‘These days, everyone could do with more money. Only spivs benefited from the war – Aunt Violet loved that word, you know – and they’re probably still benefitting. Still selling black market cigarettes, even if the fake ration books have gone. The rest of us have to do the best we can.’
‘We need to narrow the field. At the moment, trying to nail the perpetrator is like looking for the proverbial needle. Bernard Mitchell seems a bit of a toerag, wouldn’t you say? He was the one that introduced Kevin to his wife’s café and persuaded him to order the cake.’
‘But then Kate herself isn’t beyond suspicion,’ Flora said sadly. ‘I know there’s a whole cast of people who could have handled the cake, but she was the one who made it and would have had the best opportunity—’
‘Not necessarily. Once the cake was finished, it would be possible to inject it with poison from a syringe.’
Flora looked startled. ‘Is that what your villains do?’
‘Not so far, though I could probably use the idea. I think it could be easily done. In any case, Kate wasn’t alone in making the cake. Daddy was involved, too.’
‘But why would either of them want money so much they were willing to kill?’
Jack was silent for some while, before he said, ‘Did you see the bruise on Kate Mitchell’s arm?’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t like to think what that means.’
‘It could mean that she’s desperate to escape an abusive marriage, and she’d need money for that. Her father, too – he mistrusts his son-in-law. He could have been willing to help dispatch Kevin, if it ensured his daughter escaped a man he despises.’
‘But how does killing Kevin Anderson gain them money?’
‘I’m supposing that Kevin had something valuable that they wanted.’
‘His hotel room was quite bare. If there was ever anything worth taking, it’s disappeared.’
‘Except that it might not be a tangible object,’ Jack said thoughtfully. ‘Information can be just as valuable and knowledge can lead to blackmail.’
‘You’re saying that one of them could have been blackmailing Kevin? But then they wouldn’t kill the golden egg, or whatever it is,’ Flora protested.
‘The goose, the goose that laid the golden egg. Kevin got fed up with paying and threatened to go to the police, so had to be silenced? Or turn it around. He could have been the one blackmailing them. He’d come all the way from Australia to do just that.’
‘Blackmail sounds far-fetched.’
‘And poisoning a cake baked in a village café doesn’t?’
Flora rested her back against the sun-warmed brick and flint of the shop wall. ‘Kevin might have had something valuable that someone coveted – Kate, Bernie, Cyril Knight, the hotel staff – but he was looking for something, too. Miss Horrocks caught him in the library and we found him in my bookshop.’
‘A coincidence?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Jack furrowed his hand through a head of dark hair. A ‘short back and sides’ was favoured by most of the men Flora knew, but Jack’s hair was far more luxuriant, flopping forward over his forehead and tapering low on his neck. Flora liked it.
‘What, though?’ he asked. ‘What could he have been after that any of these people wanted enough to murder for? Don’t forget, whatever he was searching for – if he was searching – he never found.’
‘I haven’t forgotten. Not at all. But my theory makes a great deal more sense than yours. Blackmail? Nobody here had ever heard of Kevin Anderson until he died.’
‘You can’t know that.’
‘But I do,’ she said stubbornly. ‘And if we only had a clue to what he was looking for, we could unlock the whole mystery.’
Flora Steele infuriated him. When she made up her mind, there was no budging her. Anderson may or may not have been searching for something – the fact that he’d broken into the shop suggested he had been, and that whatever he was after was important – but his search didn’t necessarily connect to his death. The man or woman who’d rendered the cake deadly would not have known of Kevin’s sudden impulse to break into the bookshop. They would have reckoned on him dying in his hotel room, and it being attributed to a dodgy heart and the excitement of cards, flowers and a celebration party to come. In which case, that person had another reason entirely for depriving the world of Mr Anderson’s company. Blackmail seemed the most obvious motivation to Jack. It was what he’d used successfully in several of his novels. Why had Flora asked for his help if she wasn’t prepared to listen to him?
He’d enjoyed today, he had to admit, and been surprised. Normally, too many people made his head ache, and his day had certainly been crowded. He’d enjoyed Flora’s company, too: that was another admission. She was stubborn and annoying, but he liked watching her in action. Candid, he’d call her approach, candid and direct. It got results, though, and she’d thrown herself into this whole mad mission with enthusiasm.
That was understandable. When he’d left her at the bookshop this afternoon and watched her let herself in, it had seemed a sad place – the fact that she’d felt able to close the shop for most of the day testified to her lack of customers. He’d felt her loneliness acutely. She had friends in the village, but it was evident her aunt had been her emotional anchor. Was there a boyfriend somewhere? he wondered. At some point in their conversation, she’d mentioned that she had studied to be a librarian and had only been back in Abbeymead for three or four years. That would make her in her mid-twenties, though she looked younger. Most women of Flora’s age were married by now with at least one child. Jack wondered what her story was. There was bound to be one. Everyone had a story.
He’d enjoyed Flora’s company, true, but despite that he was tempted to call time on his involvement. The list of suspects was growing and they would be hard put to investigate all of them. The poison, if it existed, could have been administered by any number of people at any time over a period of hours. If Anderson had eaten cake before his joyride, the poison could have worked slowly, causing him to keel over in the shop several hours later. If he’d snatched a piece of birthday cake after the drive, but before slipping out of the hotel to break into the All’s Well, then poisoning would have been more immediate. Either scenario was possible.
And so was the fact that the cake might be wholly innocent. All this talk of poison and blackmail could be laughable. Anderson might well have died from sudden, unexpected heart failure after all. The pathologist had plumped for it as being the most likely cause, and really there was nothing – except for the break-in – to suggest anything more sinister. But he wouldn’t persuade Flora of that, he knew. She was adamant that Kevin’s death was suspicious and convinced that until she got to the bottom of it, her shop was on a downward slope to failure. He gave a small groan. He couldn’t let her down, not with her livelihood at stake.
Still, it would be a good idea to let the dust settle for a while. He’d hunker down at home, uncover his typewriter and try once more to get this benighted story moving. If he knew Flora, and he was beginning to, she’d be banging on his door at the slightest hint of progress.
Eight
Flora stared moodily through the bookshop window at the few pedestrians who had braved the rain, scurrying along wet pavements, heads bent and umbrellas at the tilt. The grocer opposite appeared to be the only shop in the high street doing any trade. She gave a small sigh. People had to eat, she supposed, but they didn’t have to read. Still, this morning she’d had two customers, which was two more than for days past. They had travelled from Worthing, having heard of the All’s Well’s collection of second-hand books, and one of the ladies had actually bought an expensive volume of flower prints.
It had been Aunt Violet who had started the second-hand section, concentrating mainly on out-of-print books, though sometimes rare volumes: first editions, signed copies, those with special jackets. Her aunt had loved her afternoons at local auctions, or at the sales that occasion
ally took place when an old house in the district was sold and the new owners wished to create an entirely new library, or no library at all.
The last auction she’d attended had been at the Priory itself, a few months after Lord Edward’s death, when the sale of the building had just been agreed. Despite her failing health – she was to follow Lord Edward a year later – Violet had returned from the sale triumphant. Items of furniture and a number of paintings had been up for sale, but she had acquired a lot that included a whole section of the Priory library – and beaten another dealer to it.
For the most part, the volumes she bid for stayed on the bookshop shelves, but they were still a draw to browsing customers and, most often, if they didn’t buy an old book, they went on to buy something newly published. The year Violet had secured a large collection of original Agatha Christie books and Flora had arranged them in a tasteful window display, they’d had people pouring through the door. Not any more, though.
She pressed her face hard against the window pane. Had the rain stopped at last? If so, she might dash to Katie’s Nook and treat herself to one of Kate’s wonderful iced buns. A bun and a cup of tea should see her through to lunch. Grabbing her old raincoat, she locked the shop door and walked to the corner opposite the café. She had just begun to cross the road, the enticing smell of something warm and delicious reaching her through the damp air, when she was forced abruptly to jump back onto the pavement. A cyclist, covered from head to toe in bright yellow, had skidded on the water rushing along the gutters, and almost mowed her down. Flora stood still, her heart beating uncomfortably fast. It was the second time in as many weeks that she had risked injury on the roads. Was she invisible?
‘Sorry,’ the cyclist called out over a screech of brakes. Beneath the hood of the yellow waterproof, she saw it was Polly Dakers, the bored receptionist from the Priory.
‘Sorry,’ the girl said again. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Just about. A bit shaken,’ Flora muttered.
‘I had to borrow this riding cape and the hood keeps falling over my eyes,’ Polly admitted.
‘Perhaps not the best garment to be cycling in,’ she said severely. Then a sudden thought had her mollify her tone. ‘I was on my way over the road to Kate for a bun and a cup of tea. Would you like to join me?’
Polly looked surprised and seemed about to refuse. But then two large splashes of rain fell from her hood and trickled their way down her face and into her lap.
She grimaced. ‘This rain!’
‘Come and get warm,’ Flora invited her.
‘It’s an idea. I’m supposed to be buying cigarettes for a guest, but he can wait. They won’t miss me at the hotel for half an hour.’
Kate had a welcoming smile for them both as they pushed the door open, Polly dripping gently onto the rubber doormat. Flora felt guilty that she’d ever suspected her friend could have anything to do with Mr Anderson’s death. But then took herself to task. An investigator must remain objective. Kate, sweet and kind as she was, was a suspect – until she was proved otherwise. If only, Flora thought, she could slip into the Nook’s kitchen and search, she might find a clue as to what had gone on. Or maybe no clue, if there was nothing to find. One way or the other, it would be immensely helpful. But that wasn’t possible.
The café was empty but the tables were set for lunch, sporting bright blue gingham tablecloths and cutlery that shone. The mouth-watering smell of onion soup drifted towards her on the air and, for a moment, made Flora reconsider the iced bun.
‘Miss Dakers, isn’t it?’ Kate asked. ‘You’d best take that cape off and I’ll hang it in my office to dry.’
Polly shrugged off the clammy waterproof, immediately plumping herself down at one of the window tables. ‘I like to look out,’ she said, though what there was to see on a day like this, Flora couldn’t fathom.
The girl seemed to be tense, possibly from the difficult ride she’d had, but once a pot of steaming tea and two sticky iced buns appeared on the table, her shoulders lost their stiffness.
‘Why I have to go shopping for guests, I don’t know,’ she said between mouthfuls. ‘I’m a receptionist, for goodness’ sake. And most of the guests have their own cars. That chap could easily have driven down to the village and bought his own cigarettes.’
‘Do you often get asked to shop for guests?’
‘I get asked to do all sorts of things. Whenever there’s something no one else wants to do, it’s, Polly, could you just… Polly, could you take… Polly, could you ask…?’
‘You don’t sound too happy with the job,’ Flora ventured.
‘I could do a lot better,’ the girl said decidedly. ‘Elliot’s a real misery to work for. The only time I’ve ever heard him laugh is when he’s been drinking with the guests. Puts on a real show then. “You’re not wanted here, young lady,” he said to me when I went to meet Kevin at the bar one evening.’
The name had Flora’s ears burning, but before she could say anything, Polly was once more launched on her complaints. ‘And for all his airs and graces, Elliot works you to death and pays a rotten wage.’
Flora made a mental note. Kate had said that Elliot paid well, so perhaps Polly had got on the wrong side of her employer. Or perhaps Bernard Mitchell was a special case.
‘Have you thought of looking elsewhere?’ she asked.
Polly gave a cynical laugh. ‘I’ve thought of it plenty, but there’s precious little work around here. Not the kind of work I want to do anyway.’
‘And what would that be?’ Flora took a hefty bite of her bun.
‘I’ve been told I could be a model.’ Polly flicked her long blonde hair over her shoulders, her mouth adopting a small pout.
Flora looked across the table at the heart-shaped face, the wide blue eyes and the shapely figure. ‘I can see that,’ she said honestly.
Her companion glowed, her smile scintillating, the first genuine smile Flora had seen.
‘My mum thinks I’d be a great success if I ever got the chance. Look at that Suzy Parker. I look quite like her, except for the hair colour. She must earn a fortune. Uncle Ted thinks so, too.’
Flora’s knowledge of modelling was zero, but she scanned her memory for anything that might keep Polly talking.
‘There are agencies, aren’t there? Have you tried any of them?’
Polly leaned forward, her food forgotten. ‘I wrote down a list that me and Mum got from the magazines, but all the model agencies are in London.’
‘That’s not far,’ she said encouragingly. ‘If you take a direct train from Brighton, you’ll be in Victoria in an hour.’
‘It’s not the journey that’s the problem.’ The pout had changed from pensive to discontented. ‘You have to have a portfolio.’ The girl drew out the letters of the word, evidently enjoying the sound. ‘It’s a collection of photographs – of me,’ she added, as though Flora might think they were of the Sussex landscape. ‘Photos taken in different poses and costumes. The agencies won’t look at you without a portfolio.’
Again there was that strangely drawn-out pronunciation.
‘A portfolio sounds very businesslike. And very exciting.’
‘It would be if it was ever going to happen.’ Polly sank her teeth into the last piece of squishy icing. ‘It costs a lot of money,’ the girl said, her mouth full of bun. ‘Uncle Ted gave me five pounds towards it, but the photographer in Steyning said it would cost double that. And he’s not even a top bloke. In any case, his photographs probably wouldn’t be right for the agencies. They’re very particular.’
‘What a shame.’
Flora tried to sound sympathetic, though why anyone, corseted and wearing the most uncomfortable clothes, would want to walk up and down a piece of carpet while being judged by other women, was beyond her.
‘Is there no way you could raise the money? Take an additional job perhaps? Ask for a pay rise?’
From her limited knowledge of Vernon Elliot, she doubted any request would be successfu
l. He was a man of surface show, Flora reckoned, not someone who would invest in the nuts and bolts of human relationships, but she wanted to get Polly to talk more of the hotel. That, after all, was where Kevin had spent most of his time.
‘I’ll be lucky,’ Polly said gloomily, taking a glug of her tea. ‘Kevin wanted to help me, but that’s gone out of the window now.’
Flora’s ears were again on the alert. She was getting somewhere at last. ‘Kevin Anderson? The young man who died?’
Polly nodded. ‘He said I was beautiful and that he really liked me.’
‘Yes…’ Flora prompted.
‘We went out once, you know,’ the girl confided. ‘Nothing improper, but he was very keen.’ She gave a small giggle. ‘He said I was prettier than any girl he’d ever met Down Under and if he had anything to do with it, I’d be a model.’
‘And did he have anything to do with it?’
‘He died, didn’t he? Before he could.’ The full lips formed themselves into the biggest pout so far.
‘That was so sad.’ Flora looked suitably sorrowful. ‘How do you think he would have helped if he was still here?’
‘He was going to give me money for my photographs and then come up to London with me – to the agencies.’
‘He didn’t manage that, though?’ Had Kevin been making for the shop’s cash till after all, but collapsed before he could reach it? But then, he’d been found snooping in the Priory library and there was no cash till there.
Polly shook her head regretfully. ‘He said he didn’t have the money right now, but he was in a fair way of getting it.’
‘That surprises me.’
‘How come?’ The girl cocked her head to one side.
‘I wouldn’t have thought money would be a problem. Mr Anderson was staying at the Priory. I imagine most of your guests are fairly wealthy.’
‘You’d think so, but Kevin wasn’t. He worked for his uncle back home, he told me, and Reggie Anderson didn’t pay well. He reckoned his uncle got a fortune when he sold the Priory – he never told Kevin how much – but it made no difference anyway. The man stayed a right skinflint and kept his nephew short. Never once offered Kevin a penny of what he’d inherited. Kevin said he had to borrow money to make the trip to England.’
The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1) Page 6