THE FLOWER ARRANGER AT ALL SAINTS a gripping cozy murder mystery full of twists (Suzy Spencer Mysteries Book 1)

by Lis Howell

  ‘Tom Strickland?’

  ‘He was a soldier for years and there could be all sorts of things lurking in his past. And we mustn’t forget Nick Melling, just because he’s a clergyman. He had every reason to try and shut Phyllis up. She was an obstacle to his new ideas, plus she might well have discovered something compromising about him.’

  ‘Yes. And Kevin Jones or Daisy Arthur might have wanted Phyllis kept quiet. We saw last night how passionate these people can get. They’ve both got real evangelical passion. Kevin seems like a fanatic.’

  ‘But we shouldn’t be too hard on him,’ Robert replied. ‘He’s a computer expert who’s found religion, and it means everything to him. Imagine if you had a really personal experience of God talking to you! No wonder he thinks all those things we love about the good old C of E are superficial.’

  ‘But he can be aggressive. As can Tom for that matter. And Alan’s pretty forceful sometimes.’

  Robert deepened his voice, and in an uncanny imitation of Alan Robie he boomed, ‘I say, old boy, what are we telling people?’

  Suzy spluttered over her coffee and laughed. ‘That’s very good.’

  ‘Well, I’m a pompous old fart too, aren’t I?’

  ‘No! You’re not!’ Their eyes met and again Suzy found the blush creeping over her neck. Then Robert took a deep breath. He was suddenly serious.

  ‘Of course there’s someone else you should consider, Suzy.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘You? Why on earth would you want to hurt and frighten Phyllis? She was your wife’s best friend.’

  ‘Yes. Which means she knew an awful lot about us. And not all of it was good, you know . . .’

  Suzy stared at him. Suddenly she saw someone quite different sitting there. Robert no longer looked like Mr Perfect, in his neat tidy house with his neat tidy marriage. For the first time, she saw something haunted in his face. His look was almost pleading and she had to glance down at the books in front of her. There’s something here that I don’t understand, she thought.

  Then, in the heavy silence, she went over things. There had definitely been something intimate about the way he’d talked to Yvonne Wait, huddled in the Bells’ stairwell. She only had his word for it that he hadn’t been involved with her. He could have been having an affair with her before Mary died. Phyllis could have found out and been about to tell George Pattinson.

  Or perhaps Yvonne had dumped him, which was why he hated her so much, and why she had a hold over him?

  Or maybe the hate was just a bluff? Robert had said nothing about Phyllis’s will since their visit to the bungalow. How hard had he tried to find it? Or had he been keen to overlook it and let Yvonne inherit?

  And there was certainly something odd about the way Robert and George Pattinson no longer communicated. He had been the parish priest and one of his dead wife’s closest associates, after all. Had George suspected Robert and Yvonne? Was that why George and Mary had been so close?

  What do I really know about Robert Clark? Suzy thought. Is he trying to help me or to warn me off?

  Her head started to spin with the whirr of the washing machine on its final cycle. She could feel Robert’s eyes willing her to glance up, to lock with his, and to give him permission to talk. I’m not going to do it, she thought. I’m not going to make the eye contact. This has all suddenly become too disturbing.

  ‘Mummy!’ Molly’s voice, with its six years of accumulated outrage, broke the moment. ‘Where are you? What are you doing? I want to show you this book.’

  Suzy jumped with relief. ‘Come here, sweet pea, and show me.’

  Molly was holding a book called The Language of Flowers. It was full of illustrations of Edwardian children, with poems and pictures of flowers.

  ‘Red roses for love,’ Suzy read. ‘That’s pretty, isn’t it, Molly?’ She ran her finger down the page. ‘In this book, all the plants are listed with the things they’re supposed to stand for. It’s got “reed” here. It represents inconstancy. That’s interesting.’ She could look at Robert now. Molly had broken the spell. ‘Perhaps that reed gave us the same message on different levels.’

  ‘Perhaps it did.’ Robert shifted in his chair. He seemed his normal, sensible self again. He smiled at her. But she didn’t smile back. As they sat, looking at each other in silence, the washing machine in the scullery screamed to a halt. I have to get out of here, Suzy thought.

  ‘We ought to go now,’ she said. She stood up unsteadily and went into the utility room. The damp washing clung and twisted round her hands as she hurried to stuff it into the bag. ‘Thanks so much, Robert. It’s been a real help to get this done.’ She stood there awkwardly.

  ‘You’re not going?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. It’s past Molly’s bedtime.’

  ‘But what about your theory about the reed?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s better not to poke around any further, like you said in the first place. You’re only looking into it because I asked you to.’

  He looked bemused at her sudden change. Then he felt a warm but cowardly sense of relief. He had been about to confide in her, and the feeling had been astonishing, challenging. For over thirty years he had only really talked to one person and she was dead. It seemed suddenly ludicrous that he had wanted to open up to Suzy Spencer, of all people. His heart had been pounding and his palms were coated with sweat. But the moment had passed, thank God.

  ‘And about the fence,’ she was saying, ‘I’ll get an estimate from Frank Bell and put the insurance company on to it.’

  I’ve got to get out of this house, she thought. Whatever the truth is, there’s something going on here which gives me the creeps. I’ve made a mistake. I need to keep my distance from people in Tarnfield. It’s not my type of place. There’s too much going on under the surface. I’m an open, urban person. Village life isn’t for me.

  It took a further five minutes to disengage Jake from the computer and Molly from the Girls’ Own Annual 1958, but all that time Suzy avoided Robert’s eyes.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said at the door. ‘And thanks.’

  He listened as she marshalled the children into the car with squeaks from Molly and Jake’s broken-voiced growl. Then she started the car and pulled away.

  So that’s that, he thought. He went back into the kitchen, closed the books and tidied the papers. There was no need to think about Phyllis’s hand again. Or talk to Suzy Spencer either. It had all been a wild-goose chase. Thank goodness he hadn’t given into the awful temptation to tell her things that no one should ever know. The danger was over, but only just. He felt relieved, but also empty and rather cold. He would make a cup of tea and go to bed.

  Suzy drove the short distance to Tarn Acres. The garage was full of Nigel’s stuff, so she parked in the road and struggled to unload a sleepy Molly in her arms. There was a sudden burst of headlights behind her, and Daisy Arthur overtook her and pulled up.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’ve been following you since you came out of The Briars Lane.’

  God, Suzy thought, you could do nothing in Tarnfield without being spotted. But at least it was Daisy who had seen her, not Yvonne, who would have said something snide. Daisy didn’t comment, but leant forward and brushed Molly’s cheek with her lips. ‘She’s sweet,’ she whispered. ‘See you on Sunday, Mrs Spencer. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ Suzy said. She had been thinking of dropping All Saints Church. But seeing Daisy reminded her of how much Molly enjoyed the Sunday School. And where else was there to go? I’m trapped in Tarnfield, Suzy thought as she bundled the children up the stairs. I might as well carry on as I did, before I thought I’d found a friend in Robert, Mr Perfect, who could be as guilty as anyone.

  Later, when they were settled, Jake reading and Molly sleeping, she sat up, wide awake. I didn’t want it to be like this, she thought. I was very near to really liking Robert and I think he liked me too. She put the light out, but she couldn’t sleep. A kaleid
oscope of pictures invaded her mind — the Assyrians at the siege of Lachish with their long dreadlocks and spears, the dead lilies crushed underfoot in the church, Flowerbabe mewling in the bungalow, Isaiah ranting to the Israelites, and Yvonne murmuring under the stairs, ‘I know Mary insisted, I know Mary insisted . . .’

  Uneasy dreams wearied her until morning.

  16

  The Thursday after Low Sunday

  To be true and just in all my dealing.

  From the Catechism

  Frank Bell backed the pick-up to the door of the wood yard factory shop and parked neatly outside. He liked the practical side of the work, and still enjoyed the feel of the various grains of wood under his hands. In the back of the truck was some wood-chip shelving he’d been going to use for the flower vestry at the church. The old metal shelves were dangerous, he reckoned. He’d already delivered some on Easter Saturday but everything had ground to a halt with Phyllis’s death. Now he thought it was time to get on with the job.

  He was whistling as he walked into the shop. It was really a small warehouse with a till which was manned sporadically by him, his wife, their son when he felt like it, and one of the kids from the council estate. Mary Clark had taken her turn too when she’d been alive, but Frank had always thought Mary a bit too grand for the check-out. She’d worked two days a week on the admin side of the business, helping Monica with orders and deliveries. She’d been good, but not dedicated. Mary’s real commitment had been to All Saints.

  Frank had always found her rather distant, and he liked Robert, but he had little in common with either of them. The Clarks had been a closed couple, Frank thought. Not like himself and Monica who tended to keep ‘open house’. Monica was a good old stick. Maybe not a great looker but the backbone of the business.

  The office was upstairs, in a sort of gallery above the shop floor. Frank had built it himself. Cheerily, he went up the stairs two by two.

  ‘Is the kettle on, love?’ he called to his wife. He could see her hunched over some paperwork. She didn’t reply. He walked in, still whistling.

  ‘Monica . . .’ he said. His wife looked back at him, her face pale and crumpled. ‘What is it? Is it Matthew?’

  ‘No, it’s not Matthew. It’s you.’

  ‘Me? What’ve I done?’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Frank. I’ve spent the day going through the books.’

  ‘So . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t get shirty with me. It’s about Tarn Acres.’

  ‘Tarn Acres? What’s going on there? We haven’t done anything at Tarn Acres since it was built ten years ago!’

  ‘Exactly. Ten years ago. So why did those houses have parquet floors? Upstairs and down? It wasn’t even fashionable then, except for really posh places. I always wondered. Those floors were far too expensive, even for executive homes.’

  ‘Well, that was what they asked for. I got a contract.’

  ‘I know you did, Frank, but it doesn’t make sense. Who was the developer? Who stumped up all this money they paid us? Because whoever it was must’ve lost a fortune on the flooring.’

  ‘That’s not my problem, Monica—’

  ‘Oh yes it is. We made a lot of money on that, Frank. Far more than I realized. I’ve looked back at the accounts—’

  ‘I swear to you, Monica, we didn’t do a thing that wasn’t on the level. If they wanted parquet floors, who was I to question it?’

  ‘I’d have questioned it if I’d realized. This happened when I was in hospital, didn’t it? And it was the year I wasn’t well and you got that shifty accountant from Newcastle to do the books. I wasn’t on the ball. But it stinks, Frank.’

  ‘What’s made you dig this up now?’

  ‘Something Yvonne Wait said last night.’

  Frank groaned and sat down in the chair at his desk opposite his wife. ‘Oh God . . .’ he said. ‘Why did she do that?’

  ‘For fun, I expect, because she was miffed. You’d better tell me what she knows, Frank. And then we can sort her out.’

  Frank sat down heavily in front of his angry wife.

  ‘It was Jeff Simpson,’ he said. ‘He was on the board of the development company that built Tarn Acres. Tarnfield Homes. And he’d been knocking off Yvonne for years. Then when you took ill, she turned her attention to me.’ Monica nodded, lips pursed. ‘You knew that, love, I told you . . .’

  Yes, thought Monica, but only after Babs Piefield did first. ‘Go on, Frank,’ she said drily.

  ‘Yvonne wanted new floors in her house. She was ahead of the trend. Everyone else was still into fitted carpets. I gave her a quote and she said it was too high. I forgot about it and then one night when I got back from visiting you in hospital she was waiting for me. I invited her in of course . . .’

  Frank paused for a moment, and remembered Yvonne’s perfume in the warmth of his living room, her shiny hair and the touch of her hand on his arm. They’d got down to it, just the once, on the sofa. It hadn’t really been worth it, Frank thought, and he’d made it clear to Yvonne as she lit a cigarette afterwards that it would never happen again. He’d lived in terror of Monica coming home from hospital and smelling the smoke. Ever since she’d been pregnant with Matthew she could smell cigarette smoke a mile away, and he knew if she ever found out she would never forgive him. That’s why he’d been a pushover for Yvonne’s deal.

  ‘Yvonne told me that she could get me a contract to install parquet floors throughout the new houses they were building in Tarn Acres. And in return, would I give her a hundred per cent discount on new floors for her house? So I did . . .’

  ‘And how did she swing this? Putting pressure on poor Jeff Simpson?’

  Frank lowered his head. ‘I suppose so,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Oh, Frank, how could you have been so stupid?’

  ‘It wasn’t stupid!’ Frank replied, angry now. ‘If Tarnfield Homes, or whatever it was called, chose to ask Bell’s to do the flooring, why not?’

  ‘Because we all know Jeff Simpson has always been strapped for cash. And at some point people might want to look closer at some of his business dealings. They might want to investigate Tarnfield Homes. There were other directors on the board, I assume? You wouldn’t need to run the Bank of England to see that Bell’s were paid way over the odds for flooring that was totally unnecessary. These things can come back to haunt you, you know. And there’s Yvonne . . .’

  ‘Well, she’s hardly likely to blab, is she?’ Frank huffed.

  ‘Oh Frank, use the little bit of brain you’ve got! She’s only got to go to the chairman of Tarnfield Homes or whatever it is now, and let the cat out of the bag, and we’ve had it. She’s pally with people like the Ridleys and the Armstrongs who run local businesses. If she talks, we could be sued. Or at the very least accused of bad practice. She’s got us where she wants us. The only reason she hasn’t called this in before is because she’s had other schemes going on.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, think about it, Frank. I’ve overheard her trying to get Alan Robie’s orchard, and before that she had a go at Nancy Arthur. When Nancy and Roger sold the shop, they kept the land behind it and Yvonne was after that too. And she “persuaded” poor George Pattinson to let her have that pasture which his family owned on the North Road. She’s lethal, Frank.’

  Then Monica thought for a moment. ‘Of course, these schemes might not be coming off. Maybe that’s why she’s decided to start dropping hints about our floors in Tarn Acres.’

  She looked at her husband shrewdly. ‘Is it something to do with this that was eating you on Easter Saturday night? Had she said something to you too?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You’d better tell me, Frank.’

  ‘Oh, if you must know, it was that ruddy Phyllis Drysdale. I saw her when I went up to the church with the two-by-fours for the shelves. She was just going in and she looked worried. I asked her what was wrong and she gave me a funny look and said she needed to talk to someone about some inform
ation she had.’

  ‘Did you think Phyllis had found out about the floors? If Yvonne’s suddenly decided to talk about it, she might be making sly remarks to everyone.’

  Frank looked at her. It was all a bit too complicated for him. But he was sure of one thing — it was better that Phyllis was dead than asking questions, and it was a pity Yvonne couldn’t join her.

  ‘Monica, now we’ve twigged all this, what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But I’ll think of something. And I’ll tell you one thing, Frank: we’re not going into this on our own. The Simpsons have got as much to lose as us. I’m going to call them. This afternoon.’

  Monica got up. As far as she was concerned the discussion was over. Frank had been a bloody idiot but the situation could probably be remedied. Still, she could hardly bear to look at him as she walked out. With her shopkeeper’s instincts she had heard the bell ring in the warehouse as her husband had been talking. There was a client downstairs and, despite all this, there had to be business as usual at Bell’s.

  She was walking down the little staircase when Frank came flying after her.

  ‘Don’t do that, Monica. Don’t call the Simpsons about it,’ he called.

  What if Yvonne told Jeff about me, and that sad bit of nookie we had on the sofa? he thought. If she did, Jeff might tell Monica.

  She looked back at him, anger and contempt mixed in her eyes. Monica loved Frank, but he could be such a fool. With a curt nod of her head in the direction of the shop floor, she indicated that they had a customer who had heard him.

  ‘Shit,’ mumbled Frank, and he went back into the office.

  ‘Hi, Monica,’ said Suzy Spencer. ‘I need an estimate for repairing Robert Clark’s fence.’ Everyone in Tarnfield knew she had knocked it down, thanks to Jane Simpson.

  Monica smiled at her, but then glanced warily up the stairs towards the office. How odd for the Bells to be bickering, Suzy thought. And about the Simpsons too. I didn’t even know they were friendly.

  ‘We should be getting together soon, Monica, to discuss the Whitsun Flower Festival,’ Suzy said cheerily. But Monica merely nodded, and then turned away to pull out a big catalogue. She avoided Suzy’s eyes.