The square-shaped sitting room faced onto the front garden and was surprisingly bright, despite the cottage’s low ceilings. Flora looked around her. There was barely a surface in the room that wasn’t covered with ornaments or photographs.
‘You have your family to keep you company.’ She nodded to the collection of frames on the polished side board.
‘Photos is all I have these days.’ Cyril gave a long drawn-out sigh. ‘Dottie’s long gone, even though she were six years younger’n me. One of our girls is up in Edinburgh and t’other over in Canada. Only my Katie’s here. Our littlest. Gave us a surprise, that one, comin’ so late.’
‘It must be comforting to have her in the same village.’
‘Course it is,’ he said, but his expression was clouded.
‘I called in at the Nook this morning for an iced bun and tea,’ Flora went on. ‘The café looked as lovely as ever.’
‘The café’s all right,’ he said gruffly, ‘but…’
Flora waited and when Cyril said nothing, she prompted, ‘Alice told me you weren’t too happy about Kate. She mentioned Bernard.’
‘Him! That smarmy sod.’ Cyril’s lips twisted. ‘The girl should never have married ’im. He had trouble written all over ’im from the start.’
‘Is he being a problem?’ she asked sympathetically.
‘He’s not good to her, that’s what. He don’ treat her right and I worry for her. The man has fists as big as—’
‘Hams?’ Jack offered, and received a cross look from Flora. Seeming mindful of his instructions, he tried again. ‘You seem to be managing very well, Mr Knight. Your garden is beautiful and so is your house.’
‘I love to garden. Always have since I was a little lad. It’s peaceful-like. And Katie is a great help, a dab hand around the house. She’s a good girl, she deserves better. And so do I,’ he muttered.
‘I expect you help her as much as she helps you. She told me how good you were the other day at cake-making.’ Flora tried to sound casual.
‘Katie was havin’ trouble stirrin’. She didn’t say why, but I have my ideas,’ he said bitterly. ‘Anyways, I got hold of the wooden spoon and finished the job. It was for that bloke up at the hotel.’
This was her chance to explain their visit. ‘He died in my bookshop, did you know?’
Cyril nodded.
‘It still feels horrible that I found the man, and I wanted to ask you about him.’
‘I don’ know anythin’ about ’im, ’cept Katie was thrilled to get the order. She delivers up there sometimes but she’s always hopin’ for something more reg’lar. She thought that mebbe a special cake for one of the guests would mean more business. Some hope. Not with Mitchell involved.’
‘Bernie Mitchell got the order? That’s good, though, isn’t it? I thought he might have given up helping Kate when I saw him working at the Priory.’
‘I don’ know what he does up there. I don’ trust ’im. And I didn’t trust that Aussie either. Closeted together, they were, whispering.’
‘Really?’
‘Right spivs, the pair of ’em. They didn’t like it when I appeared. Stopped talking immediately.’
‘It seems a strange partnership,’ Jack put in. ‘I wouldn’t think they had much in common.’
‘Mischief. That’s what they had in common. The Aussie bloke, Anderson, was after somethin’. He bothered me no end. And Alice, too. Questions about what I remembered. I soon got ’is number and sent ’im on his way.’
‘I wonder what Kevin Anderson wanted with Mr Mitchell.’ Flora looked questioningly at the old man. ‘He couldn’t have been asking about past times in the village. You’ve lived in Abbeymead all your life, but your son-in-law hasn’t.’
‘I dunno what they were up to. But they were plannin’ somethin’ together, that’s for sure.’
Flora’s mind was working at full stretch. Could Bernie Mitchell have been an accomplice? Could he have broken into her shop alongside Kevin, had a thieves’ falling-out, and left Anderson dead? Mitchell had a criminal record, though not for anything too serious. Petty theft was what the village had been told, but Jack had been certain that a two-year sentence wouldn’t have been handed down unless at least some violence had been involved.
‘What kind of questions did Kevin Anderson ask you?’
‘’Bout the big house, the family. Did I know the legend?’
‘And did you?’ Jack asked, clearly intrigued.
‘I told him what I knew, which weren’t much, and the next thing he was knee-deep with that no-good son-in-law of mine plannin’ somethin’.’
‘A legend to do with the Templetons? It sounds fascinating,’ Flora said. ‘I don’t think Aunt Violet ever mentioned it to me.’
‘That’s because the good woman had more sense. It’s a daft story, always was. Kids loved it – you know, looking for treasure buried by some Templeton or other – but it was just a story.’
‘Which Templeton? Not Lord Edward, surely?’
Cyril’s face broke into a rare smile. ‘That’d be worth seeing. Nah, it was centuries ago. When that chap with all the wives was around.’
‘Henry the Eighth.’
‘That’s the bloke.’
‘It is a long time ago.’
‘That’s what I said. Bloody stupid coming over ’ere from Australia lookin’ for something buried – how many years ago?’
‘Four hundred.’
Cyril snorted. ‘If it were ever buried in the first place. The story’s a lot of poppycock, I reckon. And if this Anderson had ever found somethin’, it would have belonged to the Templetons, and if none of them were left, it should have gone to old retainers like Alice and me. Not to upstarts who’ve appeared out of nowhere. We’d have deserved to get somethin’. I dunno about Alice, but I could certainly do with it.’
Flora was shocked. ‘I thought Lord Templeton would have arranged a good pension for you.’
Cyril pulled on the few strands of hair he had left. ‘He were goin’ to. He promised me he were goin’ to London to sort it out with his man of business, but he never had time. Poor old chap went sudden-like. Then I was turfed out of my job by that posh scarecrow who thinks he owns the world. Paid to the end of the month, and that was it.’
‘There was no gratuity? No gift?’
‘A gift? I got nothin’. I draw the old age but that just about pays for me pansy plants. Katie wanted to sell the café when I was made to leave the Priory, bless her. I’d given her the money for the Nook, you see, and she felt bad, ’cause it was all my savings. But I said no, I’ll manage, and if her bakin’ business – not the café, mind – ever took off, then I’d have a slice of the profit. Or I would have if Mitchell hadn’t poked his ugly mug into it. With ’im involved, no one will want to order anythin’.’
‘Kate is such an excellent cook, she’s bound to do well.’ Flora felt a desperate need to reassure the old man. ‘It may take time, but I’m certain her baking business will be profitable. She’s doing home deliveries now and novelty cakes, too. They’re great ideas – no one else is offering anything like it for miles around.’
‘I hope you’re right, Miss Flora. The girl is no better off than me. Never treats herself. That’s why I take her flowers. I like to take them most weeks. Flowers are cheery creatures, though I’m a bit stumped today. It’s fine in the summer – sweet peas is her favourite and I grow plenty of them at the back – but right now all I can take is chrysanths and Katie don’ like those.’
Flora sensed Jack glance across at her. The speaking grey eyes were sending a message. He’d said very little, but she knew he’d been taking note and was feeling they’d gone as far as they could with Mr Knight. She was about to make her excuses when Cyril slowly got up from his chair. ‘I just remembered. I promised Alice I’d drop in for a cuppa this afternoon, before I see Katie. Sorry, I have to get me suit on. Always wear the suit for Alice.’
‘That’s fine, Mr Knight. It’s time we went,’ Flora said hu
rriedly. ‘Give my love to Alice, won’t you?’
‘Well,’ Jack murmured, as they walked to Cyril’s front gate, ‘the old chap has motive. Motives, I should say. I lost count.’
Flora nodded. ‘He hates his son-in-law who has been involved in something dodgy with Kevin, he wants to rescue his daughter from her horrible husband, and Lord Templeton’s death and the sale of the Priory has landed him in a life of poverty.’
‘The strongest is his need for money. It usually is.’ It was a motive he most often used for the dark deeds populating his novels.
Flora was silent for a while, evidently turning over in her mind the recent conversation. As they reached the top of the village high street, she said, ‘It was strange the way Cyril dismissed the legend, but was still keen to stake a claim to any potential fortune. Do you think he really believed the story, but was pretending not to?’
‘Maybe he was hedging his bets. He’s been treated abominably and, in the circumstances, he’s likely to clutch at any straw going – even treasure buried centuries ago.’
‘He’s not the only one to hedge their bets,’ Flora said thoughtfully. ‘The uncle back in Australia, Reggie Anderson, supposedly treated the story as a joke, yet, according to Polly, the man was urging his nephew to get on with the job he’d come here to do. Why would Reggie say that, why would he be willing to send money so Kevin could carry on, if the legend was such a joke? There’s a pattern here, isn’t there? People rubbishing the story, but thinking to themselves that there might be something in it.’
‘I’m not sure. The old man we’ve just met bears a deep grudge – understandable, I’m sure – and he’s grabbing at anything that would make his life fairer, even if he knows it’s an illusion. He seemed pretty vague: couldn’t recall the legend, didn’t know what his son-in-law was planning and didn’t hear the conversation between Mitchell and Kevin.’
‘Or was the vagueness deliberate? Cyril Knight looks a dear old man without a serious thought in his head, but I reckon he’s a good deal cleverer than that.’
They had walked back to the green and were heading for the bookshop when Flora spoke again. ‘For argument’s sake, let’s say that Cyril believed there was an outside chance that Kevin could uncover valuables from four hundred years ago, and considered he was entitled to them rather than a stranger from miles away. He’d want to know what was going on between Kevin and Bernie Mitchell, what they were actually looking for and where they were intending to look. That’s why he eavesdropped. I don’t believe for a minute that he just came upon them talking. I reckon he was deliberately spying.’
‘You think he could have overheard something useful?’
‘Why not? Something he could act on, something that would help him claim the prize for himself – as long as he got rid of Kevin.’
Jack took a while to consider. ‘It’s true that poison doesn’t require physical strength, and it’s true the old chap helped to bake that cake. It sounds plausible.’
‘Except I’ve just thought that Cyril would have to get rid of his son-in-law as well. Mitchell would know as much as Kevin. He’d be as much of an obstacle.’
‘Perhaps Mitchell is next on Cyril’s list.’ Jack’s suggestion was light-hearted. It was difficult to imagine the old man they’d just met was capable of one murder let alone two.
‘But the timing’s wrong, isn’t it? When Kevin broke into the bookshop, he must still have been looking for the secret. Why poison him before he could go any further? It would make more sense to wait for Kevin to find everything out, then kill him.’
‘Not if Cyril has more knowledge of this legend than he admits, and he’d already learned enough by eavesdropping to put two and two together. He could have worked out what the treasure was and where he could find it.’
‘It’s a bit like Polly Dakers. Perhaps she’s also put two and two together. I reckon she knows more than she said. She was as quick as Cyril to dismiss the story of buried treasure. She could be on the trail herself.’
‘Polly Dakers as a suspect?’ Flora’s imagination was boundless, and he marvelled at it.
‘Don’t look that surprised, just because she smiled at you. Polly is a mountain of frustrated ambition – she thinks she’s made for better things. And she works at the hotel. The cake would have been delivered to reception and you said yourself that anyone could have poisoned it at any time before Kevin ate the first slice.’
‘You feel sorry for the old bloke and don’t want to think he’s guilty,’ Jack teased. ‘Polly’s your stand-in.’
‘Not at all,’ she protested. ‘Cyril may be guilty, but it’s clear he’s not been looking for anything since Kevin died. He’s been unwell and he still looks pretty sick.’
‘He could start searching at any time,’ Jack reminded her.
‘Which is why we need to know about that legend – in detail. Any ideas?’
Eleven
‘I have a couple of books that might prove useful,’ Jack offered unexpectedly. ‘Histories of Sussex, though from what I can recall, they’re pretty general. I’m not sure how much they’d tell us.’
‘We won’t know if we don’t look.’ Flora consulted her watch. ‘Do you have time today? It’s four o’clock already.’
Jack didn’t respond immediately, standing quite still and gazing into the distance. She could see he was tussling inwardly: the need to finish a book that paid his rent or the excitement of a new discovery.
He gave in to curiosity. ‘Walk back to the house with me,’ he said at last, ‘and we can split the books between us. There’s a shortcut through Church Spinney. Do you know it?’
A shortcut sounded good. Flora was feeling weary and a long walk was not what she’d had in mind. It had been an extremely busy day with a lot of thinking and a lot of talking – first Polly, then Cyril Knight, trying to ask the right questions, trying to untangle the truth. Jack’s house lay over a mile outside the village and on her previous visits, Betty had done the honours. Today, though, she’d be on foot both ways and she had promised to be back at the All’s Well by early evening. Glass for the broken window had finally arrived and Michael was coming to do a proper repair, along with fitting extra locks and a new alarm. Until the shop was made as safe as possible, she couldn’t feel entirely comfortable.
‘I bought the books on Sussex when I was writing Death at Devil’s Dyke,’ Jack said, turning down one of the narrow lanes that ran off the high street. ‘The hero of the book unearths a secret that since the Civil War has lain hidden in a dew pond at the bottom of the Dyke. I found the history of the area fascinating and I got to learn a lot about dew ponds.’
‘The books sound promising.’
‘Maybe, though I don’t recall the name of Templeton coming up. Here, we take this alley.’
‘How strange. I know the spinney, but I don’t think I’ve ever gone this way.’
‘You’d have no reason to, I guess. It leads out onto farmland, but just by the first farmer’s gate, there’s a pathway into the woods that winds itself round and about and emerges a few yards down from my house. It’s a pleasant walk on a good day.’
‘Why did you choose to live so far out of Abbeymead?’
Flora thought she knew the answer, but she wanted to hear from Jack himself. She still hadn’t fathomed him out. He had lived in the house for at least five years, and during that time most of the village had seen nothing of him. Yet, since Kevin Anderson’s death, he’d seemed happy enough to accompany her, to meet people, to take part in actual conversations. Which one was the real Jack? she wondered.
‘Why did I choose it? The house had space and the rent was cheap. It needed a whole lot of renovation, but the landlord was happy for me to tackle it.’
‘And have you?’ She remembered the shabby drawing room and thought probably not.
‘A bit,’ he said defensively. ‘I fitted a new bath and painted a couple of rooms.’
‘When you get to the drawing room, you should dump that awfu
l sofa. I’m sure the landlord won’t mind it going.’
‘Thank you, Miss Steele. When I need advice on interior decor, you’ll be the first I come to.’ She saw he was smiling. ‘Watch your step,’ he warned. ‘There are rabbit holes everywhere.’
She looked down at the rutted path to check but, as she did, a rustle, a slight movement to one side, had her quickly raise her head. Those rabbits again, she thought. For much of the spinney, the path they were following was so narrow they were forced to walk in single file, a chance for Flora to absorb a landscape that, despite having lived in Abbeymead for most of her life, she hardly knew. Shuffling through fallen leaves and watching the shifting pattern of light and shade filter through thinning branches, she was entranced. The trees all around had lifted their heads to a new warmth, their autumn dress of red and gold glowing in the sun’s afternoon rays, and somewhere a bird sang out its joy at the beauty of the day.
‘It’s pretty,’ she said. ‘Very pretty.’
‘I think so, too. I walk here when the words get sticky.’
‘Does it work?’
‘Usually, though I have to confess that lately I’ve been doing a lot of walking.’ He turned and grinned at her.
Why had this man become such a recluse? He was intelligent, friendly and very attractive. Best not to probe, she thought. Theirs was a business arrangement of sorts and anything too personal was likely to confuse the investigation. And it was an investigation that they’d embarked on – in the absence of proper detectives, she and Jack were doing their best.
After such a magical walk, the house they arrived at was bound to emanate disappointment. Looking at it anew, Flora found it difficult to understand what Jack had seen in the building, other than cheapness. It had been designed, if designed was the right word, as a kind of throwback to the Gothic, yet it possessed none of that style’s grandeur. And flaking paintwork, rusting window frames – why had steel frames become so popular in the thirties? – left it looking even sadder.
The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1) Page 8