The Marmalade Murders

by Elizabeth J Duncan

  “Dev is Joyce’s husband,” Mrs. Lloyd announced helpfully. “But before you go, Joyce, I want a word with you about a telephone call Florence received. Someone called her last night and told her to bring her entries tomorrow morning.”

  “I can’t imagine who would have done that, or why,” Joyce said. She turned to her assistant. “Do you know anything about that, Barbara?”

  “No, I don’t know anything about that. But I can tell you it wasn’t anyone from the show committee, that’s for sure,” said Barbara. “The entry rules are very strict.”

  “Well, there’s no harm done, really, is there?” said Joyce. “After all, Florence did get her entry in on time, didn’t she?”

  “Well, yes, but only because Penny here rang to warn us the deadline was fast approaching, and we had to go like the clappers to get here in time.”

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do about that now, and if you’ll excuse me, we really must get on. Still lots to see to in order to get everything ready for tomorrow, and the sooner we get it done, the sooner we can all be off home to our beds.” As Joyce and Barbara edged away, Penny and Victoria gathered up their handbags and prepared to leave.

  * * *

  “We’ll drive you home, of course,” said Victoria to Mrs. Lloyd and Florence as they trooped out of the tent. The air was warm, with the lingering gentleness of a late-summer evening. But the days were shorter than they had been a month ago, and long, deep purple shadows were gathering. They walked through the show grounds in the fading light that slanted across the tops of the ancient hills that cradled the town, passing farmers and their families settling their animals for the night, until they reached the well-trodden path that led to the field that had been designated as a car park.

  “Here we are,” said Victoria, unlocking her car. “Mrs. Lloyd, why don’t you jump in the front and Penny and Florence can hop in the back.”

  “We’re both in our sixties,” said Florence, “so at our age, I don’t know about jumping and hopping, but we’ll do our best.”

  “Speak for yourself, Florence,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “I’m as agile as someone half my age. It’s all those years stood behind the counter in the post office. Gave me the stamina to last a lifetime.”

  “Oh!” said Penny as she was about to get in the car. “Sorry, I left the program in the marquee. I’m just going to run back for it.”

  “We’ll pick you up at the exit,” said Victoria.

  Penny hurried back to the marquee, lifted the entrance flap, and scooped up the program from the table where she’d left it. As she turned to leave, voices drifted on the evening breeze from around the side of the tent, and she inclined her head to listen.

  “I don’t care who wins,” a woman was saying in a low voice, “as long as it’s not her.”

  “I wish you hadn’t said that,” replied her companion with a distinct note of irritation in her voice. “I really don’t feel at all comfortable with this. And who knows. Maybe she won’t win anyway.” The second speaker’s voice trailed off as the women moved away, and Penny was unable to catch any more of the conversation. She replayed the words in her mind as she walked to the field gates, where Victoria waited with the car. Penny opened the door to the backseat and climbed in.

  “It’s always such fun viewing the animals on show day,” Mrs. Lloyd was saying. “They’ve all been coifed and groomed within an inch of their lives. They look as if they’ve just stepped out of the beauty parlour.”

  “Or had a day of pampering at the Llanelen Spa.” Victoria grinned. Then, over her shoulder, she asked, “Did you get the program you were after, Penny?”

  “Yes, I did, thanks.”

  Penny fastened her seat belt as the car pulled onto the main road and Victoria drove the short distance to the attractively proportioned two-storey, grey stone house on Rosemary Lane where Mrs. Lloyd and Florence Semble lived.

  “I’m really curious about that telephone call, Florence,” Penny said. “The one telling you to bring your show entries in the morning. What can you tell us about it?”

  “Well, I sent in the entry forms a few weeks ago and then last night someone rang to tell me I should bring my entries on Saturday morning.”

  “Can you remember the name of the person who rang you?”

  “I don’t think she said. If she did give her name, I don’t remember it.”

  “But it was a woman?”

  “Oh yes, it was definitely a woman’s voice; that much I do know. She just said she was calling on behalf of the show committee to let me know the submission times had changed for some categories and that I should bring my cake to the judging tent by eight o’clock Saturday morning. I told her I was also submitting raspberry jam and marmalade and she said it would be all right to bring those in the morning, too. I didn’t think anything of it, really. In fact, I thought they were doing this so everyone’s entry would be as fresh as possible. Flowers, for example, would look better for the judging if they’d been picked and arranged that morning. Or maybe they were expecting so many entries that they were setting up two intakes.”

  In the front seat, Mrs. Lloyd shifted slightly to her right, as if to hear better.

  In the dim light of the car’s interior, Penny couldn’t discern the expression on Florence’s face, but her voice sounded thick and wooden.

  “Are you all right, Florence?” Penny asked. “What are you thinking?”

  They pulled up in front of Mrs. Lloyd’s house and Victoria switched off the car engine. Nobody moved.

  “Well, you heard what that Barbara person said. It wasn’t someone from the show committee who rang me, so I can only think that it must have been somebody else who didn’t want me to enter the competition, for some reason.”

  “What do you think, Penny?” Mrs. Lloyd asked. “What do you think’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure, but Florence might be right. Victoria and I logged in lots of entries and no one mentioned a phone call about bringing their entries in the morning. Why would Florence be the only one to receive that call?” She thought for a moment. “Unless someone else did, too. Victoria, do you remember the names on the no-show entries? I wonder if they got called, too, telling them to bring their stuff in the morning.”

  “There were two entries left over,” Victoria replied. “The name on both was Gaynor Lewis. She was down for a jam and a marmalade. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her.”

  “Gaynor Lewis!” exclaimed Mrs. Lloyd. “Oh my goodness!”

  “Who is she?” Penny asked.

  “She’s the president of the Llanelen branch of the WG,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “You know, the Welsh Women’s Guild. Everybody just calls it the WG. You must have heard of it.”

  Penny and Victoria murmured little noises of assent. Of course they’d heard of the WG. It had been founded in Wales during the Second World War to help with efforts on the home front and now focused on old-fashioned home arts and crafts like sewing, baking, gardening, and knitting, some of which had never gone out of style, and some of which were making a comeback and being taken up by young people.

  “And not only that,” Mrs. Lloyd added, twisting further in her seat in an attempt to address Florence directly, “Gaynor Lewis is your archrival. On the rare occasion when her raspberry jam or marmalade doesn’t take home first prize, everybody hears about it. It’s all or nothing with her. She used to always win the cake competition, although she hasn’t for the last couple of years, and it looks as though she didn’t bother to enter that category this year. If she loses, she complains to anybody who’ll listen about how biased the judging is and how the show organizers, led by Joyce Devlin, had it in for her.”

  “Oh dear,” said Victoria. “Like that, is it?”

  “It certainly is,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Joyce is Gaynor’s sister-in-law, and they don’t get on. Never have, never will. All the drama! But besides that, there are rivalries going back years. Like with poor Mari Jones. She’s been desperate to take hom
e a first-place rosette for one of her cakes for as long as I can remember, but she never has, poor soul.” Mrs. Lloyd sighed. “The competition itself is fierce. I wouldn’t go as far as to use the word backstabbing, but you’ll probably see for yourselves tomorrow.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” said Florence as she opened the car door. “What have I let myself in for? But I’m too tired to think about this anymore tonight. I’m sure we’ve all had enough excitement for one day, and there’s nothing more we can do tonight. Perhaps we’ll find out more about what’s going on tomorrow. The main thing is, thanks to you two, I got my entries in on time.”

  “Florence is right,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “We’ll leave it there for tonight. And thank you so much for giving us the lift home. We’ll see you at the marquee tomorrow morning.”

  “Good luck in the competition, Florence!” Penny called after them as they made their way along the path that led to their front door. Their movement triggered the porch light to come on, and for a brief moment their retreating figures were silhouetted in a beam of bright white light before they disappeared into the house.

  Four

  As Penny walked to the show the next morning, pausing for a moment to admire the bright pink and purple wildflowers that lined her path, she passed dozens of vehicles parked on the verge of the lane that ran alongside the fields. By nine o’clock, the field that had been designated as a car park was full.

  Victoria had left her car at home, as show organizers had urged the hundreds of spectators to do, and together with Mrs. Lloyd and Florence, she’d taken the shuttle bus to the site.

  They joined the rest of the eager showgoers who stepped off the bus into a field crowded with mud-spattered heavy vehicles equipped with trailers for transporting livestock. A soft breeze drifting down from the wooded hills carried the occasional lowing of a cow or the bleating of a sheep, intermingled with unmistakable livestock smells. And happily for all, the organizing committee’s prayers had been answered; the day promised to be fair and warm.

  The aluminium pens set up for the show animals were filled with common and fancy breeds of sheep, goats, horses, pigs, and cows being bathed, brushed, and combed to look their best when they entered the judging rings to compete for a prized red rosette or a coveted silver cup.

  Victoria waved to Haydn Williams, who pointed proudly at the Welsh mountain sheep he was grooming, and in response she grinned and gave him an encouraging thumbs-up. Mrs. Lloyd and Florence trailed behind her, stopping to talk to friends and neighbours, as they threaded their way through the crowds. Interested townsfolk mingled with anxious exhibitors—mainly robust farmers, their faces brown from open air and sunshine, wearing baggy trousers, chunky sweaters, and tweedy flat caps. Mrs. Lloyd, dressed in the countrywoman’s uniform of pleated skirt, puffy vest over a warm jumper, and sensible shoes, made a few casual remarks about the animals they passed, but Florence remained silent. This wasn’t unusual, as she often retreated thoughtfully into herself, but she walked with her head down, shoulders stooped, and, unusually for her, took little interest in the activity going on all around her.

  “I’m sure your entries did very well,” Victoria assured Florence as they reached the marquee, where Penny, her hands stuffed into the pockets of a warm fleece, waited for them. Florence acknowledged Victoria’s remark with a polite but tight smile.

  “Quite a few people have already gone in,” Penny said, stepping aside to allow Mrs. Lloyd and Florence to enter the marquee ahead of her. Diffused sunlight filtered through the plastic windows, bringing in a little warmth. Having been protected by the tent over the past few days, the uneven grassy ground had not had the opportunity to dry out, and as a result, it was still slightly springy and damp underfoot, as Victoria had predicted.

  The four women eased their way into the end of the queue that snaked slowly along in front of the long table laden with entries. Curious show visitors mingled with anxious entrants who took their time examining the displays and pointing out the results to their friends.

  The first category was the vegetable group. Entries had been artfully displayed, some on risers covered with white cloths, which added height and interest to a colourful show of leeks, tomatoes, carrots, sweet corn, cabbages, and lettuces. Prizewinning produce had been singled out for recognition with red or blue ribbons, along with a certificate bearing the name of the person who had entered it.

  Next came the floral-arts displays. “No prizes for guessing who won most of these,” remarked Penny. And she was right. The name Heather Hughes appeared on certificates beside several arrangements, ranging from lavish sprays to a single white rose. A well-known and much respected local gardener, Heather served as a judge at various flower shows, including a prestigious one held every spring in London.

  The women admired the displays with their intoxicating scents as long as the line behind them allowed, until the pressure to move along propelled them farther down the table.

  Florence took a deep, calming breath as they shuffled closer to the baking entries. Her sharp, eager eyes scanned the entries over the shoulders of the women standing in front of the table. After what seemed an eternity, the women ahead of her finally moved on and at last she and Penny were positioned in front of the home-baking categories.

  It was a bountiful, mouthwatering display: fruit and savoury pies of every description, their golden brown crusts embellished with cutouts of leaves, acorns, or flowers; traditional Welsh cakes speckled with currants; ginger biscuits; cherry scones; chocolate Swiss rolls; date and walnut loaves; summer puddings; and, of course, cakes. Round and square cakes in two classes: plain and fancy, all set out on white plates. Victoria sponges and lemon drizzles dominated the plain category, while two-layer iced chocolate and walnut cakes shone in the fancy category.

  In the centre of the table, on a raised silver cake stand, was a two-layer round cake, decorated in perfectly piped roses in graduated shades of frosting from red to a mid-range pink to a pale pink. A showy red rosette was affixed to the cake stand. Its trailing red ribbon, upon which Best in Show was emblazoned in yellow, flowed over a silver cake server.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Look at that! Best in Show. Who made it, I wonder.” She picked up the certificate beside the rosette and read it out loud. “Best in Show: Cakes, pies, and biscuits. Elin Spears.” As she dropped the certificate back on the table, she added, “I might have known. She’s won the cake prizes for the last couple of years. It’s always the same people who keep winning everything.”

  “Elin Spears,” murmured Penny. “Name sounds familiar.” She turned to Victoria. “Does she come to the Spa? That’s probably where I know the name from, although she’s not one of my clients.”

  “Maybe she does,” Victoria replied. “I can’t remember the name of every client, but the name rings a bell.”

  Florence tapped Penny on the arm to get her attention, then gestured at the table. “Are my eyes playing tricks on me? I don’t see my carrot cake here. Do you?” She pointed to the chocolate and walnut cakes, each with a thin slice removed for judging. “It should be right there, in with that lot. Mine was two layers, as well.”

  Penny’s eyes swept the table. “No, I don’t see it, either,” she said leaning forward to get a better view of the table. “It’s not here. It should be. You submitted it on time, and we know it was officially entered in the competition. We’ll have to speak to someone and find out what happened.” She gave Florence what she hoped was a reassuring pat on the arm. “It’s very strange, but don’t worry, we’ll find out what happened to it.”

  As a deep frown creased her forehead, Florence pressed her fingers over her mouth as she scanned the entries one last time.

  They shuffled on to the jams, marmalades, and chutneys. “Oh, look, Florence.” Mrs. Lloyd pointed to a jar of jam with a piece of red-and-white gingham fabric tied to the top, at the front of the display of preserves. “There’s your raspberry jam, and it’s come in first!” She rubbed her hands togethe
r in glee. “Well done. I’m happy for you but not the least bit surprised. I’ve eaten a lot of jam in my time, and nothing comes close to yours. It’s the perfect combination of sweet and sharp.”

  Florence rarely allowed herself a full smile, but she couldn’t help showing her delight at having come in first in the category. Before she really had time to savour her victory, though, the gentle surge of the crowd behind them encouraged them to move on to the next part of the display.

  “Let’s see how you did here, Florence,” said Mrs. Lloyd, picking up the winning jar of marmalade with its red-and-white check-patterned top.

  “That’s not mine,” said Florence. “Mine had a plain silver lid that I covered with a square of red-and-white gingham, tied on with a bit of butcher’s twine.”

  “Yes, I remember the bit of gingham, but I thought perhaps the judges removed that and you had a red-and-white lid underneath.” Mrs. Lloyd leaned over to examine the certificate beside the jar of marmalade and frowned. “No, it isn’t yours, Florence. It’s Gaynor Lewis’s entry. I might have known.” She lowered her voice. “You remember I told you about her last night. She’s the president of the Women’s Guild and sister-in-law of Joyce Devlin, chairperson of the show. Gaynor always wins in the jam and marmalade department, but I thought this year you were in with a chance because yours are just so much better than anyone else’s. Well, I was right about the raspberry jam. I wonder what happened here with the marmalade. Yours should have won, not Gaynor’s.”

  “Let me see that,” said Florence, taking the jar from Mrs. Lloyd and holding it up to the light. Pretty as it was, with the sun shining through it, sparkling off the jar’s cut-glass pattern and transforming the contents into a bright jewel-like colour, Florence was looking for something else.

  “The distribution of fruit isn’t equal here,” she said. “Frankly, I’m surprised the judges would give this top marks. In mine, the distribution of fruit was equal. Let me show you.”