Morton-cum-Budely to know the lengths little old ladies would go to to obtain that kind of preferment.

  She didn’t want to leap to conclusions. She would sleep on it. Sleep always resolved dilemmas for Brenda Winshott. Then in the morning she would decide who the murderer was, and tell Ins
pector Dromgoole.

  * * *

  He came round to Honeysuckle Cottage. Again he was unaccompanied. Again he said he wanted to keep their discussion informal, though Brenda Winshott wondered if what he really wanted was to keep it secret. Maybe his colleagues wouldn’t think much of a Major Crimes investigator consulting a little old lady.

  She told him her conclusions. The Inspector looked amazed. “But my people are meant to have searched the premises,” he said.

  Brenda Winshott shrugged. “Well, it seems as if their search wasn’t quite thorough enough.”

  “I’ll get men round there straight away,” said Inspector Dromgoole.

  And indeed his men found exactly what Brenda Winshott had told him they would find. A glass vase, together with the mobile phone and two handsets which had been stolen from Joan Fullerton’s home. They had all been hidden in the high metal cistern of the old-fashioned lavatory in Yew Tree Cottage.

  After the discovery Inspector Dromgoole asked Brenda Winshott whether she wanted her contribution to the investigation to be publicly acknowledged.

  “Oh, good heavens, no,” the little old lady replied. “I like to keep myself to myself. Also, it might cause bad feeling in the village, if it were known that I had … as it were, shopped one of my neighbours.”

  “Well, that’s very generous of you.” There was no doubting the relief in Inspector Dromgoole’s voice.

  “My pleasure,” said Brenda Winshott with a teasing twinkle. “After all, it wouldn’t do for the police to have been baffled, and to have turned to a little old lady to help them out … would it?”

  Inspector Dromgoole coloured and eased a finger round the inside of his collar.

  * * *

  Queenie Miles was arrested and tried for the murder of Joan Fullerton. When sentence was passed, she continued vehemently to protest her innocence. But then, thought Brenda Winshott, people in that position always do.

  * * *

  She looked around at the other members of the Morton-cum-Budely Village Committee with quiet satisfaction. With the incumbent and her natural successor both, for different reasons, out of the running, Brenda Winshott had suddenly seemed the obvious candidate for what was now once again called “Chairwoman”. She’d never have pushed herself forward, but everyone liked her, and from the opening of her first committee meeting, she had demonstrated just how efficient she would be in her new role.

  Her efficiency was what gave her cause for satisfaction. Her efficiency in visiting Arbutus Cottage on May the first after Joan Fullerton had returned from her “O be joyful” with Queenie Miles. She had also been very efficient in getting Joan to drink down another gin and lime juice, even though it did taste rather odd. Waiting until her victim had shown signs of ailing and then stealing her telephone handsets had also showed great efficiency. As had planting the phones, along with a vase containing traces of lily-of-the-valley-tainted water in the cistern at Yew Tree Cottage when she went to visit Queenie Miles the following week.

  Yes, a job well jobbed, as Brenda Winshott’s father used to say. She looked round at her assembled committee of little old ladies, and wondered who would be the next to step out of line. And how that one would be dealt with.

  As Inspector Dromgoole had observed, it’s the quiet ones you need to watch.

  IN PURSUIT OF THE INEDIBLE

  Brian McGilloway

  * * *

  The zigzagging of his movements between the trees made it difficult to keep a grip on the forest floor. The hounds were not far behind, their low baying echoing through the damp woodland. Beneath the sounds of the dogs crashing through the undergrowth thudded the beat of horses’ hooves. The Hunt Master and the Harriers would be pounding after him.

  The sack he dragged snagged on brambles, forcing him to stop and untangle it. He could feel the sheen of oil through the cloth, could feel its slickness on the latex gloves he wore.

  He sprinted the final distance to the edge of the precipice, then, gripping the sack in both hands, he swung it above his head then released, watching it arc into the air above the drop, turning as it did so, opening and spilling out its contents which rained on to the trees in the basin of the quarry below.

  The barking grew ever closer. He turned, peeling off his gloves and flinging them into the undergrowth to the right, then sharply cut left, towards the safety of the small hide.

  After a moment, the first of the hounds arrived, their snouts pressed close to the ground, the wattles of skin at their throats vibrating lightly as they moved. Some of them twisted towards where he hid. Most, though, crashed into the dense thicket off to the right, attracted by the gloves he’d thrown there.

  Soon after, the Hunt Master himself appeared in view, his horse moving as quickly as the proximity of the trees would allow. He dismounted, calling the dogs, but they ignored him, continuing to fight over the retrieved gloves. Cursing, he trod to the quarry edge and looked over, as if in expectation that a fox had plunged over.

  The snuffling of the dogs in the undergrowth, their low whining, must have covered the sounds of the footfalls on the forest floor, for the Master did not see the figure approaching him, arms outstretched. His screaming as he fell was enough to cause the dogs to pause in their searching, to raise their heads and sniff at the damp air.

  Inspector Devlin used the siren to disperse the crowd of protesters blocking the roadway into the woods. One woman, holding aloft a placard reading “Meat is Murder”, thudded on his windscreen. Like many of the others, she carried a digital video camera and was filming him. Usually they brought the cameras to record the identities of those in attendance at the hunts, and in the hope they might witness something particularly barbaric during the pursuit that they could post on YouTube.

  At the head of the crowd, Devlin saw, was the anti-hunt leader, Michael Walker, a megaphone clenched in his fist. Walker had been threatening for weeks to disrupt the hunt. It appeared that he’d got his wish.

  The Medical Examiner, John Mulronney, was already working on the body by the time Devlin made his way down to the quarry basin.

  “Doc,” he managed, puffing for breath. “After that climb, you might have a second patient.”

  “Give up the smokes then,” Mulronney replied, just as Devlin lit up. “I’ve IDed your victim: Sean Cassidy.”

  “Butcher Cassidy? The dentist?” Devlin asked.

  Mulronney smiled. “That name’s a little unfair,” he chided.

  “I think I’ve earned the right to use it. I was a patient of his. Looks like he’s about to fill his final cavity.”

  Mulronney shook his head, tried not to laugh. “Smokes out,” he said quickly, nodding to where two figures lumbered through the trees towards them, the Garda Superintendent uniform on the heavier of the two recognizable even in the dim light beneath the foliage. Devlin nicked his cigarette and looked around for somewhere to hide the butt. Finding nowhere suitable, he pulled a wide leaf from the sycamore branch above his head and wrapped it around the remains of the cigarette before stuffing it in his pocket so as not to leave his trousers stinking of burnt tobacco.

  “Good morning, sir,” Devlin said to his boss, Harry Patterson. He nodded to the second man.

  “This is Charles Hasson, the deputy Hunt Master,” Patterson said before the man had the chance to speak.

  Hasson approached the body of Sean Cassidy reverently. He blessed himself, sniffed back his tears, rubbed at his face with the palms of his hands before turning to face the Guards again.

  “I know Mr Hasson already, sir,” Devlin said. “I was a former patient of the dental practice he and Mr Cassidy ran together. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr Hasson.”

  Hasson glanced at Devlin and sniffed loudly. “I’m sorry; I don’t recognize you.”

  “I moved with Mr Cassidy when he set up his own new surgery a few months back,” Devlin explained. “Were you part of the hunt today, sir?” Hasson wore riding breeches and a scarlet jacket, like Cassidy.

  Hasson no
dded.

  Patterson spoke for him. “Mr Hasson was the one called the incident in.”

  “I knew we should have called the whole hunt off earlier,” Hasson said. “It was a disaster from the start; the hounds began rioting.”

  Devlin suppressed a smile. “Rioting, sir?”

  “They were running everywhere, following scents all over the place.”

  “Why was that, sir?”

  “I don’t know,” Hasson replied. “It was very embarrassing for Sean. His first hunt as Master and the hounds riot. It’s bad form. He headed into the woods ahead of the rest of us to bring them back. Wanted to save face I suppose. We went after him and when we reached the lip of the quarry he had … he was lying down here. Like this.” His eyes filled and he stepped away from the men a pace.

  “It’s a terrible accident, sir,” Devlin agreed.”

  “Accident?” Hasson snapped. “We were warned the saboteurs would try something. Michael Walker specifically threatened to harm the new Master. You saw the crowd of them out on the roadway. Looking to ruin Sean’s first day.”

  “So being Master’s a big deal?” Devlin asked.

  “It carries a certain, prestige, yes,” Hasson said. “As does Deputy.”

  “Butcher – Mr Cassidy – would be a target for protesters, then?”

  Hasson stared at Devlin. “Of course,” he snapped.

  “Bring Walker in for questioning,” Patterson concluded. “And no more smoking at the scene, either.”

  Devlin waited long enough for Patterson’s retreating figure to disappear from view, then took out the butt he’d rolled in the sycamore leaf. Opening out the leaf fully, he saw on its back flecks of flesh, congealed in oil. He rubbed the flesh between his fingers and sniffed.

  “What was Oscar Wilde’s comment? The unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible,” Mulronney commented, packing away his instruments.