The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1)

by Merryn Allingham

  ‘And have the suit cleaned, too. It’s getting urgent. The funeral is on Tuesday. But’ – she hesitated – ‘didn’t the inspector want to keep the jacket as evidence?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘He was humouring me, a gift to a writer he knows. He thinks I’m planning a novel based on poisoning, hence my interest, but he’s no intention of pursuing the matter further. As far as he’s concerned, the case is definitely closed.’

  ‘We’re on our own then.’

  ‘It looks very much like it. Do you have to open the shop today? If not, we could take the bus to Steyning.’

  The green and cream Southdown bus was on schedule and took only twenty minutes to reach Steyning, rattling through lanes that bordered open pastureland and, for a while, hugging the banks of the river Adur. It was market day in the small town and, when they climbed aboard, the bus was already packed with passengers from the villages it had previously called at. Flora found herself almost sitting in a portly woman’s lap, while Jack squeezed himself into an impossibly small space behind the driver.

  Clambering from the bus in the middle of Steyning high street, they spent several seconds shaking their limbs free.

  ‘Phew. After that, I think I’ll need to stretch for a week,’ Jack said. ‘Definitely the wrong day to travel.’

  ‘We didn’t have much choice.’ Flora swung her arms back and forth. ‘The suit needs cleaning and time’s running out. I went to see Kate yesterday and felt guilty that we hadn’t got on with the job.’

  ‘How is she coping?’ He felt sorry for Flora’s friend and his eyes held concern.

  ‘Desperately unhappy about her father. But worried sick, as well – over money. And over Mitchell and his temper. I mentioned the bruises on her arms and she admitted it was him, but excused him by saying he was under a lot of pressure.’

  ‘He’s not under so much pressure that he doesn’t try to cover up his violence. He hurts her where the bruises aren’t so visible.’

  ‘I tackled him about it yesterday,’ she said, as they began to walk along the high street. ‘He’d broken down on Fern Hill.’

  ‘You were on your own?’

  ‘I did have Betty with me.’

  ‘Flora!’ he exploded, running a hand through his flop of hair. ‘You know Mitchell is capable of violence and you start berating him in an isolated place. What were you thinking?’

  ‘He was a bit scary,’ she admitted, ‘and later I had second thoughts that maybe I shouldn’t have tackled him in case he took it out on Kate. But I had to do it. I can’t let my friend be hurt and say nothing, and at least now he knows that he’s being watched. I’ve told Kate she must go to the police if it happens again, and I’ll be with her. I wish I could help her, but she needs money to escape, and that’s something that neither of us have.’

  ‘All the more reason to find the treasure! OK, I’m joking. I don’t know where we’re walking but I saw a dry cleaner’s from the bus. Down there on the left.’

  It took only a short time to hand in Cyril’s suit and make arrangements for the clothes, when cleaned, to be delivered to the funeral parlour a few doors along. With their first errand so quickly accomplished, they began the search for florists with lighter hearts.

  ‘I only know one,’ Flora said. ‘Beautiful Bunches. Aunt Violet got a bouquet from them every year on her birthday.’

  ‘Was that you?’

  Flora pulled a mocking face. ‘Not me. An admirer from my aunt’s past! I could never get her to tell me any more, but whoever he was, he was faithful to the end. The bouquets kept coming until Violet died.’

  ‘Did he attend the funeral?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. There were so many people in the church. My aunt was much loved in the village – and beyond. She was one of those doughty Edwardian ladies who never flinched from their duty and were always there to help. Pillars of the community. Her admirer may well have been among the mourners, but he stayed anonymous. Beautiful Bunches did the flowers for the funeral – they do wonderful displays.’

  ‘That was it.’ He pointed back to the shop they’d just passed.

  Retracing his steps, Jack had no idea how they were to tackle this. Flora, it seemed, had no qualms. She greeted the assistant with a bright smile.

  ‘Good morning. I’m hoping you can help us. We’re from the Priory Hotel in Abbeymead. We ordered a bouquet to be delivered – it would be around three weeks ago – and we’ve been unable to trace the paperwork we need. Internal accounting, you know,’ she said vaguely.

  The assistant looked puzzled, but seemed happy enough to help. ‘Who was the recipient?’ she asked.

  ‘A Mr Anderson. Kevin Anderson. He was a guest with us and had an important birthday during his stay.’ Flora beamed.

  ‘I’ll get the order book. The original order should be with the delivery note.’

  The girl delved beneath the counter and brought out a large black rectangle of a book. Opening the leather-bound cover, she began methodically to flip through the pages.

  ‘Three weeks ago, you say? And the Priory ordered it?’

  ‘That’s right. For Mr Anderson.’

  ‘I can’t see anything. The last delivery we made to the Priory was the twenty-second of September, that’s over a month ago. And that was for a Mrs Latimer. Another guest?’

  ‘Most probably.’ Flora brushed the question aside. ‘The hotel is very popular. I can’t always recall names. All the orders you supply are in that book?’

  The girl picked up the heavy tome and cradled it against her breast. ‘This is our bible. If it isn’t here, we didn’t deliver the order. Sorry I can’t help. You could try Flowers for You. It’s across the car park and through the twitten.’

  ‘Thank you for looking,’ Flora said, and made for the door, Jack tagging after her.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel decidedly surplus on this trip,’ he said. ‘You could have done this perfectly well on your own.’ He was thinking he could have stayed home and worked. He’d reached the stickiest point of the book, his hero well and truly trapped, and Jack was flailing. Having landed the hero in this predicament, how was he to rescue him?

  ‘You are not surplus. We need two of us here, to act as witnesses. Then whatever one of us discovers, the other can corroborate. Why don’t you ask next time?’ she offered graciously.

  Flowers for You was not difficult to find and Jack, remembering Flora’s words to the previous assistant, reproduced them verbatim. This time it was a large brown leather book that was heaved onto the counter, the assistant running her finger down the list of customers.

  ‘I don’t think…’ she began, ‘but yes… Anderson, you say?’

  Flora, he’d noticed, had kept in the background, but at this, she was suddenly by his side. ‘Yes?’ she prompted eagerly.

  ‘There was a bouquet delivered to the Priory on the seventh of October. The card was addressed to a Mr Kevin Anderson and read, “Birthday Greetings”.’

  Jack felt a spurt of relief. At last, some success. ‘That’s the order we were looking for,’ he said. ‘Do you record the make-up of bouquets?’

  ‘We always note down special requests. This one mentions lilies, delphiniums and asters. And a spray of gypsophila.’

  ‘What about this?’ he asked, producing the picture he’d been given.

  The assistant frowned. ‘That looks like water hemlock,’ she said knowledgeably. ‘We’d never use that! It’s highly poisonous.’

  ‘I should think not,’ Flora chimed in. ‘As my colleague said, we’ve had a problem tracing this order in our records. It’s wonderful you have a note of it. Do you have details of who ordered the bouquet?’

  The assistant looked again, and shook her head. ‘We usually have a telephone number and a contact name, but there’s nothing here.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little strange?’ Jack asked sharply. ‘Without those details, how would you deal with any problems? If you weren’t able to deliver the order, for example.’

  �
�There was a request for specific flowers, so I’m sure we must have had some details, in case we had to make substitutions. We keep a filing cabinet and any additional paperwork is put in there.’

  ‘Could you look for us?’ He tried Flora’s trick, flashing her a smile.

  ‘Of course. I’ll look now.’ The girl gave him a warm glance and disappeared into an office behind the counter.

  There was the sound of drawers being pulled out and slammed shut, a ripple of files being opened, the shuffling of paper. A minute or so passed, Flora tapping the counter with nervous fingers. After the initial euphoria of tracing the flower order, it looked as though they were about to hit a brick wall.

  It was several more nail-biting minutes before the assistant reappeared, a piece of paper in her hand. ‘This was the order,’ she said. ‘It must have been handed in rather than telephoned.’

  ‘Do you recall who gave it to you?’

  The girl’s forehead creased in thought. She looked down at the typewritten sheet. ‘Now that I’m looking at the order, I do remember something. It was a bit odd, actually. I opened the shop one morning and found a brown envelope on the doormat. It had been hand delivered by the look of it – there was no postmark. This piece of paper was in the envelope, together with several banknotes. I think there was one for a pound and another for ten shillings.’

  ‘An expensive bouquet,’ he remarked.

  ‘Could we see that piece of paper?’ Flora was still beside him and he could sense her breathing rapidly. The murderer was almost within grasp, she must be thinking.

  The assistant laid the page flat on the counter, angling it towards them and straightening out the creases as she did. Immediately he could see that, typewritten and without a signature, the letter was unlikely to help them in their quest.

  Flora must have realised it at the same time. ‘Thank you,’ she said to the assistant, trying, he thought, to keep the dismay from her voice.

  ‘Not much use, I guess,’ he said into her ear.

  ‘Not much.’ She put on a brave smile and began walking to the shop door, but then turned and walked back. ‘Would it be possible to borrow that piece of paper?’ she asked the assistant. ‘We would return it.’

  The girl’s face registered surprise. ‘We don’t normally—’ she began.

  ‘I’m sure it’s most irregular, but it would be a tremendous favour to us. We would only keep it until we managed to trace who sent it. Naturally, we’ve already asked the staff, but, so far, we’ve been unlucky. Seeing the order might just tip people’s memories.’

  ‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,’ the assistant said reluctantly. ‘For a day or two. But we’ll need it back. For our own records.’

  ‘You’ll have it back, I promise. I’ll bring it myself.’

  Before the girl could voice any further objections, Flora whisked the sheet of paper into her handbag, and was out of the door.

  He found himself meekly following her, and again wondering why he’d come.

  Seventeen

  ‘What possible use will it be?’ Jack demanded, when he joined her on the pavement.

  ‘You tell me. You’re the crime writer.’

  ‘So you keep reminding me. But it’s typewritten. Typewriters are anonymous.’

  ‘Maybe not this one.’ She waved the order beneath his nose. ‘See the “s” on Anderson, it’s missing the top curve. If we can find a typewriter with an “s” like that, we’ll find the perpetrator.’

  He took the sheet of paper from her and squinted. ‘I can’t make it out. I don’t have my—’ he began.

  ‘Glasses,’ she finished for him. ‘You wear glasses, Jolyon! Are they heavy tortoiseshell? They’re what you need to be a real writer!’

  He felt ruffled. She was a little too adept at teasing. ‘You can forget the Jolyon,’ he said grumpily, ‘and the glasses, and tell me how we go about finding this mythical typewriter.’

  ‘It’s not mythical. It exists, and our murderer used it. They typed the note to disguise their handwriting, made sure there was no signature, no address, no postmark. He or she means business. If we can find that typewriter, we’ll find them.’

  ‘At the Priory, I take it?’

  ‘Where else?’

  She couldn’t have considered what an impossible task she’d set them, searching for one particular typewriter in a building that housed several dozen people, constantly on the move.

  ‘That should be fun.’ He didn’t try to keep the mockery from his voice.

  Yet the excitement in edging closer to the truth was undeniable, and for the first time in many years, he had a strong sense of living in the world rather than through the characters he created.

  The bus back to Abbeymead was mercifully less crowded and they were able to find seats together. Flora had heard her companion’s mocking tone, but was unrepentant. Apart from a dubious legend passed down through generations and no doubt embroidered upon on the way, the florist’s single sheet of paper was the only lead they had, and she was determined to pursue it.

  Jack, though, was intent on the difficulties they faced in tracking down the guilty typewriter. According to him, they were insuperable. How would they get access to the Priory? Remember their last visit? That had ended with Vernon Elliot virtually ordering them off the premises. How many typewriters did the hotel possess? Neither of them had any idea. No idea either of where they’d be found. Who could have typed the florist’s note? Polly Dakers at the reception desk? Miss Horrocks in the housekeeper’s office? Vernon Elliot? Bernie Mitchell?

  ‘The typewriter might not even be in the Priory,’ Jack said, as they climbed off the bus at Abbeymead. ‘Bernard Mitchell does office work for his wife, doesn’t he? He must use a typewriter to send out orders, invoices, letters to customers. That will be in the café or in his own home.’

  ‘He’s at the Priory a lot,’ Flora said defensively, ‘and Kate told us that some of the time he works in Elliot’s private office, and that has to involve the use of a typewriter. The Priory must be our first target. If we fail there, we can move on to Kate’s.’

  ‘How do you suggest we go about it?’

  ‘I’ve been working on a plan. On the bus, while you were busy listing all the reasons we couldn’t succeed.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound smug.’

  That was hurtful, Flora thought, though possibly true. ‘If I am smug, it’s for good reason. Alice is calling in tomorrow – she’s promised me a blackberry and apple crumble. I absolutely love her blackberry and apple crumble. She has been at the Priory all her working life and she’s bound to know where any typewriters are kept. Once I know that, I can plan a route through the hotel. And I’ll have a reason to be there. I’ll take back the pie dish as an excuse, but when I leave the kitchen, slip away into the main hotel.’

  ‘Hoping you don’t run into Miss Horrocks or Vernon Elliot.’

  ‘That’s where you come in.’

  He shot a glance at her. ‘Whatever it is, I’m saying no right now.’

  ‘It will be easy, honestly. If Elliot and the housekeeper are around, I’ll need them distracted, and I’ve thought of a brilliant ruse. You can walk into the Priory quite legitimately and say you’ve been asked to organise a writers’ convention in Sussex and you’d very much like it to be at the Priory, but first you need to check out the accommodation and talk prices. Elliot will be thrilled at getting the business and he’ll summon Miss Horrocks to go round the bedrooms with both of you. That takes care of two dangers in one swoop,’ she finished triumphantly.

  ‘I have to issue a string of lies so that you can whip in and out of offices, trying out every typewriter in the building? I won’t do it.’

  ‘Why not? It’s so little to ask.’

  ‘Because it won’t get you anywhere. Let’s say for argument’s sake that you find the errant machine – what then? Anyone at the Priory could have used it. It’s not the killer clue you think it is.’

  ‘Not anyone,’ she corrected
. ‘The machines or machine – and there may only be one – will be in an office to which most of the staff won’t have access. I know it’s not a certainty – several people could use the same typewriter – but it must help. If it only narrows down our list of suspects, it’s got to be worth doing. What else do we have?’

  ‘The legend,’ Jack said unexpectedly. ‘We still have the legend and Hove library is still waiting. We could go on Monday. It’s a quiet day.’

  ‘You don’t believe in the legend.’

  ‘I don’t, but someone else does or they wouldn’t be killing for it. It can’t hurt to discover what’s at the bottom of this madness and more likely to lead us to the killer than searching for a malfunctioning typewriter.’

  It was Saturday morning and Alice Jenner arrived in a rush, a large basket on her arm. Her face was pink and her breath coming short.

  ‘So sorry, Flora,’ she said, as the bookshop clock chimed noon. ‘I meant to drop this off on my way to work, but I called in at the Nook first – Katie was at the café very early – and that made me late. Too late to call here.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have come now. You look exhausted and I’m sure it must be your lunch break. I could just as easily have waited for my crumble until tonight. Do you have time for a cup of tea?’

  ‘I won’t stop, my love. You’ve got customers, I can see.’

  Flora gazed around the shop. Half a dozen people were browsing the shelves, but so far none had made the journey to the till. ‘It’s the coach trip from Steyning,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I’m not too hopeful.’

  ‘Still better than an empty shop.’

  ‘Are the rumours still going strong?’ If anyone knew, Alice would. She was deeply tuned to the pulse of the village.

  ‘Afraid so. Leastwise, among some. But anyone with any sense squashes such talk flat. It will wither eventually, you’ll see.’

  ‘It’s a matter of which lasts longer – the gossip or the All’s Well.’