Springtime for Murder

by Debbie Young

  He was rather overdoing the charm.

  “Of course, sir.” She got up to fetch Bunny’s file from a stack of trays. “Ah yes, Mrs Carter.” Flipping it open, she ran a slender forefinger down a page of doctor’s scrawl, then turned the page to inspect some lab reports, before looking up into Hector’s still-smiling eyes.

  “It looks as if she’ll be here for a few more days yet, until the sedatives have left her system. We also need to be sure the bruising has stopped coming out, and we’ll run another liver function test before her release. Do you think she’d taken too many of her prescription sleeping pills by mistake?”

  Hector shook his head. “Her daughter, my cousin, manages her medication, so it seems unlikely.”

  The nurse leaned forward. “Might it have been something she bought over the internet?” She lowered her voice. “She wouldn’t be the first elderly patient to self-medicate inappropriately from an online order. Usually it’s the gentlemen, if you know what I mean.”

  She winked at Hector, and he grinned back, complicit in her suggestiveness.

  Turning my back on their shameless flirting, I went to fetch a paper cup of water from the dispenser in the waiting area, drinking it quickly to resist the temptation to throw it over the pair of them. Then I sat down in an armchair and picked up a trashy magazine from the coffee table. I’d just started reading an interesting article about a woman who had married her grandson’s best friend when Hector strolled over, grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet.

  “Home time, sweetheart.”

  He marched us quickly through the ward’s swing doors and down the corridor towards the exit. Only when we were out of earshot did he deign to speak.

  “I think I got away with it. It sounds as if whatever knocked Bunny out, it wasn’t her own prescription drugs that were in Billy’s pocket. Billy didn’t have a hand in this. Those empty packets much have been a plant.” Anger was rising in his voice as he spoke.

  I stopped and stared at him. “Unless there’s a chance that she was trying to kill herself?”

  He shook his head. “Did you ever see an old lady with less intention of going to her grave? She’s positively sprinting to keep ahead of time’s winged chariot. No, someone’s up to no good here. I just hope to God it wasn’t Kitty. Billy thinks Kitty was drugged too, which is why he couldn’t wake her before the ambulance took Bunny away. But who would have drugged them both, and how, and why?”

  We started down the stairs towards the main entrance.

  “Though I hate to suggest it, I suppose there’s a chance that Kitty drugged Bunny first, hoping to polish her off, then, filled with remorse, took an overdose herself,” said Hector.

  “No, Kitty was only unconscious for a little while. And she bounced back soon enough with little more than a hangover. I didn’t catch whether the nurse said the hospital had reported it to the police.”

  “No. It seems the hospital put it down to patient error, despite the strange circumstances in which Bunny was found. Especially as the ambulance was called by a member of the medical profession. Fellow medics stick together as a rule.”

  I remembered Billy’s resentment of the doctor’s leisure. “Ex-medic.”

  “Once a doctor, always a doctor. Even so, it does seem odd that Dr Perkins didn’t call the police.” He held the fire door open to let me pass through to the entrance lobby.

  “Perhaps, like Billy, he assumed it was just the result of a row between mother and daughter, and he wanted to protect Kitty from prosecution. He must feel some allegiance to them as longstanding patients of his.”

  “Probably. Besides, if a doctor suspected Kitty of attempted murder, not to call the police would count as professional misconduct, or even criminal negligence. It could be enough to get him struck off the medical register.”

  Leaving the building via the revolving door, we headed towards the visitor car park.

  “Now he’s retired, being struck off might not bother him.”

  Hector stopped to look at me. “If someone’s spent their whole career doing a professional job, that will be a huge part of who they are, even in retirement. He wouldn’t want to be ‘Othello, with his occupation gone’. A defrocked priest. A cabbie without a driving licence. But I agree, there’s something odd here. And I don’t get it.”

  Reaching the ticket machine, Hector punched in his vehicle registration and tapped his debit card against the contactless card reader before continuing.

  “I can see an old person might make a mistake with their own prescription, forgetting they’d taken a tablet and accidentally popping a second. I’ve done that with antibiotics before now. But not enough to knock themselves out, before following it up with a solo outing to a graveyard in fancy dress.”

  “Well, if the police aren’t taking an interest, all the more reason for us to, in case there’s more mischief yet to come.” I hesitated. “By the way, I didn’t know you were related to Bunny, until I heard you telling the nurse that she was your aunt. I know half the village is related to each other, but I didn’t know you were part of her family.”

  I was miffed that he had told an attractive stranger in a nurse’s uniform something about himself that I didn’t know.

  Hector slipped the key into the door of his Land Rover. “She isn’t really my aunt, silly. I was just saying that to get the nurse to tell me Bunny’s prognosis.” Was he telling the truth now? “So who do you think is behind it?”

  I grinned. “If it’s motive you’re after, my money’s on that cat lady. Such extravagant gifts! Talk about transparent!”

  Hector shook his head in disbelief at her gall. “On the other hand, maybe one or all of Bunny’s children are impatient for their inheritance and are trying to hasten nature’s course? Perhaps they have money problems?” I shuddered. “I know that’s a horrible thought, but I can’t think of any other reason someone might want to murder her.”

  “A jealous lover?” I said, half in jest, as I climbed up into the passenger seat. “She’s still got charisma, despite her old age.”

  Hector stopped in the middle of fastening his seat belt and stared at me. “Goodness, is that your preferred method for ending a relationship? I’d better watch my back.”

  15 Inspector Murray of the Churchyard

  After we’d parked the Land Rover back at the shop, I persuaded Hector that we should revisit the scene of the crime – for that was what I was now convinced it was – to uncover any clues that we’d missed the previous morning.

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to find that the police had changed their minds, decided to investigate, and cordoned the churchyard off with that special police tape you see on telly, saying ‘Crime Scene, Do Not Enter’?”

  “I’m afraid it’s about as likely as discovering a Bunny-shaped chalk outline at the bottom of the grave.”

  To my disappointment, the only uniformed man we met as we passed through the lychgate was wearing not blue, but black. The Reverend Murray, in full robes for morning service, was standing alone at the foot of the now empty grave, shoulders hunched in quiet contemplation. Someone had spread the artificial grass to cover the open grave again and secured it with a couple of very long logs. At our approach, the vicar looked up forlornly. This episode must have upset him too.

  I hoped our good news from the hospital might cheer him up. “We’ve just been to visit Bunny, and she’s on good form.”

  “I wondered why you weren’t in church,” he said. I hadn’t previously gone to the Sunday service, but given my imminent role as Sunday School teacher, it was something I should have started doing by now. However, nothing had been further from my thoughts when I’d woken up in bed with Hector that morning.

  But the vicar wasn’t about to scold me. He was too preoccupied with thoughts of the grave. “Poor Bunny. This dreadful business has put me in a quandary about Mr Harper’s funeral too.”

  “Who is Mr Harper?” I asked.

  “The rightful owner of this grave. He chose and paid
for the plot years ago and died just last week. Now I don’t know whether to go ahead and use it for his burial, or to start afresh elsewhere. I wouldn’t want his family to feel their father’s grave has been tainted with scandal. The only acceptable time to reuse a grave is if it’s been intended for another occupant all along.”

  I grimaced. “That sounds ghoulish.”

  The vicar raised his eyebrows. “Not at all, my dear. It’s common practice for married couples to buy a joint plot, with the second to die buried on top of the first. Such graves are dug a little deeper, of course, so that the second coffin will still be the regulation depth beneath the surface. This one is a single. Mrs Harper was cremated and her ashes scattered in the woods at bluebell time last year.”

  Scanning the churchyard for joint graves, I spotted one in which the second occupant had been added less than a year after the first.

  “I suppose Bunny’s grave’s already sorted, if she had three dead husbands go before her?” said Hector. “She’ll be spoiled for choice.”

  The vicar shook his head. “Funnily enough, one of her sons phoned to ask me that a week or two ago. I can’t remember now whether it was Stuart or Paul. They both sound the same on the phone. I had to look back through the parish records to find out. It turned out each of her three husbands had a single plot. Perhaps when she buried the third, she hadn’t planned for him to be her last.”

  “He may not be yet,” I said. “You never know, her recent accident may incline her to seize the day and marry again for one last chance of happiness.”

  The vicar sighed. “What it is to be young and romantic.”

  “Did you have any candidates in mind for her, Sophie?” asked Hector, squeezing my hand. “Let’s hope it’s not to some gold-digger marrying her for her money.”

  “Not yet, but if I come across any, I’ll run them past you for approval.”

  “Dear me, this is no way to talk of the blessed sacrament of marriage,” said the vicar, although he was smiling. I was glad we had lifted him out of his despondency. He turned his back on it to give us his full attention.

  Hector steered the conversation back to our investigation. “It must be unusual to bury three husbands in the same churchyard, Vicar, although convenient.”

  I squinted against the sunshine to read more inscriptions. “Where exactly are Bunny’s husbands’ graves?”

  Hector nudged me. “Now who’s being ghoulish?”

  “Follow me.” The vicar led us to one of the newer, shinier headstones, a black slab dotted with tiny sparkles. The fragments of some kind of ore reminded me of the glitter on a Christmas card. “Here’s her most recent husband, Joss Carter.”

  “‘My Last Duchess’,” murmured Hector.

  “Robert Browning,” I replied, pleased to remember that poem from my English GCSE studies.

  Colonising the ground in front of the headstone was a mass of lily-of-the-valley shoots, not yet in bud, but with the promise of their delicate fragrance yet to come. They must have been planted years ago and left to naturalise, like the cluster in my garden under Auntie May’s apple tree – a practical alternative to returning with fresh flowers each week, and the sign of a mourner who had moved on.

  As the vicar led us towards the back of the churchyard, I wondered where my grave would be. And Hector’s. If we were buried together, which one of us would be on top? Which would I prefer? I remembered Billy’s poem: “The grave’s a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace.” It probably wouldn’t matter either way.

  “Here’s old Lucas Brady,” the vicar was saying. “He was her second husband.” The surface was dotted with tiny cyclamen. Then he passed down to an earlier row. “And there’s Mungo Jenkins, her first.” His grave bore only grass.

  “How lovely that Mr Brady’s grave’s got fresh flowers on it too.”

  “They must be from one of his sons,” said the vicar. “They pay the occasional flying visit to the Manor House. Funnily enough, Paul called in at the vicarage only yesterday to offer to repair my faulty guttering – or was it Stuart? No, it was definitely Paul. Stuart’s the accountant, Paul’s the builder. Stuart for sums, Paul plumbs, that’s how I remember which is which. Apparently, Paul’s just started doing a bit of work for Donald at The Bluebird, and Donald told him my guttering needed fixing. But Paul wouldn’t take any payment from me. Very kind of him.”

  He bent down to peer at the plastic flower wrapper. “Yes, fuel-station flowers. Most likely from the garage between here and Slate Green. A token tribute from a man in a hurry. Still, well intended, I’m sure.” As he straightened his back, I caught the forgiving twinkle in his eye.

  “What about her other seven children?” I asked. “Do they ever come back to Wendlebury?”

  “Those were all from her first marriage. Jenkinses, every one of them. All took umbrage when she remarried, and I’m not sure she hears from any of those who are still alive, except perhaps at Christmas. They all left the parish long before I took up my post here, so I don’t know any of them personally.”

  “Strange to have so many children from the first marriage, but only two from the second and one from the third,” I said thoughtfully. “I wonder what happened?”

  “They call it the Pill,” said Hector. “You may have heard of it, Sophie.”

  The vicar looked away to spare my blushes, but I could see his shoulders shaking in silent laughter as he turned his back.

  Feeling sorry for Mungo Jenkins, alone with neither wife nor offspring, I went over to pull a few stray weeds out of his plot. As senior husband, he deserved better. While Hector and the vicar chatted in tones too low for me to hear, I plucked a handful of early daisies from the surrounding grass and made them into a chain as long as my arm, carefully splitting each furry stalk with my thumbnail. Once I’d laid it carefully along the top of Mungo’s headstone, I felt better.

  Then I went to visit Auntie May, her spot now resplendent with the branches of cherry blossom I’d brought from her garden after work the day before. I knew the flowers wouldn’t last long away from the tree. The petals were already starting to blow like confetti in the slight midday breeze.

  I smiled. She’d have liked that. She had enjoyed several trips to Japan to write about cherry blossom.

  The vicar took his leave. “Sunday dinner time,” he called across to me cheerfully. “Mustn’t be late for my dear wife.”

  He’d probably already booked their joint plot.

  Hector strolled over to admire May’s new headstone and gave it an affectionate pat.

  “Fancy lunch at The Bluebird?” He checked his watch. “It’ll give us strength to go and report to Kitty on our hospital visit.”

  I suspected Hector was just trying to put off returning to the Manor House, but when we arrived at the pub, I discovered he had other plans.

  16 Courting Paul

  Instead of heading for our usual booth, Hector strode up to the bar. Settling on a stool, he leaned forward on the counter, flashing a big, open smile at Donald, who was busy replenishing a basket with packets of mixed nuts from a cardboard box. I perched on the stool beside him.

  “Afternoon, you two. What are you both looking so cheerful about?” He rolled his eyes. “All right for some, able to lie about in bed all morning.”

  Hector tried to look more serious. “Actually, we were up with the lark, doing our social duty. We’ve just been to see Bunny Carter in hospital.”

  Donald folded the empty cardboard carton down flat and tucked it under the counter. “Was her son Paul there? He said he’d be paying her a visit today.”

  “I wouldn’t know him if I saw him,” I said.

  “You can’t miss him. He looks just like Kitty, only thinner, taller, balder and less addled. Much thinner than he used to be, come to think of it. Anyone would think his wife doesn’t feed him. Mind you, he was eating heartily enough when he was in here last night, so it’s not for lack of appetite. Maybe they’ve split up.”

  I pursed
my lips and waved an admonishing finger at him. “Donald! That’s how rumours start!”

  He grinned. “Only joking. We were glad to have his custom. Enthusiastic eaters are always welcome in our restaurant.”

  “The vicar was just telling us Paul had also called in to see him yesterday,” said Hector.

  “About Bunny?”

  “About the vicarage guttering. He offered to fix it for free.”

  “That’s good of him,” said Donald. “I did drop Paul a little hint. Nice of him to follow it up. And he’s given me an excellent price for the next round of building work in my courtyard. I’ve told him he can start tomorrow if he’s got the manpower available.”

  A middle-aged man in gardening clothes, seated further along the bar, got up to shift his stool closer to us. Donald and Hector seemed to know him, though I didn’t. He leaned over confidentially. “Brady’s just currying favour, if you ask me.” He tapped the side of his nose. “He’s trying to get people on side for when he’s in a position to apply for planning permission to convert the Manor House into a care home. There’s no guarantee he’ll get it without effective lobbying and local support.”

  “He’s rather counting his chickens, isn’t he?” said Hector. “What makes him think it’s his to plan for? Bunny told me she’s keeping the terms of her will a secret.”

  Donald set our usual drinks in front of us.

  “Can you start a tab for us, please?” said Hector. “We’re staying for lunch.”

  “Will do,” said Donald, scribbling on his pad.

  Hector watched the head on his beer settle. “But I can see why he’s so keen. If he did it up like his other care homes, it would add value to the property and provide a good income. In its current state, it’s just a money pit. It needs loads of work done to the fabric of the building just to bring it back into good repair. Bunny and Kitty will never be able to fund any work like that.”