“Anything else?” asked Henry.
Alfie looked round for the flowers and saw a selection of garish bouquets. “No,” he said. “Yes.”
As the supermarket’s sole customer, he felt a moral obligation to buy something else. However big the mark-up on the prosecco, it wouldn’t be much of a profit for a day’s work. He picked up a basket and chose various groceries at random, probably duplicating what Liz and Marge had already bought for him. This time he had a bag: there was a bagful of bags hanging on the kitchen door and he had stuffed one in his pocket before leaving the cottage.
“Glad to see you’re doing your best to promote us,” said Henry, and Alfie saw for the first time that it was emblazoned with “Agatha’s Amateur Dramatic Society” and a cartoon of a mouse approaching a mousetrap.
“James would have been safer selling bags than putting up banners,” said Henry with one of his laughs. “And he would have been a lot safer if he hadn’t worn that poncey silk scarf round his neck. But he was always so keen to show how much more cultured he was than the rest of us. He definitely wouldn’t have taken to you, with all your posh London theatre work.”
“Scarcely posh,” said Alfie. “Just a bit of a hobby.”
Henry handed him the receipt. “You know,” he said, “it’s so slow today, I think I’ll close up for an hour or so and come along to the rehearsal. Give you my support.”
“Too kind,” said Alfie.
He had little hope that Bunburry Blooms would be open but he found the lights on and could see Anthony shifting buckets of flowers at the back of the shop. He pushed the door.
“Hello? Are you – ”
“Alfie – come in, come in. Good to see you. I popped in to make up some flowers for Rose.”
The mysterious Rose again, who was the cause of dissent between James Fry and the vicar.
“I won’t disturb you,” said Alfie. “I wasn’t sure whether you were open.”
“You’re not disturbing me at all. What can I do for you?”
“I’m going round to see Liz and Marge this evening and thought of taking them some flowers. Although I’ve no idea what they might like.”
“Leave it to me,” said Anthony. “Are you in a rush? I’ve just put the kettle on.”
“No claims on my time till the rehearsal,” said Alfie.
There was something very relaxing about sitting with coffee, even instant, and chocolate biscuits, while surrounded by flowers and foliage.
“I’m glad to have the chance to talk to you,” said Anthony. “I’m so terribly sorry about Gussie. Bunburry won’t be the same without her.”
Alfie remembered that James Fry was Anthony’s cousin. “I’m sorry about your own family loss.”
Anthony looked at the floor, shaking his head. “Not the same thing at all, I’m afraid. We weren’t close.”
Even if Anthony had only spoken to his cousin once a year, they would still have been closer than Alfie had been to Aunt Augusta.
“I wanted to tell you how wonderful Gussie was when I started this business. I could never have made a success of it without all her support and encouragement.”
Alfie murmured noncommittally. The aunt he could barely remember seemed to have been a key part of so many other people’s lives.
“She was the best publicist I could have had,” Anthony went on. “Anything that was happening in the village, she insisted that it would be even better with a floral display. Every meeting, every commemoration, every celebration, sometimes just because it was a wet Wednesday she thought could do with cheering up. And of course everybody went along with it – you know what she was like, a real force of nature.”
No, thought Alfie, I’ve absolutely no idea what she was like.
“She didn’t have to do it,” said Anthony. “She only did it because she always wanted to help people.”
Alfie remembered Anthony’s skill in making the bouquet the previous day. “I’m sure she did it because she knew you had a talent.”
Anthony gave an awkward laugh. “Flower arranging scarcely takes talent.”
Apparently it wasn’t only the AA who needed encouragement. “From what I’ve seen, you’ve got very considerable talent. You’re creative. You’re artistic.”
“Not the most macho qualities,” muttered Anthony.
“Never did Leonardo da Vinci any harm,” said Alfie, eliciting a genuine laugh.
“That’s just the sort of thing Gussie would have said. You weren’t able to come to the funeral?” It was a question, but Alfie sensed that no criticism was intended. He hadn’t even known that Aunt Augusta had died until he received the solicitor’s letter telling him about her will.
“No,” he said. “Unfortunately that wasn’t possible.”
Anthony didn’t demand to know what his excuse was. Instead, he said: “It was a privilege to be responsible for the floral tributes. I made sure there was some purple in all of them. Vanda orchids, fringed tulips, Canterbury bells, irises.”
Flowers weren’t Alfie’s thing. He could tell a daisy from a lily, but that was about it. Then he realised that Anthony was telling him this because he wanted reassurance from Aunt Augusta’s next of kin that he had done the right thing.
“That sounds beautiful,” he said. “It was very thoughtful of you. Very fitting.”
Anthony’s anxious expression relaxed. “For the main tribute, I chose agapanthus, alstroemeria and lisianthus.”
Alfie hadn’t the faintest idea what these were, though he assumed they were flowers. He nodded thoughtfully. “Perfect,” he said. “I’m glad she had a good send-off.”
“It was a lovely service,” said Anthony. “Philip took it. Not as a vicar, obviously, but as a close friend.”
“Obviously,” said Alfie. Nothing about Aunt Augusta was obvious to him except her love of purple and the 1970s.
Anthony stood up and with his customary delicate precision set about creating the bouquet. Two bouquets, Alfie saw, a large one of roses, appropriate for Rose, and a small one, more like a posy, which Anthony was making entirely of purple flowers, a memento of Aunt Augusta for Marge and Liz. Alfie had envisaged something larger, but he trusted Anthony to know what was best. Perhaps Marge and Liz didn’t much like flowers.
“There,” announced Anthony, standing back to assess his handiwork.
“Thank you, they’ll love that,” said Alfie. “How much do I owe you?”
The sum seemed high for such a small offering, but it was November after all, and the blooms could well have been shipped in from some Dutch hothouse. He paid without demur.
Anthony tore a sheet of patterned paper from a roll hanging on the wall and with his usual deftness, created a wrapping for the bouquet of roses and handed it to Alfie. Then he picked up the posy. “This is just a little extra,” he said. “It’s for the scarlet vase in Gussie’s parlour. I think it will go with it quite nicely.”
Alfie was taken aback. Far from being overcharged, he had been seriously undercharged.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” said Anthony. “I’ve cut them to the right size for the vase and the purple and red work well together.”
“No, I meant – ” Alfie stopped. If Anthony was giving him a friends and family rate, that was his prerogative and it would be insulting to query it. “I thought you were making a bouquet for Rose.”
“I just give her whatever’s left over,” said Anthony. “It doesn’t have to last long, because I see her most days.”
Alfie was none the wiser. He was taking his leave when he thought of the conversation with Rakesh.
“Anthony, you usually played Detective Sergeant Trotter, didn’t you?”
Anthony looked uncomfortable. “Until this year, yes.”
“And do you prefer playing Christopher Wren?”
Anthony ga
ve a vague wave of his hand. “I don’t mind what I do. Whatever’s needed, really.”
The Poor Anthony tag seemed increasingly appropriate. This wasn’t someone who stood up for himself. Fry had wanted the role and just took it.
“I haven’t started learning any lines yet,” Alfie said. “If you didn’t mind, it would be easier for me to be Christopher Wren if you could be the policeman.”
The expression on Anthony’s face proved Alfie’s instinct had been correct. He left Bunburry Blooms with the feeling that he had righted a wrong.
Back at Windermere Cottage, he went in search of the scarlet vase. The ghastly wallpaper overpowered everything else in the room, but eventually he spotted it on the mantelpiece. As he might have expected, Anthony had judged the posy perfectly both in terms of size and colour.
But that afternoon’s rehearsal was far from perfect. The Fairchilds appeared to have been bickering again and would scarcely look at one another, tricky when they were playing a couple. Anthony didn’t remember his previous character’s lines as well as he had expected. And William Marlowe, having been so decisive in the pub, no longer knew who Alfie was and looked round anxiously for James Fry until he eventually nodded off. James Fry seemed to have micromanaged the production down to every step and gesture with the result that all the acting was tense and stilted.
“Excellent,” said Alfie. “First rate. Bear with me – I’m still getting to grips with the script. Would you mind coming off the stage and we can sit and do a quick read round?”
He coaxed them into trying out different voice and accents until even the Fairchilds (sitting well away from one another) were relaxed and laughing. Then he stealthily encouraged them to adopt their favourite new voice. After that, he had them go round the hall experimenting with mannerisms and a walk to go with the voice. The vicar, playing Major Metcalf, developed a fine military stride, gripping an imaginary swagger stick.
“I must try this at Evensong,” he said.
The rehearsal ended with Liz at the piano, leading them in a rousing chorus of Three Blind Mice, before reminding everyone that the next rehearsal was eight pm on Wednesday evening.
“That was fun,” said Anthony as he put on his coat and scarf.
“Yes, it was,” said Henry Fairchild, sounding astonished.
Liz sidled up to Alfie. “I hope we’ve given you the help you needed.”
“Absolutely, and I’m very grateful.”
“I think it’s the audience who’ll be grateful,” she said. “See you later.”
Back at the cottage, Alfie decided that the room he was going to spend time in was the colourful kitchen rather than the horror of the parlour. The scarlet vase and purple flowers would look good on the big wooden table. He went to retrieve them from the mantelpiece and for the first time noticed a small photograph in a silver frame. A photograph of himself, aged twelve, gangly in tights and tabard, playing Hamlet. That explained why Marge knew about his school performance. But it didn’t explain why Aunt Augusta had the photograph.
And despite the AA’s assumption, it hadn’t been Hamlet as any student of Shakespeare would recognise it. Their English teacher, Miss Cameron, had let them devise their own version. Charlotte Barry, who played Ophelia, was already an active feminist. It wasn’t fair, she argued, that only the boys got to have sword fights. That seemed a fair point. So in the dramatic scene when Hamlet spurned his true love, instead of Ophelia bursting into tears and dashing offstage, she came straight for him. Meanwhile, the three witches (from another Shakespeare play entirely, but the Teague triplets had insisted) intoned: “Hubble bubble, Hamlet’s in trouble,” as Alfie tried to avoid serious injury. The swords might only be wood, but Charlotte was standing up for scorned women everywhere.
He ran a finger down the ridges of the photo frame. Did Aunt Augusta know anything about the performance? Could she have been in the audience? How could he be feeling a pang of loss for someone he couldn’t even remember?
Liz and Marge. They were his means of getting to know Aunt Augusta. Armed with the bouquet and prosecco, he set out for Jasmine Cottage.
Marge greeted him with enthusiasm. “Alfie’s brought fizz, and it’s already chilled,” she called.
Liz appeared, taking off her apron. “And one of Anthony’s beautiful bouquets – how lovely. Welcome, Alfie, come and sit down.”
Jasmine Cottage was as different from Aunt Augusta’s as it was possible to be. Alfie was ushered to a chintz-covered sofa between two chintz-covered armchairs. A rocking chair sat beside the fireplace. There were two nests of coffee tables, a brace of brass standard lamps with floral lampshades, and a china shepherd and shepherdess on the mantelpiece. The fireplace contained an electric fire with fake flames. Dominating the room was a large wide-screen TV.
Marge handed round glasses of prosecco while Liz set out coffee tables and coasters. “To the AA,” Marge said.
“The AA,” Alfie echoed along with Liz, although he felt it was the most inappropriate toast he had ever drunk.
Marge took the rocking chair as Alfie settled into the sofa.
“Have you lived here long?” he asked.
“This has always been my cottage,” said Liz. “Marge moved in – when was it, dear, five years ago now?”
Marge nodded. “We were always in and out of each other’s houses, and it struck us that two could live as cheaply as one. I could see I was going to run into difficulties. Liz is all right, but I’m a waspy woman.”
“Really?” said Alfie. He couldn’t imagine anybody less waspy.
“Women Against State Pension Inequality – WASPI,” explained Marge. “Those of us born in the 1950s are having to wait longer than we expected for our pensions. Liz already has hers because she’s a lot older than me.”
“A little older,” murmured Liz.
“We’re business partners. Liz makes the fudge and I do all the financial and marketing side. I dread to think what would have happened to me otherwise. I might have ended up living in a cardboard box.”
“Marge tends to take a gloomy view of things,” said Liz.
“A pessimist is never disappointed,” said Marge.
“You weren’t exactly down to your last penny, dear,” said Liz. “But this is an arrangement that suits us both very well, and it’s nice to have money for little extras.”
Alfie reflected that his business success meant he could afford any size of extra. And every day reminded him that money couldn’t buy happiness.
“It sounds the ideal solution,” he said.
“The television was our latest purchase,” said Marge. “If ever there’s anything you want to watch, Alfie, just come round. Gussie’s TV is tiny.”
“We’re very keen on box sets,” said Liz. “Crime, mainly. We’re quite good at solving things before the detective does. And that’s not just the ones we’ve seen before.”
His thought of them as Miss Marple hadn’t been far off the mark. “What about closer to home?” he asked. “Purely hypothetically, if James Fry had been the victim of foul play, who might have been responsible?”
Marge, her feet anchored on the patterned carpet, began to rock gently. “Are we ruling out a random homicidal maniac?”
“I think we should, dear,” said Liz. “That’s never a very satisfactory solution.”
“Then it would have to be a member of the AA. We were the only ones who knew James was going to put up the banner. We finished our rehearsal around 9.30pm, and a passer-by had called the police by 10pm.”
Liz began counting on her fingers. “Henry Fairchild. Amelia Fairchild. Rakesh Choudhury. Anthony Ross. Emma Hollis. Philip Brown.”
“We can rule out the vicar,” said Marge. “And Emma, of course.”
“I don’t think we can rule out anybody,” said Liz. “Present company excepted.”
“And why are we excepted? It m
ight have been you.”
“We’re one another’s alibis, dear. We left together and went straight home.”
“You know that lawyers call an alibi a delayed plea of guilty?” said Alfie. “You could have been accomplices.”
“And you could have come down from London, murdered James, gone back, and then pretended to arrive for the first time three days later,” said Marge.
“That’s true. But as well as opportunity, we need motive. Why would any of the three of us have wanted to murder James? Why would anybody have wanted to murder James?”
“I’m afraid he really wasn’t a very pleasant man,” murmured Liz.
“Oh, really!” Marge flared, bringing the rocking chair to an abrupt halt. “You’ve always been very unfair to him, Clarissa. He was a delightful little boy – don’t you remember? Those golden curls. He looked like a little angel. And he’s always been very good to Rose.”
Rose again. “Who is Rose?” asked Alfie.
“James’s grandmother,” Liz explained. “She’s in the nursing home now, virtually bedbound, poor thing. I agree that he visited her a lot, but that was probably just to keep an eye on his inheritance.”
“Then you could just as easily say that of Anthony, in to see her every day,” snapped Marge. “She’s his grandmother too.”
“But Anthony takes flowers to cheer her up. Not to harangue her. That’s what caused all the trouble with Philip.”
“The vicar?” asked Alfie.
Liz nodded. “Rose is really quite well off, and a very committed member of the church, even though she can’t attend now. Philip takes her communion, and keeps her up to date with all the parish news. She’s made very significant donations to the church, and she’s made no secret of the fact that she’s leaving it a very significant bequest in her will. I’m afraid James was a militant atheist who went out of his way to goad poor Philip.”
“Engage him in robust debate,” said Marge. “If Philip can’t defend his faith, he’s not much of a vicar.”
“It was defending the legacy that was the problem,” said Liz. “Rose was always very distressed after James’s visits. He would badger her to change her will and tell her she was just throwing good money after bad, wasting it on a lost cause. She would ask me what I thought, but of course I couldn’t take sides, and told her she must do whatever she wanted.”
Bunburry--Murder at the Mousetrap Page 6