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

by Lis Howell

  While Jake and Molly watched telly, she sat at the computer.

  Dear Robert, she began, I’m sorry I haven’t been in contact for a while. And I never really thanked you for letting me use your washing machine. Can we meet?

  19

  Whit Saturday

  Yea, the time cometh, that whosoever killeth you will think that he doeth God service.

  From the Gospel for the Sunday after Ascension, John 16:2

  This was the third time Suzy and Robert had faced each other over his kitchen table. Molly had gone to Carlisle for Saturday morning, with her new best friend’s parents, and Jake was playing football. Robert had phoned Suzy in response to her email and suddenly it had seemed quite clear that she should go and see him straight away.

  She took a deep breath and said, ‘I’ve been avoiding you, because I thought you might have been the person who injured Phyllis. But now I realize that was stupid, and I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not stupid. After all, I told you I might be a suspect.’

  ‘I know you did. But you wanted me to be sure it wasn’t you.’

  ‘Yes. You were bound to think of me at some point so I thought I’d bring it up and we could talk it through. There were things I thought you needed to know. But then . . .’

  ‘I freaked. I thought you were going to confess!’

  ‘I was, in a sense. But I wasn’t going to confess, Suzy. I was going to confide.’

  ‘You don’t need to. You see, Yvonne Wait came to see me yesterday. And after a very large glass of wine, she told me all about it.’

  Robert suddenly leapt up from the table, and then leant his hands on it and stared down at Suzy. But he wasn’t frightening. Of the two of them, he looked the more worried.

  ‘What did Yvonne tell you?’

  ‘Please don’t ask me to repeat it. But Yvonne said everyone in Tarnfield knew.’

  ‘Suzy, what are you talking about?’

  Suzy gulped. ‘Mary and George Pattinson. Of course I should have been able to work it out for myself. That would explain why Mary was so keen to befriend me, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I wasn’t Mary’s type at all, was I? But perhaps she wanted to divert any suspicions I might have had after finding her with George in the church. Why else would she be so pleased to take somebody like me under her wing?’

  And by telling everyone you were a flake, she could ensure that anything you said would be taken with a pinch of salt, Robert thought. Except Suzy’s not a flake at all. Oh Mary. You were so clever and so scared.

  And you’re clever too, Suzy, but actually you’ve got it wrong.

  He groaned and slumped down at the table. ‘So you thought my wife and George Pattinson were having an affair! Oh Suzy, if only it was that simple!’

  * * *

  For goodness’ sake, Yvonne Wait thought. It was Saturday morning and the church looked a complete mess. There was orange paper and foil all over the pews, and there were the huge paper sunflowers for the centrepiece of the first swag, ready and waiting. Only half an hour previously, Yvonne had had a phone call asking her to go down to the church to help put up the first of the decorations.

  She’d been surprised to be roped in at such a late stage, but nobody else at All Saints was particularly capable, she thought. It had been the responsibility of others to actually get the stuff put up. But, as usual, people had fallen short of her expectations. It was a good job she was practical and creative. She looked with satisfaction at the arrangement of Pieris floribunda with guelder roses and eucalyptus that she’d ordered from the florists in Carlisle and brought to the church the day before. Nobody needed to know she hadn’t made it, and anyway she’d virtually designed it.

  Suzy Spencer’s efforts were much tackier. It wouldn’t take long to put these things on the pillar, and if she did the first one then the others could just follow her example. At least the ladder was here, propped ready. Yvonne was wearing her flounced skirt, but she’d been sensible enough to put on her flat ballerina slippers. The bracelet, a gift from her friend the hospital administrator, moved seductively around her left ankle. Nobody is here to look up my skirt, she thought, so I might as well get on with it.

  Gripping the sunflowers in her left hand, Yvonne started up the ladder. It wasn’t very high, just about fifteen feet, up to the hook coming out of the pillar where they always hung the Christmas holly and ivy. It was quite a good idea, this Whitsun effort, she thought, though she would never give Suzy Spencer the satisfaction of hearing her say it. Suzy was getting a bit too prominent at All Saints. It had been fine when Mary Clark had been telling everyone how hopeless Suzy was, but now Suzy seemed to be coming into her own. That wasn’t a good development. Yvonne wanted to manage everything, because that way she could keep her finger on the pulse of what was going on in the village, and her victims nicely under control.

  She slotted the sunflower bouquet neatly over the hook, and then slowly climbed down. This was really quite easy. She couldn’t think what all the fuss was about.

  Next, she grasped the streamers of wallpaper and foil that represented the flames. She began to climb the ladder again. At the top, it was rather more difficult. The stiff cardboard flames had to go upward, and the flowing loose pieces of wallpaper had to hang down. It was quite a struggle to get them into place. Yvonne worked hard, the pink tip of her tongue protruding. She pulled at one of the streamers and felt the ladder sway suddenly.

  ‘Oops!’ she said aloud. ‘Better be careful.’ Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement beneath her. ‘Oh, there you are,’ she called to the person below. ‘I’m glad you’ve managed to get yourself here after calling me out. That’s right, hold the ladder . . .’

  But strangely, the ladder was swaying even more now.

  ‘Hold on to it, you fool!’ Yvonne shouted. But the ladder, with a scraping noise, was slipping sideways off the pillar. For a second it seemed to right itself, but that only caused it to gain more momentum as it hovered and then swung widely into space.

  Yvonne looked down in horror. She could swear that the person at the bottom of the ladder was actually pulling it away from the pillar. And laughing. With a sickening lurch, the ladder swayed backwards, forwards, then backwards again to bring Yvonne crashing down. She had no time to scream before the back of her head cracked on the stone of the chancel steps.

  * * *

  Alan Robie had popped home after a quick pre-prandial snifter at the Plough, to find Church Cottage in chaos. Instead of the Provençal tablecloth meeting his eyes, with a carafe of white wine, and the freshly baked quiche he had expected to smell as he came in the door, there was flour all over the counter. An egg was smashed on the floor. There was a coffee mug half full of cold scummy brown liquid, and an empty glass with the dregs of what smelt like brandy on the table. Nigel Slater, Stevie’s favourite cookery writer, was tipped up on the floor.

  ‘Stevie!’ he called. ‘Where are you?’

  There was no answer. My God, Alan thought, has the boy run off? Stevie hadn’t been himself for the last few weeks. He knew Stevie had been to see Nick Melling at least twice, and although the older man had been consumed with jealousy, he had used all his reserves to prevent himself quizzing his lover when he returned. He had always kept his jealousy under control. Alan Robie was nobody’s fool. He knew quite well that when Stevie went back to Town, he made the occasional trip to clubs like Heaven or Chariots. Stevie was always so much more loving and imaginative when he came back. And Alan got a buzz from the fact that Stevie had been down in the fleshpots but still returned to Tarnfield.

  ‘Stevie!’ he called again, feeling the claw of fear in his throat. ‘Stevie?’ But there was no reply. Alan pushed his feet back into his green wellingtons. He was going to have to find him. But just as he reached the back door of the cottage, it swung inwards, and Stevie stood there, his eyes swollen with tears, his hands hunched into his tight-fitting safari jacket. He looked frozen.


  ‘Stevie . . . What’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh Alan.’ Stevie stumbled forward and into his lover’s arms. ‘Oh Alan, I’ve got to tell you, but you’ll never forgive me . . .’

  ‘Whatever it is, I will. Trust me. Where have you been?’

  ‘In the church, Alan. I’ve been in All Saints. And I’ve seen something terrible.’

  * * *

  Suzy was late back for lunch after being at Robert’s. It was raining and she drove home quickly. She had to brake sharply to avoid Stevie Nesbit who was crossing the road from the church, but it didn’t really register. She was in a hurry. She was planning to start preparing for the decorating party at two o’clock so she didn’t have much time. But a few minutes later, as she gulped her hot minestrone and cut the crusts off Molly’s cheese sandwiches, she was still thinking about what Robert had said to her that morning.

  ‘I can understand why people thought Mary and George were having an affair. That’s why they’ve turned their backs on George now. And why they treat me with kid gloves. They pretend Mary was a saint for my benefit. But people don’t know the real story . . .’ He had stopped.

  Suzy nodded. A few years earlier she would have badgered Robert until he told her everything, but she had learnt that waiting was best. It was a professional technique she had perfected on Living Lies. And she was older and wiser now. If people told you things before they were ready, they might hate you for forcing the issue. And she didn’t want Robert to hate her.

  She said quietly, ‘But if you won’t tell me what the real story is, how can I be sure you didn’t hurt Phyllis?’

  ‘You can’t. But it wasn’t me. Trust me.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell me? You were going to, last time.’

  ‘But it would have been wrong. I was tempted, just to make myself feel better. But it reflects badly on someone else. And it would have put pressure on you.’

  I suppose that’s right, Suzy thought. Knowing secrets isn’t comfortable, unless you’re like Yvonne, using other people’s problems to feather your own nest.

  ‘So what are you asking me to do, Robert?’

  ‘I want you to go on working with me. For Phyllis’s sake I want to find out who put that reed through her hand.’

  Suzy had sipped her coffee. This time, she didn’t break the eye contact. Trust is like faith, she thought. You either have it or you don’t. And now I do.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Let’s talk next week, after the Whitsun Festival. If that goes well, there’ll be a different atmosphere at All Saints.’

  ‘That’ll be the day!’ Robert had laughed.

  He’d seemed enormously relieved. And she felt better too. She had hurried home soon afterwards, still curious but quite calm. Robert will tell me in time what this is all about, she thought. I have to forget Yvonne’s bitchy remarks and be patient until he’s ready.

  That afternoon, the rest of the regulars were due at the church at two thirty. Frank Bell had offered to drop a ladder off early in the morning on his way to Hexham. Daisy was going early to prepare, and the Joneses had agreed to come, as had Monica. It would be a real community effort, Suzy thought.

  But she was wrong. At a quarter to two the phone rang. It was Daisy and she was hysterical.

  ‘Suzy,’ she wailed. ‘There’s been a horrible accident. Yvonne’s fallen off a ladder and I think she’s dead. And Suzy . . . she looks really weird!’

  20

  Whit Saturday afternoon, continued

  Suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death to fall from thee.

  From the Burial of the Dead

  Daisy had called Nick Melling, and Robert too. Robert ran to his car and drove at top speed to All Saints. He found her cowering at the back of the church, shivering with shock. He put his jacket around her and walked up the aisle to the chancel. Yvonne Wait was on her back, her head surrounded by a halo of congealed blood. But the horror was not just that Yvonne was dead. She was lying there, wide-eyed, and virtually bald-headed. Her beautiful glossy hair had been cropped to within half an inch of her skull.

  Robert had been dialling 999 on his mobile as he approached her. ‘Ambulance. And police,’ he said.

  He could hear Daisy crying now, and Suzy Spencer’s voice. ‘Don’t look,’ he said, ‘it’s pretty nasty.’ But Suzy was beside him.

  ‘Good God!’ she said. ‘What’s happened to her hair?’ It was a professional-looking job, which changed Yvonne’s appearance completely.

  ‘It’s gone.’ Robert said grimly. He felt an urge to be sick, and turned away. Suzy was tougher than he’d thought.

  ‘I’ve seen a few horror scenes,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I started out as a local news reporter. Traffic accidents, things like that. But this is weird, like Daisy said . . .’ She felt nauseous now, but made herself concentrate.

  ‘Daisy called you too?’

  ‘Yes. The rest of us were supposed to meet here at two thirty, but Daisy had the afternoon off from Lo-cost and got here first. Yvonne must have decided she could do better than the rest of us, and turned up this morning by herself. How long has she been dead?’

  ‘At least a few hours by the look of it. Was Yvonne supposed to be part of the group?’

  ‘Oh no, she hadn’t offered to help. That’s what’s strange about this. I was due to meet Daisy, Monica and the Joneses. Not Yvonne.’

  A trailing mass of orange and gold paper lay half hidden by Yvonne’s body.

  ‘Hang on,’ Suzy went on. ‘What’s this greenery?’ To one side, there was a sprinkling of green leaves. ‘We weren’t going to use any foliage with the swags. What’s this doing here?’

  She was about to scoop up the leaves when Robert said, ‘Don’t touch it, Suzy . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Look . . .’

  Suzy peered at the foliage, dark against the grey and white tiles of the chancel. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’

  ‘I think it’s a pattern,’ Robert said. ‘It’s not just random. Come over and see it from here.’

  Suzy walked over to stand beside him. ‘God! I think you’re right,’ she whispered.

  They stood looking at the leaves. ‘It doesn’t make sense. 133116,’ he said.

  ‘Or eighteen W small B. Something like that. It’s really peculiar.’

  They had neither of them noticed that Daisy had come to join them. ‘Oh no, it’s awful,’ she started saying, again and again. Her eyes were wide with horror.

  ‘You’re in shock,’ Suzy said. ‘Come on, Daisy, let’s go to the vicarage. Poor Yvonne has had a terrible accident, but we can do nothing for her now.’

  ‘But her hair!’ wailed Daisy.

  ‘I know, I know, but she might have had it cut this morning . . . we don’t know.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have done that!’ Daisy sobbed. She went forward as if compelled to look closer, and slipped on the chancel steps. Robert rushed forward to catch her, but her feet scattered the leaves as he did so. Suzy shot him a glance as he held the shuddering Daisy close to him.

  ‘Well, whatever the hellebore was saying, it’s gone now,’ she said.

  ‘Hellebore?’

  ‘Yes, those serrated green leaves. It’s dried hellebore. I know because it was one of Phyllis’s favourites for the sort of displays she and Mary used to do. It was far too fiddly for me, but they loved it. There was usually some in a jug in the vestry . . .’

  She felt she was gabbling, overcompensating for the silence of the church and the horror of Yvonne’s staring, unresponsive eyes. I may be resilient, she thought, but I’m not that tough. This is awful.

  The sound of the ambulance and the arrival of a pale Nick Melling interrupted her chattering. Nick had waited until the police were on the scene before coming into the church himself. He seemed to Suzy to be distracted, yet at the same time determined. He moved to stand near his parishioners, but avoided their eyes and said nothing, waiting for the officials to set some sort of
process in motion.

  He really needs to brace himself for all this, Suzy thought. It’s awful for all of us, but Nick is the most disturbed. Some people can cope even though it’s grim, like Robert. Some people go to pieces like Daisy. And some people positively enjoy the drama, like Alan Robie. Though why is Alan here? He wasn’t supposed to be involved in the decorating.

  ‘Robert! Nick!’ Alan’s deep brown voice and heavy footfall preceded the emergency services as they stood at the back of the church and took stock. ‘What is it, this time?’ he boomed. ‘Good Lord, it’s Yvonne. She must have fallen.’

  ‘Thanks, everyone, please move back,’ said the chief paramedic. The policemen who followed him seemed huge and official, out of place in the church but bringing their own brand of gravitas. The larger of the two went to speak quietly to Nick, who was wearing his clerical collar, and drew him aside. The other policeman came over to Daisy, Suzy and Robert.

  ‘Who found her?’ he asked.

  ‘It was me,’ Daisy whispered. She was shaking again, under Robert’s jacket.

  ‘Let’s go to the back and I’ll take some details,’ said the officer. ‘Then we need to get you something to take for the shock.’ Daisy was crying again, making no attempt to wipe her eyes. The policeman guided her by the arm, down the nave to the last pew, and Robert and Suzy followed them like some grim wedding party. They glanced at each other.

  ‘Phyllis?’ said Robert.

  ‘We should mention it,’ said Suzy firmly. ‘This isn’t a coincidence. Think about the hair.’

  Robert shuddered. He was very pale. ‘It’s the same thing, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘A message. But what?’

  The policeman motioned them into the pew.

  * * *

  It was five o’clock that evening before Suzy got home. She felt dirty and tired. In her hurry to get out earlier, she had failed to locate Sharon Strickland, so had called Babs Piefield, who had dashed around to mind Molly. Babs was waiting all agog to hear the details, but Suzy just wanted to be alone with her children.