by Morgana Best
“I didn’t want him to know that I was listening into your conversation,” Mr. Buttons said in a matter of fact tone. “I’ll go to the police station today and give it to him.”
I looked at the writing. To my surprise, it did in fact look very much like my hand writing. “It’s lucky you found it,” I said, peering at it.
Mr. Buttons snickered. “I didn’t lose it. I wanted to photograph it and show Cressida, before I handed it over to the police.”
I was utterly shocked. “But why, why would you such thing?” I stammered.
“Well, to see if we recognized the writing, of course.” Mr. Buttons looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses.
“And did you?”
“No, but we have now have photographs so we can keep comparing it to any handwriting samples we come across. I doubt the police will go to so much trouble.” Mr. Buttons took a sip of his tea, set down his tea cup, and leaned forward. “Sibyl, someone murdered Tim Higgins, and now they want to do away with you,” he whispered. “According to the principles of logic, that means that they think you know something.”
“I don’t know anything,” I said loudly, and Mr. Buttons waved at me to hush me while the waitress arrived and set down another coffee in front of me.
When she had left, he again addressed me in the whispered tone. “Obviously, the murderer thinks you do. Think, Sibyl, think. Have you stumbled across anything, anything at all, that could give a clue as to the murderer’s identity?”
I sat and sipped my coffee while I wracked my brains. I came up blank. “No, nothing at all, unless…”
“Unless what?” Mr. Buttons prompted.
“Well, unless it’s the fact that I can smell cyanide.”
Mr. Buttons frowned for a while. “No, it can’t be that. It must be something else. Did you see anything that made you suspicious, even slightly?”
I thought again before answering. “No, nothing at all.”
Mr. Buttons frowned. “Memory, Sibyl. I've noticed that memory can be misleading. Have you ever watched a movie, and then later watched it again and certain parts weren't at all how you remembered them? As that is the case, I wonder then how accurate memories are. Do you know, I read once that people think their memories hold an actual record of their past just as if it was being replayed on a DVD, but the fact is that people instead remember only segments. The mind has a strong compulsion to weave these segments together into a running story. In some cases, people can have vivid and specific memories of events that never happened. Are you sure you can’t remember anything, even little segments?”
I tried to remember so hard that my forehead hurt from frowning. “No,” I said after a long pause.
Mr. Buttons appeared disappointed. “Well, let’s go and look through Tim Higgins’ room. We might find something useful in there.”
“Haven’t the police already done that?”
“Well, yes,” he said, “but they may have overlooked something. It won’t hurt to look.”
I chewed the end of my thumb. “Are we allowed to look?”
“I don’t think so,” Mr. Buttons said, averting his eyes and taking another sip of tea. “If we hurry, we can have a good look around before Alison returns from her afternoon off.”
I agreed. I figured I had nothing to lose; perhaps there was a snippet of evidence in Tim Higgins’ room, or perhaps Mr. Buttons himself was the murderer. He was certainly on my list of suspects, as was everyone I’d met in this town, apart from the police. I had a vested interest now; someone had tried to kill me. The police didn’t appear to be in a hurry to solve the case, so I would have to look into it myself, for my own protection.
Fifteen minutes later, I was following Mr. Buttons up the wide staircase to Tim Higgins’ room.
“Let’s get started,” Mr. Buttons said, handing me another pair of latex gloves. “In here,” he added unnecessarily as he opened the door to a large bedroom.
The bedroom was tidy. I always imagined that if police searched something, they made an awful mess. Perhaps I had watched too many crime shows on television after all.
The carpet was an unappealing deep blue and sickly pink pattern and the wallpaper was floral in shades of mainly navy blue. The heavy wooden bed was king sized and had a heavy blue and white quilt on it. There was a very feminine looking dressing table complete with, of all things, a piano stool in front of it in a worn tapestry.
Heavy crimson velvet curtains completed the picture. I tried to draw them back further to let in more light, but they wouldn’t budge. I crossed to the huge, old desk on which were stacked piles of books.
“What are we looking for exactly?”
“You’ll know it when you see it,” Mr. Buttons said.
I smiled and nodded, and we got to work.
Mr. Buttons was working through the dresser full of clothes. They were all folded nicely. I watched him as he pulled each drawer open in turn. He reached in and pulled some of the pants up, and his gloved fingertips ran along some paper. His brow quirked and he pulled the pants out, setting them on the floor. “Sibyl, look at this.”
He pointed to thin stacks of loose leaf paper, with slanting scribbled writing in blue pen. He pulled some of the sheets out and handed them to me. I tried to read them, and at first had trouble reading them because the handwriting was so bad. There were words followed by numbers.
“I don’t have a clue what this is,” I said, handing the paper back to Mr. Buttons after he had the rest in his hands. He was crouched down still, and he looked up at me.
“It doesn’t look like a real language, like French, German, Spanish, or whatever. No language has words and numbers mixed together, and it can’t be prices as there are no dollar signs. He does have some English words but then there are the strange symbols and the numbers.”
“No,” I agreed. “It doesn’t look like a language. Perhaps it’s some sort of code.”
Mr. Buttons pulled out his iPhone and took photos of each sheet.
I turned back to the desk. There were numerous, heavy volumes of the Carter’s Guide to Antiques and Collectibles, as well as stacks and stacks of every antiques, fine art, and collectibles magazine under the sun.
Half an hour later, we had not found anything useful. “Just a lot of books and magazines,” I said, as we stood near the doorway.
“He was a reader, that’s for sure,” Mr. Buttons said. “I wonder if I could match the handwriting on these papers with the weird language to Mr. Higgins’ writing. Did you come across anything that was obviously his writing?”
“Yes,” I said, and I hurried over to the bed. I pulled a small book from under the pillow and brought it back, handing it to Mr. Buttons, who opened it to reveal a date book. It was a year old, but there were various things scribbled on some of the dates, including birthdays and phone numbers.
Mr. Buttons pulled one of the strange sheets of paper from the top of the desk. He came around the front of the desk and bent over next to me, putting the date book and the paper on the desktop in front of both of us. We leaned forward together and studied both items.
“The e looks the same, and so do those letters,” I said, pointing with my index finger.
“Yes, I’d say it’s a match,” Mr. Buttons said. “I can’t see how that will help us, though.”
I shook my head. “I suppose not, but perhaps it will help later on, somehow. Hang on a moment." I peered at the writing. "I know what this is; how silly of me. Those symbols are silver hallmarks. I know because Andrew's mother was always talking about her huge collection of antique silver. Look at this one, here. It has the words lion passant, which of course is the symbol for sterling silver, and then that symbol there I bet is a leopard's head which is the place, London I think from memory, and then those ones are date letters and the maker's mark. He must've written this all down while looking at Cressida's silver, and then gone to check it with one of those books." I nodded to the pile of books.
"And the numbers are what he thinks the items
are worth," Mr. Buttons said.
"Yes, and I'd say he left the dollar sign off, just in case someone stumbled across it. It certainly fooled us for a while. What are we going to do? We have to give these to the police, but they’ll say we're interfering with their investigation."
"Leave it to me," Mr. Buttons said. "I'll just say I was cleaning Tim Higgins' room and stumbled across them."
I thanked him, and we made our way back downstairs, after stopping to listen at the dining room door to see if the coast was clear. I followed Mr. Buttons to the kitchen. He went to a small coffee maker in the corner and turned it on, and soon the smell of freshly brewing coffee filled the place. Mr. Buttons also rinsed a teapot under hot water, so I assumed the coffee was solely for my benefit. I was certainly having a coffee overload today.
I made myself as comfortable as I could at the kitchen table, and flipped through the small date book. Mr. Buttons set a coffee mug in front of me and a delicately painted tea cup in front of his seat.
I looked at Mr. Buttons and then realized with a start that he could be the murderer. I had certainly let down my guard with him. I couldn’t afford to be careless again.
"In order to really enjoy a dog, one doesn't merely try to train him to be semi human. The point of it is to open oneself to the possibility of becoming partly a dog."
(Edward Hoagland)
Chapter Eleven.
I was at the veterinary clinic asking the receptionist if I could leave my business cards there, as well as a poster. “Oh yes, my mobile grooming van is ideal,” I gushed, waving my business cards under her nose. “It has an electric grooming table, an Autofill hydrobath, and an Airmax dyer. I have special shampoo and conditioner for the dogs with skin allergies and I cater for all breeds. I do whatever clients want: I can do show clips for several breeds including poodles, full clips for cats, blow dry, hydro baths – I do nails, ears, you name it.”
I had just paused for breath when a woman burst through the door dragging an unwilling golden labrador behind her. She elbowed me aside and demanded to speak to the veterinarian.
“Come here, you bad dog,” the woman snarled at the dog, who was pulling back, unwilling to proceed further into the waiting room.
“I’m sorry, but I have to help this young lady first,” the receptionist said, but the woman interrupted her.
“I tell you, I need you to help me urgently. This dog continues to dig holes in my pristine lawn and keeps on gnawing at our shoes. You have no idea how many times I’ve had to replace everything and pay the gardener to make sure the lawn’s tidy again. You have to help me fix this dog, or get rid of her for me somehow.”
The receptionist had her lips in a tight, thin line. It was clear to me that her patience was wearing thin. However, she instead smiled politely at the rude woman and asked her to wait while she called the vet out. She quickly mouthed a word of apology at me, the business cards briefly left forgotten on her desk.
The receptionist soon returned with a vet. “What seems to be the problem this time, Mrs. Davis?”
“I’ve already explained it to that other woman,” she snapped. “This dog has no manners; she keeps digging holes. She slobbers all over the floor, and she ate some of my sofa.”
I only managed to stifle a giggle with some effort, but my humor soon left when I saw the dog’s sad face.
“I’ve already given you the name of a training group,” the patient lady vet said.
“That won’t help her,” the overbearing woman said. “She needs drugs.”
The vet shook her head. “She’s only seven months old; chewing things is normal puppy behavior. Have you been taking her for daily walks like I advised you to previously?”
The woman’s cheeks puffed up. “I can’t walk; it makes me tired. I can’t have this dog any longer. If you won’t give her drugs, I’ll take her to a shelter and leave her with them.”
I gasped, and the woman turned her attention to me. “Do you have something to say?”
“No, I mean yes, um, well, you can’t take that lovely dog to a shelter. Who knows what will happen to her?” The dog walked over to me and chewed on my shoe, then turned her big brown eyes up to my face. I stroked her head and made silly, baby noises at her. “She’s adorable,” I cooed.
“You take her then.”
I looked up at the woman. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Do you want her?”
I had been planning on getting a dog, but not like this. I had deliberately looked for a cottage with a yard, a place where the landlord would allow me to have a dog, and that, in fact, was written in my lease contract.
I took a deep breath. “Yes, I’ll have the dog.”
The leash was in my hand as fast as the woman could get it to me, and she turned to hurry away.
“Wait a minute,” the vet said. “This needs to be legal, Mrs. Davis.” She turned to the receptionist. “Do you have any change of microchip number forms handy?” The receptionist soon produced a form, which Mrs. Davis signed, albeit unwillingly. “I don’t know why I had to pay to have this dog microchipped in the first place,” she snapped. “It’s a waste of money.”
The receptionist shot me a look and then stood up. “Mrs. Davis, all dogs and cats in Australia by law have to be microchipped. It’s useful for locating owners of missing pets.”
Mrs. Davis muttered something to herself and hurried from the clinic.
I filled in the form, and signed it too, and just like that, I had a dog.
The business cards I had come to deliver were quickly left forgotten and I felt a little shell shocked. The vet briefly smiled at me before hurrying back into a treatment room, and I turned to the receptionist. “I’ll need to buy dog food. Is there anything else I need to buy?”
The receptionist looked at her computer. “She’s not due for worming for quite some time; anyway, we’ll send you a text the week before she’s due. She’ll need a car safety restraint. This one’s good and cheap and clips straight in.” She held up a small packet. “Did you know that she’s well bred? Mrs. Davis paid quite a lot for her. Her parents had good hip and elbow scores; it’s all in the computer. Which dog food would you like?”
My head was spinning. I looked at the shelves, and was at once intimidated by the shelves of various types and brands of dog food, their silvery plastic packages shining under the too bright clinic light. “Which one is best for her?”
The receptionist pointed to one large bag. “Labradors should stay on premium puppy food at least to the age of eighteen months,” she said, “a brand made for large breeds, due to potential joint problems and the like.”
“Okay,” I said, handing her my credit card. “I’ll have the car safety restraint and the dog food, thanks.” After I paid, I was about to leave, when I turned back. “What’s her name?’
The receptionist smiled. “Sandy. Good luck with her.”
Sandy. Not the most original name, especially for a golden labrador. Oh well, she was too old to have a name change now. I shrugged and led Sandy to my car. As soon as I opened the back door, she hopped in nicely and allowed me to fasten her seat belt. “Oh you’re such good girl,” I gushed and was rewarded with a wet lick on my chin.
After a quick detour to the supermarket to buy dog bowls, I went back home to my cottage. Home – it did feel like home now that I had a dog to share with. I led Sandy through the cottage into the yard and let her go. I had already checked that the yard was dog proof when I’d first arrived – I had planned to get a dog at some point. Sandy ran around and explored it quickly, and then ran back to me and put her paw on my knee. “I do hope you’re house trained,” I said, and Sandy put her head on one side, as if to try to figure out what I was saying.
We both went back inside. Sandy promptly jumped on the sofa and went to sleep, seemingly unconcerned about being in a strange place, while I booted up my laptop. I knew about cyanide, having been married to someone who was a chemical engineer for a sodium cyanide manufacturing plan
t, and whose favorite, and highly boring, topic of conversation had been cyanide. I knew that cyanide was not available for sale to the public, and was very difficult to obtain. As Tim Higgins’ murderer had now made an attempt on my life, it was in my interests to find out as much as I could – from the safety of my home, that is.
Ten minutes later, Sandy was snoring and I had not found out anything useful at all. I came across a story of a lottery winner who was a suspected cyanide victim, and the article said that cyanide was available to buy in India. I googled that and did find wholesalers of cyanide. Still, I expected that if someone had it brought into the country, then there would be a record of it in Customs and the police would be onto it.
I did the only thing I could think of – I called the Ex.
“What do you want?”
I sighed. Perhaps this was a bad idea. “Hello to you, too. Look, I’m not calling about the settlement; I just want to know where to buy cyanide.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone and I wondered if he had hung up. “Cyanide?” he said.
I shook my head. I hoped he wasn’t going to make this difficult. “Yes, cyanide, you know, the stuff you make?” I was unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “The day I arrived here, one of the boarders was found dead. He was killed by cyanide.”
“Fascinating, but I have to get back to work.”
“Look, Andrew, I just want to know this. Where can you buy cyanide? I know it’s hard to get. I’ve found out you can get it from India.”
“And Jamaica.”
“Jamaica?”
“Yes,” he grunted. “There was a spill in an Australian chemical factory there some years ago, and word on the street is that some people in Jamaica are still selling it. If you know where to look, you can buy it.”
“Anywhere else?”
“Probably, but I can’t think of anywhere off the top of my head. Is that all? Some of us have to make a living, you know.”
I bit back my rude reply, and simply said. “Thanks. How’s Max?”
“None of your business; he’s my cockatoo now. Do yourself a favor, Sibyl, and get over it.” With that he hung up.