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

by Lis Howell

  When she had finished eating, she wandered into the cathedral close with its beautiful eighteenth-century houses, still in the same dark sandstone, with the medieval archway leading into the city. There was a clear sense of the ancient layout. She put her head inside the huge wooden cathedral door. There were two or three people working inside, primping at flower arrangements and sorting service books for the weekend, and one woman was polishing, so the scent of beeswax drifted over the dark shiny wood. There were a couple of tourists talking softly with a smiling verger figure in a robe. It had a warm, accessible air.

  Suzy sat down at the back and thought about when she had tiptoed into All Saints at Tarnfield. There had been the same sense of care and communal effort there too. She shut her eyes and remembered how suddenly Mary Clark had appeared at the end of the pew, with George Pattinson a few yards behind. Yet at the time she had had no sense of disturbing them. Surely if they’d been having a tryst in the church, she would have seen them jumping apart or something, as she had jumped away from Robert the day before? She tried hard to recreate the scene, but she remembered nothing except a sense of being welcomed. Yet she knew that everything pointed to George and Mary having an affair. Whatever Robert said, Yvonne Wait had asserted it, categorically.

  And to some extent Suzy wanted it to be true. She was sick of Mary being Mrs Perfect, and she was jealous too. She thought about Robert in his shirtsleeves and jeans, waiting for them in the car park at the Scar. He had looked quite young, and he had the sort of build she liked. She’d had enough of Nigel’s self-conscious style and gymlean figure.

  She knew she was getting dependent on Robert because he was her only friend in Tarnfield. And she missed the physical closeness of Nigel — not Nigel as such, but as a man and a companion. The empty space in the bed was getting bigger. But there was no point in getting remotely fond of Robert if he was still in love with his wife. Or even if he was prepared to move on, but with Mary’s blessing. That wouldn’t feel right. Suzy knew that she couldn’t bear to come second, even to a memory. If she and Robert were to have a relationship, she didn’t just want to be different from his wife — she had to be better. It wasn’t a very nice thing to acknowledge, but it was human nature. Her nature, anyway. She was made that way.

  But all the cards were stacked in Mary’s favour. People always edited their memories and she was sure Robert was no different. However hard you tried, it was nearly impossible to really recall the sense of fear or apprehension, or worry or suspicion once it was over. You just remembered how events turned out, not how you anticipated them. So Mary was bound to become even more perfect in retrospect.

  She got up and walked past the department stores to the Citadel, the big Victorian sandstone towers which gave the city its tough Border appearance the moment you got off the train, and then she strolled down to the station. It was festooned with flowers now, but it still squatted, strong and square as if expecting a regiment of Border reivers or Jacobite rebels to get off the 0930 from Euston. I wonder what Rachel will think of me, she thought, looking down at her old denim jacket, baggy trousers and trainers. The train pulled in, sleek and growling, smelling of brake fluid and metal and hot plastic, and suddenly after the tense waiting there was the drama of people disembarking. As always, Suzy couldn’t see anyone specific in the bustle of people and bags and kids and luggage, so Rachel appeared right in front of her while she was still peering short-sightedly into the distance.

  ‘My God, it’s freezing up here,’ Rachel was saying, wrapping her woollen jacket round her tiny body. Suzy pulled her close in a hug.

  As always, it was as if they’d last met over a cappuccino the day before. While Suzy skirted the roundabout at the Sands, and took the road to the east, Rachel was still talking about the stupidity of the latest director on Living Lies.

  ‘But it’s beautiful here.’ Rachel stopped gossiping for a second to pay respect to the scenery and then started again. She only paused a little later to say, ‘So this is terrifying Tarnfield,’ as Suzy slowed down into the village. It helped, Suzy thought, to find that all the same things were bugging Rachel as had bugged her in the past, that no one’s life was perfect and that the world beyond Tarnfield was full of frustrations too. The commissioning editor was incapable of honesty, the producer had been promoted beyond her ability, the director was a fuck-wit, and the programme was only saved by the team, who were wonderful but thoroughly exploited.

  ‘But nobody cares what we think,’ Rachel said cheerily. ‘Wow, your house is quite nice. The street’s tiny, Suzy, not like Hampstead Garden Suburb at all.’

  An hour later she allowed Suzy to drag her out into the fresh air wearing a jacket and pullover over a twin set, with a pair of borrowed lace-ups, but the country walk was really only a pretext for Rachel to see The Briars.

  ‘So this is where he lives! Not bad. It would be worth a couple of million in Clapham.’

  ‘And even more in Barbados! Anyway, nice as it is, it’s a bit too big to look after, if you ask me. Still, it’s not a stately home like Tarnfield House.’

  They walked back past the Simpsons’ early Victorian pile, which duly impressed Rachel, but she pointed out that the windows needed replacing and the huge door was warped. Suzy was surprised. She hadn’t realized how much the place had deteriorated since she had moved to Tarnfield. Rachel raved about Yvonne’s Georgian town house and expressed admiration for Alan Robie’s efforts at Church Cottage. Then they passed All Saints, skirted the Green and ambled into the Plough for a quick drink, where Rachel caused great amusement by asking for Kir Royale and settling for something sparkly with a dash of sweet dark cordial.

  ‘How’s Jeff Simpson?’ Suzy asked the barman.

  ‘Out of intensive care, I hear,’ he replied. ‘Funny how Lady Jane’s got two of them to look after now.’ He smiled cheekily, and moved off to tell a group of darts players about the woman from London demanding blackcurrant fizz.

  ‘So what about your murder mystery?’ Rachel demanded.

  ‘Shush!’ Suzy lowered her head. ‘It’s not a murder mystery and anyway we shouldn’t talk about it in here.’

  ‘Suzy, those are contradictory statements. So when am I going to get to meet the lovely Robert?’

  Suzy squirmed even more. ‘Tomorrow, over supper, but till then we’ve got loads of time to talk. Oh, and I want you to help me with a neighbourhood thing.’ She explained about sitting with Nancy.

  ‘It’s like being in The Archers.’ Rachel giggled. ‘But it’s OK by me. And then it’s dinner with the gorgeous man?’

  ‘Yes! But keep your voice down,’ Suzy hissed.

  ‘My God, what’s got into you? You never used to worry abut what people thought.’

  ‘Well, I do now!’

  Rachel laughed out loud. ‘Time you came back to London for a long weekend. Bring the widower! Now, what about another of these delicious Ribena cocktails. The barman’s quite cute too!’

  Suzy watched her friend sashay to the bar. She was right. It had been too easy to get sucked into the Tarnfield value system. What did it matter what Babs Piefield or Jane Simpson thought? And Yvonne Wait? But Yvonne had been different, Suzy reminded herself. She had been dangerous.

  That night, over a bottle of wine, she told Rachel all about it. Her friend’s good sense soon asserted itself. Rachel could be a laugh but above all she was sensible.

  ‘I think you might be right about something sinister going on. But that’s not your problem. Your big worry’s Jake. You need to find out what he was up to. It could have been drugs, Suzy. They’re rife everywhere, perhaps even more so here where the kids have less to do.’

  ‘I know. I thought of that but I decided that if he said he wasn’t going to get involved with that gang again, I’d let it go.’

  ‘But even if that’s what Jake says, he might not be able to avoid this awful Bell kid. This is a small place.’

  ‘True.’ Suzy sighed. ‘You’re right. I’ll tackle Jake when he comes back fr
om Nigel’s.’

  That decision made things easier. Once Tarnfield matters were out of the way, they could go on talking till past midnight. The great thing about long-term friends, Suzy thought, was that you got beyond posturing.

  ‘It’s funny,’ she said; ‘when Nigel left I thought that my sex life would be over, for a few years at any rate. I was stuck here in Tarnfield with a bit of freelance work, mostly with other women or gay men. So who was I going to meet?’

  ‘And then . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘So you’re confirming that you’ve met someone? Is it the widower? Am I right?’

  Suzy’s instinct was to laugh it off but she knew her friend would see through her. She was surprised to feel heat creeping over her neck. ‘I’m not stupid enough to compete with a dead woman who had an affair with the vicar!’

  ‘Well, there was that film director from Granada. The one you said couldn’t find the clitoris, but caught your sore toe every time!’

  Suzy threw a cushion at her. Rachel stopped laughing. ‘But seriously, Suzy, I hope you don’t fancy someone who’s in love with the past. I can see you blushing.’

  ‘Bollocks. It must be a hot flush. C’mon, it’s time for bed.’

  * * *

  Nearly a fortnight after his bombshell had hit the congregation at All Saints, Nick Melling sat with Kevin Jones in the vicarage to take stock.

  ‘I’m surprised how calmly everyone’s taken it.’

  ‘Me too, Nick, me too. But then again what could they do?’ Kevin chuckled happily. But Nick was really rather disappointed. He had progressed from dreading any confrontation to working himself up to being pilloried and loathed, and it was mildly frustrating to find his martyrdom de trop.

  ‘Have you heard from Daisy at all?’ he enquired.

  ‘No, not a dicky bird,’ Kevin grunted. ‘I don’t know if she’s really up for it, Nick. I mean, she’s got a lot of friends and neighbours in the old guard.’

  Nick didn’t mention that Daisy had come round after dark the evening before. He’d kept her on the doorstep. He was worried about being compromised. Daisy had seemed supportive. She asked him twice about the Bible study group.

  ‘The Bible is so important, Nick. We really do have to start studying it again. I’m sure I can persuade some of my old school friends to join us. Some have got young families now and I know they’re just the sort of people you want. I could do a lot to help.’

  He really didn’t want any form of Bible study to prepare for. It was so much effort. And however hard you tried, people brought their own ideas along.

  ‘Thank you so much, Daisy. But you work full-time. And have your mother to look after.’ That gave him a thought. ‘Perhaps if you just got your mum to come to church that would be a beginning.’ What a bright move! It would give her something evangelical to do while keeping her out of his hair.

  ‘My mum. Yes.’ Daisy had looked at him anxiously. ‘You haven’t ever talked to her about the church, have you?’

  ‘Good heavens no.’ Nick felt a shiver of anxiety. ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘No!’ Daisy almost yelped. ‘No, don’t do that, Nick. My mum’s too ill to go to church.’

  ‘Well, of course I could bring the sacrament to your house.’ Nick wasn’t really keen on this idea. It was a lot of effort for one communicant.

  ‘No! Mum’s not confirmed. Or baptized.’ Daisy’s voice sounded suddenly loud. ‘But I promise, Nick, really, I’ll try and get Mum to think about it.’ Then her head dropped as if defeated. She turned to walk away, drooping slightly. It was really too much, Nick thought. As if he didn’t have enough to do reorganizing the parish and leading them in a new direction, without having to worry about individuals like Nancy Arthur.

  He had gone back inside to work on his new service sheet. He had been worried over whether he ought to lead the intercessions as well as do the sermon. That was one of the things he had asked Kevin Jones to meet him to discuss.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked, safe in the knowledge that Kevin would agree with anything he suggested.

  ‘I dunno,’ Kevin said. ‘I suppose if someone else leads the praying there’s a danger of, y’know, off-message ideas.’

  ‘Absolutely!’ Nick sighed. He was going to have to take on everything himself. He wrote NM in the margins next to ‘Prayers’, and glanced over at Kevin, who was scratching his bottom. What a pity he was so unappealing, Nick suddenly thought disloyally. Still, Kevin was the cross he had to bear. If only there had been someone in the parish he could really relate to, someone with an attractive manner who talked the same language — modern argot laced with intelligent insight. Kevin coughed and massaged his fleshy ear luxuriantly.

  There was a ring on the vicarage doorbell. Sighing again, Nick rose to answer it. It would probably be Daisy, back for another try at penetrating his defences. Despite the warm weather it was cool and dark in the hall, and he put the bright overhead light on. When he opened the door, the person on the doorstep was fully illuminated.

  Nick almost stepped back in surprise. In front of him was one of the most handsome young men he had ever seen. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, his long legs in slim-fitting black trousers and his blond highlights shining in the harsh electric light.

  He had a soft, educated voice. ‘Nick Melling?’ he said. ‘I wonder if I could have a word with you? I want some personal advice, and it’s hard to know where to get it in Tarnfield on a Friday night. We haven’t met, though you know my mother.

  ‘My name is Russell Simpson.’

  36

  The weekend of the First Sunday after Trinity, continued

  Have pity upon us miserable sinners, who now are visited with great sickness.

  From the Prayer in the time of any common Plague

  On Saturday afternoon, their hangovers dulled by smoked salmon, scrambled eggs and about a gallon of tea, Suzy and Rachel ventured out and turned towards the Arthurs’ house.

  ‘If this woman has got ME and a heavy cold and doesn’t want to get out of bed, how do we get in?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘Babs Piefield put her key through my letterbox this morning,’ Suzy explained.

  Actually, Babs had rung the doorbell three times first, but Suzy hadn’t answered. She’d been wearing her pyjamas and much-used dressing gown, and had felt as if walking down the hallway might dislodge her head. And she hadn’t wanted to listen to Babs rabbiting on.

  Suzy struggled with the lock. Then the key turned and the door swung inwards. The Arthurs’ house was completely quiet. Like all the houses in Tarn Acres it had parquet floors, but these were covered with expensive oriental rugs. The wallpaper was dark blue and there were several heavy original paintings in twisted gilt frames. As in Suzy’s house, the kitchen opened straight from the hall, open-plan style, but there was a separate front room to the right.

  ‘I feel really awkward,’ Rachel whispered.

  ‘Me too. Hello . . . Nancy?’ Suzy called.

  From the room to the right there was the sound of someone waking, the sharp gasp of breath and the rustle of bedding. Suzy knocked on the half-open door. ‘Hello,’ she said again. ‘Mrs Arthur?’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ Rachel said. She slipped down the hallway.

  A disembodied voice, confused with sleep, answered from inside the downstairs bedroom. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Suzy Spencer. Babs Piefield asked me to call.’

  There was an audible sigh. ‘Oh dear,’ groaned Nancy Arthur. ‘Just hang on a minute . . .’

  While she waited, Suzy peered at the expensive paintings in the hall.

  Then Nancy called: ‘Come in.’ Unlike the hall, the bedroom was light and feminine, modern, decorated in white and pink, with a huge double bed facing a television. Nancy Arthur was a big woman but everything around her was to scale. She had pulled a pink dressing gown round her shoulders.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked. ‘And how did you get in?’
<
br />   ‘I’m sorry we startled you. Babs gave me her key. She needed to go and pick up Tom Strickland from hospital so she asked me and my friend to sit with you instead.’

  Nancy relaxed. She raised her eyes. ‘That’s typical of Babs. What a commotion! I’m quite capable of staying by myself. To be honest, it’s almost a relief . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry. We’ll go . . .’

  ‘No, please, I didn’t mean to be unpleasant to you. It’s just that Babs fusses so much. She wants to be needed, you know.’ Nancy blew her nose into a large pink tissue.

  ‘But this is embarrassing for us! Look, now we’re here is there anything we could do for you? Make a cup of tea?’

  ‘I don’t usually like people having to look after me. I always leave a tray ready for Babs so she doesn’t need to do anything more than boil water. But if there are three of us . . . Oh dear, I’d get up if it wasn’t for this awful cold . . .’ Nancy heaved in the bed like a small earthquake.

  ‘We can do that.’ Suzy called out: ‘Put the kettle on, Rache.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind.’ Nancy looked agitated. ‘Does Daisy know you’re here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh dear! Perhaps we should call her?’

  There was no need. They heard the sound of a car pulling up sharply. Within minutes there was the rasp of another key in the lock, and Daisy came huffing in, scattering jackets and bags.

  ‘Mum . . . are you OK? Who’s that woman in the kitchen?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Spencer and her friend, dear. They’ve come instead of Babs.’

  ‘So there are two of them? I saw Babs driving out of the village when I was checking the lemonade delivery. I was really surprised because she always sits with you on Saturdays.’ Daisy started plumping up Nancy’s pillows and straightening the bed around her mother.

  ‘She asked us to come instead,’ Suzy said apologetically. She was unused to Daisy in aggressive mode, but this was the first time she had come between her and her mother. Perhaps it was understandable, Suzy thought. Daisy was her mother’s keeper, after all.