The Lavender Lady

by Faith Martin

  THE LAVENDER

  LADY

  A one-off spooky mystery full of twists

  THIS IS A REVISED EDITION OF A BOOK FIRST PUBLISHED AS “THE LAVENDER LADY CASEFILE” BY JESSE DANIELS.

  FAITH MARTIN

  Revised Edition 2019

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  FIRST PUBLISHED BY ROBERT HALE IN 2017 AS “THE LAVENDER LADY CASEFILE.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Faith Martin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to corrections@joffebooks.com

  We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.

  ©Faith Martin

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  THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ALSO BY FAITH MARTIN

  FREE KINDLE BOOKS AND OFFERS

  Glossary of English Slang for US readers

  CHAPTER ONE

  Effie James always rode the park-and-ride bus whenever she went into Oxford’s city centre, since parking in the fabled city of dreaming spires was, as every native knew, a total nightmare. And as she rang the bell to alight at the top end of St Giles, an old man sitting on one of the seats near the doors drew back his legs a little to let her pass, looking appreciatively at hers as she did so.

  Effie pretended not to notice, but wouldn’t have been human if she didn’t feel slightly pleased with the compliment. After all, after having reached the huge milestone of her fortieth birthday just last summer, a woman needed all the ego boosting that she could get. And if her legs were still deemed to be noteworthy, perhaps she should make a mental reminder to wear skirts or dresses more often?

  And so with a smile, she alighted from the large and rather grubby double decker bus into a beautiful spring morning in mid April. All down the Woodstock Road, she had noted the cherry trees frothing with their particular shade of eye-catching pink and the gardens fronting the busy road bursting with the yellow blooms of daffodils, forsythia bushes, primroses and tulips.

  It made her feel glad to be alive on such a day, when the sky was a cloudless expanse of azure blue, and all around the blackbirds and sparrows were busy nest-building or feeding early broods. But the moment the thought entered her head, she felt herself tense with a familiar sense of guilt.

  Her smile fading now, she gave a mental shake of her head and pushed the thought aside, refusing to let any pall of black gloom settle over her. Instead, she set off resolutely down the busy pavement, just the dozen or so yards that were needed to bring her to Browns, one of her favourite eating places in the city.

  As she paused outside the windows of the famous establishment, she caught sight of her reflection in the glass, mainly because the spring sunshine had caught her short, silvery blonde hair, and had given it a very flattering highlight. Styled in an elfin-like feather cut, it clung slightly to her high cheekbones and tapered stylishly to the nape of her neck. And so what if her temples were now more silver than blonde? At least it was natural — her ash-blonde colouring coming courtesy of her mother’s inherited Swedish genes. Her large, hazel-grey eyes, slightly stubborn-looking chin and wide mouth, however, were all from her father’s side of the family.

  But as she looked at her reflection in the glass, a niggling sense of doubt began to assail her. Perhaps the outfit had been a mistake after all? Her husband had always preferred her in trouser suits of darker tones — navy, charcoal and deep claret; the neat, impeccably tailored and sophisticated kinds of outfits that he’d always maintained flattered her the most.

  Well, it was too late to change her mind now, she told herself fatalistically.

  And not wanting to be caught preening at her reflection in the glass like some vain schoolgirl, she quickly pushed her doubts to one side, opened the door of the restaurant and walked in. It didn’t take her long to spot her lunch companion, since he was already seated and sipping coffee at one of the best tables near the front windows overlooking the pavement.

  Her lips, which had been painted a pale raspberry shade barely an hour ago, twisted into a small smile. Trust Duncan to demand the best — and get it.

  She nodded at the hostess who’d come to greet her with a questioning smile, discreetly murmured the name of Professor Duncan Fergusson, and was promptly led to her old friend’s table. He spotted her approach at once of course, and rose swiftly to his feet.

  ‘Duncan, ever the gentleman,’ she said with a smile, and gave him a cool kiss on each cheek.

  At fifty-two, Duncan was exactly her height (five feet ten inches) with a head of lush and distinguished silver hair, which was echoed in his fine, bushy eyebrows. His neat little goatee beard, however, was a slightly darker grey in tone, and matched the colour of his eyes almost exactly. And even if he had started to grow just slightly podgy in the last few years, with the dreaded middle-age spread claiming yet another victim, he was still a fine figure of a man, and definitely attractive to the opposite sex.

  As his long-suffering wife, Margot, could no doubt testify.

  ‘Effie, you look as gorgeous as ever,’ he said smoothly in his trademark and pleasing Highland lilt, taking both of her hands in his and spreading them wide, the better to admire her slender figure.

  She tried not to shuffle uneasily as he inspected her cream-coloured calf-length skirt with a matching double-breasted jacket in fine linen, and the pretty honey-gold shot-silk blouse underneath. And once again, she couldn’t help wondering if she should have stuck with trousers.

  But at least she had donned modest flats to go with the outfit — she hadn’t worn high heels since her teenage years — and the only jewellery she wore was her wedding ring, plus a small pearl stud in each lobe.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you wearing light colours for a change. I have to say, you brighten up an already sunny day,’ Duncan told her reassuringly.

  ‘Flattery before noon might just go to my head,’ Effie warned him glibly. She had known Duncan for far too long to ever fall for the psychology professor’s easy charm. ‘So,’ she said, gently but firmly pulling her hands free from his and taking a seat. ‘This is nice, even if the invitation came out of the blue.’

  She took the chair he pulled out for her, and the hostess chose that moment to ask politely if they’d like a drink. Effie automatically ordered orange juice. Duncan, grimacing at her, ordered a bottle of Chardonnay.

  ‘Yes, I know, but it is nearly twelve o’clock,’ he said, as if she’d actually chided him aloud for his choice. ‘Besides, some of us aren’t afraid to live a little,’ he added teasingly. ‘Oh, and before anything else, I really must apologize for having to ask you out at such a ridiculously early time for lunch, but
I have to get back to St Bede’s by one thirty for a tutorial. I wish I could just wash my hands of the brats and have done with it, but the dean will insist that I teach a few students now and then. If I had my way, the college would simply pay me handsomely to do my research and then have the courtesy to leave me alone, letting the junior fellows do all that tedious tutoring.’

  Effie smiled mildly. ‘You know, I’m not at all sure whether you actually mean that or not. Margot says that it’s all for show, and that you really love to have all those adoring undergraduates fawning over you and clinging to your every word.’

  ‘Huh — just goes to show what she knows,’ he grumbled. ‘My nearest and dearest was probably pulling your leg.’

  Effie laughed, then moved aside slightly to allow the waiter to deposit her drink in front of her. She also accepted a large menu, and began to scan the choices. This early in the day it had to be something light, of course.

  Her eyes dipped instantly to the salads.

  ‘The T-bone steak, with sautéed potatoes, please,’ she heard Duncan say, so promptly that he almost certainly couldn’t have had time to look at the choices on offer. But then, he probably ate here regularly, whereas for Effie this was much more of a treat.

  And the thought gave her pause for a moment. Had it really been so long since she’d eaten out? Then, after thinking about it for a moment, she realized that it probably had been quite a while.

  ‘I’ll have the tuna salad, please,’ she said. ‘No croutons,’ she added conscientiously. She had to watch her weight. Then, suddenly and out of nowhere, a thought struck her. What did it matter if she got fat? There would be no one at home to criticize her for it, or shoot her disapproving little glances.

  For a moment her heart lurched and she felt slightly sick and disorientated. It wasn’t an altogether unfamiliar feeling — she’d had odd moments like these for a while now, and she forced herself to take a slow deep breath. Experience had taught her that if she ignored the negativity, it would eventually go away.

  The waiter nodded silent acquiescence of her order and elegantly drifted off. It always unnerved her when they did that, and with such aplomb. It made her feel, in contrast, like a country bumpkin let loose in the big city and sure to be found out as a fraud when she committed some gaffe or minor breach of restaurant etiquette.

  Not that she’d ever been tempted to become a denizen of the town. She’d lived in the small but pretty village of Hampton Frome, just six miles away, for nearly twenty years now, ever since her marriage to Michael. And Michael had always been happiest in the country, preferring to keep the city relegated strictly to a working environment only.

  Before that, she’d been born and raised on a council estate in the local market town of Bicester, but had never felt particularly at home there. No, give her a large garden, countryside walks and plenty of fresh clean air, and she was happy. It was one of the things that she and her husband had always agreed upon.

  Which rather begged the question — just why had Duncan called her yesterday to invite her out to lunch here in the city? Although she’d spoken to Margot on the phone occasionally, she hadn’t seen them both since Michael— Instantly, she shut the thought off before it could reach its logical conclusion and decided that, instead of sitting here like a lemon wondering why she was here, she should just come out with it and simply ask him.

  ‘So I’m curious as to why you asked me . . .’ she began, and then trailed off as Duncan held up a hand and nodded his head, already making small, conciliatory noises. Since he was in the process of taking a large sip of his wine, she had to wait until he’d swallowed it before her curiosity could be satisfied.

  ‘Yes, of course you are. Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so mysterious over the phone. Or did I?’ he added, eyes twinkling.

  Effie couldn’t help but smile back. This was typical of Duncan. Playful, flirtatious and just a little bit wearing on her patience.

  ‘You did sound just a bit cloak and dagger,’ she admitted mildly. Then looked at him in some alarm as a rather hideous thought assailed her. ‘Duncan, I hope you aren’t going to ask me to become one of your guinea pigs in some sort of awful psychology experiment. Remember, I’m not one of your students needing to up my grades!’

  Years ago, Margot had regaled her with some horrific stories about unknowing, innocent students who had agreed to sign up for some university-funded psychological experiments, only to find themselves, like Alice in Wonderland, falling down some rabbit hole or other. With the likes of Duncan and his fellow psychology dons looking on and taking assiduous notes, of course.

  ‘Perish the thought!’ Duncan said now, grinning widely. ‘I wouldn’t dare be so crass. Besides,’ he added with a definite twinkle in his eye now, ‘if I put you in one of those trials, you’d cause havoc. Half the men in them would—’

  ‘Enough,’ Effie said, beginning to laugh. ‘Why don’t you just tell me what it is that you’re after then?’

  Duncan smiled, then looked at her rather more closely. She could tell by the way that his eyes darkened that he was going to say something about Michael, and she felt herself freeze. She knew she shouldn’t — it had, after all, been nearly a year now, and she should be getting used to it. But she just wasn’t. Any mention of her husband threatened to send her into a tailspin, and she felt herself bracing for the impact of his next words.

  ‘Effie, I’m really, really sorry about Michael,’ Duncan said gently. ‘I had hoped that you’d get in touch with me, you know, just to talk.’ He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. ‘You know I’m only a phone call away whenever you need me.’

  ‘Thank you, Duncan,’ she said, hoping that her voice didn’t sound as stiff as her face felt. ‘And thank you for the flowers. I really appreciated them.’ She drew her hand carefully free of his, and reached for her glass. She was proud of the steadiness of her hand as she lifted it to her lips, but her small triumph was rather spoilt by the fact that her throat felt so tight that she could only pretend to take a sip.

  Duncan nodded, his eyes now looking distinctly professional as they searched her face. ‘So, how are you doing?’ he asked softly. ‘I mean, really doing?’

  Effie quickly dropped her gaze down to the pink and purple anemones in a tiny glass jar resting in the centre of the table and laughed gently. ‘Duncan, if you think I’m going to sit here and let you psychoanalyse me, you must be . . . well, mad,’ she laughed, ‘if you’ll pardon the truly awful pun. It’s way too nice a day, and I’m far too hungry. Besides, I’m agog with curiosity about what it is that you’ve got waiting up your sleeve. I’m not so gullible as to think that this is a free lunch, you know.’

  Duncan puffed up his chest and looked outrageously offended. ‘Effie James! Are you trying to say that I’m one of those people who only get in touch with old friends when they want something?’ he demanded, his voice reminiscent of a grand actor of the old school, playing some Shakespearean villain on the stage.

  ‘Yes,’ Effie said shortly.

  ‘Oh, fair enough then.’ Duncan’s chest deflated and he went back to his normal speaking voice — soft and deep and with a faint Scottish burr that rested easy on the ear. ‘In that case . . . how do you feel about taking on a bit of an adventure?’

  Effie’s eyes widened in some alarm and the waiter chose that moment to appear with their food. Ignoring the righteously low-calorific offering that had been arranged attractively on her plate, she studied Duncan suspiciously.

  ‘Ah, lovely. Medium rare, just as I like it,’ he muttered, reaching for his steak knife and slicing off a large piece of beef, which he inspected greedily. And it crossed her mind, briefly and somewhat uncharitably, that it was no wonder that he was putting on weight.

  Then she sighed and mentally began girding her loins for the tussle to come. She had no doubt, now, that she was in for a fight of some kind, since he’d clearly decided that she needed ‘taking out of herself’ and had come up with some sort of a projec
t to do just that. And she knew from past experience that when he had his mind set on something, besting him was no easy feat. He had a way of out-thinking people and of sounding so reasonable and logical and helpful about it all, that, before they knew it, they found themselves agreeing to whatever it was that he wanted.

  Margot had once confessed to her, many years ago and after one too many martinis, that the only reason she had married Duncan in the first place was because he had talked her into it. Effie had, at the time, thought that she’d just been joking — or perhaps merely exaggerating. A heart surgeon at the John Radcliffe hospital, intelligent, no-nonsense Margot had always struck Effie as being the least malleable woman that she knew. Nowadays, she rather thought that her friend had probably been in deadly earnest.

  And perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. Duncan had, after all, made it his career to study the human mind, human behaviour, body language and the philosophy of what it meant to be human. And a man like that must find it easier than most to manipulate people. But the fact that he (almost) always had a benign reason for doing so was, of course, his saving grace. Moreover, Duncan made no secret of the fact that he found his fellow human beings fascinating. And if he could make women in particular feel that his fascination was more personal and intimate . . . well, Effie was sure that he didn’t mind that one little bit, either.

  Although she did sometimes wonder if Duncan strayed as often as Michael had always maintained that he did. She rather hoped not, for Margot’s sake. But then again, Margot seemed to accept her husband as he was, displaying a kind of wry, easy-going aggression towards his philandering that seemed to work well for both of them. Certainly, they couldn’t have stayed together for over fifteen years without some kind of an understanding existing between them.

  And Effie understood, so very well, that nobody could ever truly know what went on inside other people’s marriages. Indeed, sometimes Effie found herself wondering if she’d ever really known what had gone on inside her own.