“Did you murder your wife?” Knells asked. His words acting like an astringent on the previous emotionally charged conversation.
Johns’ lost his momentary ember-like glow of happiness.
“No,” he said flatly. “I had everything ahead of me as of yesterday before Saundra died. I was going to be free. Free to be with the woman I wanted.”
“You have to admit, the best murderers are cops. They know what we’re going to look for and how to avoid stupid mistakes. Your wife’s death was in the middle of a crowd, lots of people jostling each other, in other words, damn difficult to investigate.”
“I’m a cop,” Johns agreed. “I also know how justice catches up with people. Carrying that around until I was caught would have been another heavy load to carry. I’ve been doing that too long as it is.”
“Precisely, Chief. Double edge sword wasn’t it? One that cuts both ways.”
Knells stood up and reached across the desk offering his hand to Johns to shake. Johns stood as well and accepted the investigator’s offer of peace.
“I’m at your disposal, Knells. Let me know what you need. I’ve requested the video footage from the television crews who were here yesterday. Should be sometime this afternoon when we get them.”
“Thank you, Chief. I’ll look forward to seeing them soon.”
The new investigator picked up his mug and left Johns’ office. He didn’t hurry. He planned on being around Marsden-Lacey for a long, long time.
Chapter 19
THE ELDERLY MAN WAS EXHAUSTED. The lack of movement and days of being held inside the claustrophobic room was beginning to take its toll on his health. He recognized the part of the house where they were holding him. It was the servants’ quarters from when there was a huge retinue of hired help to keep the massive estate running. These rooms hadn’t seen humans on a regular basis for over eighty years.
Lord Henry Tolbert Farthingay, the owner of Greenwoods Abbey, was well into his eighties and he’d lost his wife, Abigail, over thirty years ago. His interest in the great house and its land had never been much. For most of his life, he and Abigail lived abroad in places like Sydney, Australia, and South Africa. They preferred the modern and the heat over Greenwood’s ancient Englishness. When Abigail died, he had become nostalgic for the place of his youth, so he had returned to his ancestral home.
As he lay on his bed, hearing the horrible girl’s music coming out of the tiny plugs she kept stuffed in her ears, he wished to be free from this place forever. The crackling sound of the music was repetitive, primitive and without any effort to impart beauty. He rolled his head over to see the wall. At least, the wall was a canvas for his imagination or his memory. Since Abigail’s death, they often intertwined.
“It’s time for you medicine,” Melissa said, hovering over him like a vulture. He knew she wanted to be free of him just as he wanted to be free of her.
“I promise to be perfectly quiet and not to move, if you’ll let me sit in the chair and read—no medicine, only reading,” he asked.
Melissa stepped back and sunk down on another bed, with one leg underneath her and her back against the wall. He knew she was studying him for signs indicating his true intentions, so he let his body relax and breathed evenly.
“Okay, but I won’t remove your shackles.”
“That’s fine. I don’t need them to be removed,” he agreed.
Soon, he was sitting comfortably in an upright position. His head felt light and dizzy. Four days had passed since he’d been allowed up. Melissa, per Brickstone’s orders, had stuffed him with drugs and he’d lost all sense of time and place. The dizziness was becoming worse.
A constriction in his chest and a tingling numbness in his right arm signaled the onset of what he recognized as a heart attack. With swift awareness, Lord Henry knew he was dying. He didn’t say a word, but shut his eyes to better bear the pain. He wanted to go.
“Come with me,” a woman’s voice said above him.
He looked up, to see a pretty face with auburn ringlets bending down over him. The lovely lady smiled at him and at her throat he saw a magnificent diamond and ruby brooch pinned to her collar. Was she the woman in the library’s portrait?
“Where am I going?” he said, standing up and feeling no pain whatsoever. Staring down at his hands, he didn’t recognize them. They were young and free of the lumpy veins and brown spots he’d come to see each day.
The woman took his hand and warmth spread through his entire being. She tilted her head thoughtfully, with a loving smile and said, “Why, you’re going home, of course. Abigail is there. She’s waiting for you.”
He followed her past Melissa and out through his familiar wall into the sunlit snowy landscape beyond. In an instant, the full, wondrous majesty of the natural world gripped him and he knew its miracle. He felt humbled and shamed for ever taking such beauty for granted.
As they walked, the beautiful woman talked to him. He never saw her mouth move, but he understood her completely. She told him he would be happy and soon see others he’d known and loved. They came to a place far from the house, where a ruin sat beside a frozen lake and she stopped.
“I have to go.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“It’s my job to watch over my family. You are one of mine. I love you, go in peace.”
He watched her go and soon she disappeared. Her whiteness first blended with, and was eventually erased by, the white fields of snow. A tap on his shoulder caused him to turn around. There stood Abigail, young and radiant.
“Come on,” she said taking his hand. “Let’s go home.”
The care of Henry Farthingay had passed from one protective, loving soul and to another.
Chapter 20
SEÑOR AGOSTO, ALONG WITH ALISTAIR Turner and Perigrine Clark, was working to create a festive feeling in the Pudding and Pie Bake-Off’s new venue, the Marsden-Lacey High School gymnasium.
“The smell of used socks, angst and athletic shoes,” Alistair was saying to Perigrine, “reminds me of my days at Colchester as a lad.”
“It’s intolerable!” Agosto fumed loudly from his perch on a stool. “How can this offensive odor of human perspiration allow the nose to do its job in choosing the best dishes?”
The diminutive chef from Spain waved his hands high above his head in a fit of temper. He’d been setting up the separate working areas for the teams, but his mood had become increasingly black with the abrupt changes of yesterday and the loss of a quality judge.
“We have the Christmas tree set in its stand. The smell of pine may have a cleansing effect,” Perigrine mused.
Agosto studied the tall tree and let out a dramatic sigh. He hopped down from the step stool he’d been using to work at one of the prep areas, and walked with quick, short steps over to the tree’s place in the corner of the huge room.
“We do not have time to decorate such a behemoth!” he cried.
“You don’t have to,” a woman said, her tone indicating a certain comfortableness with command.
Agosto, Alistair, and Perigrine turned to find Miss Purcell, the indomitable Headmistress of Marsden-Lacey’s High School standing at one of the main entrance doors to the gym.
“And who are you, madam?” Agosto asked with one eyebrow arched. Though only slightly over five and a half feet tall, he gave the illusion of great height.
“Miss Purcell is my name. We have not met, Señor. I am the Headmistress here.” She bowed her head regally at Agosto. With a warm smile for Perigrine and Alistair, she said, “It’s always good to see you, Clark and Turner. We’ve enjoyed the refreshing water feature near the faculty’s outside dining area. You did a beautiful job. Thank you.”
Alistair and Perigrine crossed the distance to where she’d stopped. Agosto busied himself with counting out chairs for the judges, press and dignitaries who would occupy them during the Bake-Off.
“The students will decorate the tree today, if you like,” Miss Purcell said t
o Perigrine and Alistair. She was wearing a perfectly pressed blue business suit, with random cat hairs clinging to the fabric.
“Thank you. Any help will be greatly appreciated. We’re under the gun so to speak,” Alistair said.
“So, Purcell, you’ve signed up to make at least two-thirds of Marsden-Lacey’s population your potential enemy,” Perigrine said cheerfully as he adjusted his bow tie.
“I did that the minute I became a Headmistress, Clark. On any given day, I’ve got, at the very least, a couple of families upset with me. Judging comes naturally, and I’ve been chief cook at every school fundraiser for the last ten years.” Giving an appraising look at Señor Agosto, she added, “I’m comfortable with fussy, disagreeable types.”
Perigrine and Alistair stayed mute deigning not to raise the temperamental Spaniard’s ire, but their eyes widened at the comment. Purcell smiled wickedly.
Agosto’s hearing was excellent and was tuned to the conversation taking place across the room. At the Headmistress’ comment, he puffed up considerably, taking it as a slight. He puckered his mouth, marched to where the other three stood, and raising a steely gaze to the eyes of the female paragon of educational fortitude, he said, “I am not deaf, madam. I heard your insinuation so callous and undeserved regarding me.” He raised his eyebrows with a look of hauteur. “Your gymnasium smells of young men’s feet.”
“It’s a gym. It has lots of young men and young women’s feet in it every day,” she said, her own irritation with the irascible chef beginning to shine through on her usually impassive face.
“If we air out the room before the event tomorrow, it should be fine,” Alistair offered.
“No!” Agosto stamped his foot. He paced a circular area with his head down while the other three watched bemused by his animated manner.
They had turned to chatting about Paris and the upcoming trip for the students, when out of nowhere Agosto said triumphantly, “I have it! We must wash the floor with a cleansing agent of water, lemon, and crushed thyme. It will work!”
He smiled brilliantly, as if he’d solved the greatest conundrum since the invention of the electric mixer. His temper passed, he turned his attention to Miss Purcell.
“Will you allow this, madam? We must have a fresh room for the noses,” he touched the side of his own prodigious sniffer, while proffering the Headmistress an amicable smile.
“I don’t see why not,” she said graciously. “I’ll send two of my better young men to help you. They’ll be here during the study hour.”
Miss Purcell bowed her head and said her farewells to the three gentlemen. The Bake-Off was going to chug along, despite the setbacks. Agosto busied himself with the preparation of his floor-cleaning fluid, while Perigrine and Alistair continued the setting up. Maybe the choir students would make it to Paris, after all. Only ‘thyme’ would tell.
AFTER HELEN, LANA AND MARTHA restored Polly’s emotional equilibrium by plying her with hot chamomile tea and four oatmeal cookies, they sat discussing what each of them had seen the day of the meet and greet.
“Polly, did you notice anyone unusual or see anything?” Helen asked.
“I’ve lived in Marsden-Lacey my entire life, dear. I recognized almost everyone except for the outsiders. There were a lot of people from the Press.”
Amos growled and barked at the front door.
“Oh, don’t tell me,” Martha said laughing, “that we’ve got another lost soul wandering around outside in this storm.”
She got up to look out the window. Mrs. Cuttlebirt’s tiny dog, Pepper, was barking and pawing at his front door. Looking at the clock on her wall to see the time, Martha quickly looked back outside again.
“Something wrong?” Lana asked.
“It’s eleven-thirty and I usually see Mrs. Cuttlebirt walking her dog, Pepper. I don’t see her outside, but Pepper is, which is strange because it’s so cold. I’d better go check on Mrs. Cuttlebirt. She might be sick. That’s what neighbors are for.”
“You want me to come with you?” Helen offered.
“Nah, stay here and work out who killed Saundra. Try and pin it on someone other than Polly and me.”
Everyone was making appropriate sarcastic comments to Martha’s request, as she let herself out of her front door.
The soft snow was still falling and its heavy blanket lay thick and pillowy across her walled garden. It was difficult to not stoop down and scoop up a bit of it to taste. Snow was a rarity in central Arkansas when she was growing up, so she always had a firm appreciation of the wonder of it.
As Martha opened Mrs. Cuttlebirt’s ancient iron gate, Pepper came running up to her. She scooped the tiny Yorkshire terrier up. Even with his red sweater on, Pepper was still shaking from the cold. Martha stuck him inside her coat and took two steps toward Mrs. Cuttlebirt’s front door. As she used the knocker, the door swung open. Martha’s heart beat faster. Something was wrong.
“Mrs. Cuttlebirt? Hello! Mrs. Cuttlebirt, are you here?” she called.
Nothing. A pungent odor wafted up, causing Martha to turn her head to the outside air and take a deep breath. Her instincts told her to stay outside.
Pushing the door open to see the entire room, she saw a woman’s arm extending from behind a settee. It must be Mrs. Cuttlebirt’s. Pepper squirmed in Martha’s arms, trying to get down. She held him firmly. With the door open, cold air filled the room rapidly. A sudden gust of wind blew the door back against the wall with a bang, causing Martha to jump and scream.
She heard Amos’ muted barking, even though he was inside her house. A sensation of fear made Martha walk outside. There was death clinging to the air of Mrs. Cuttlebirt’s cottage.
“Hey! I heard you scream,” Helen was calling from Flower Pot’s front door. “Are you okay?”
“No! Call the police and the ambulance. I think Mrs. Cuttlebirt needs emergency help. Don’t let Amos out. I think something is wrong about the house. It may be a gas leak.”
Martha walked back to her own garden’s gate, and soon she heard the siren of an ambulance, and other sirens following. Once they arrived, the team of two jumped out and Martha went over and stopped them from going inside.
“I think there’s gas in the house. I shouldn’t think it would be a good idea to go in. It may not be safe,” she said over the other sirens from police and fire vehicles arriving.
The two paramedics waited until the fire chief stomped through the snow to where they stood. Martha was beginning to shiver, but she waited. Soon, Chief Johns and Sergeant Endicott, along with a new man Martha didn’t recognize, were walking toward them. Johns shot her a look. She couldn’t be sure of the meaning behind it.
Soon he extricated himself from the others and came over to her. The new man watched him with curiosity, Martha thought.
“Did you find the body, Martha?” Johns asked, a hint of worry in his tone.
“Yes, I did. There’s something else in your tone, Merriam. What’s going on, and who’s the fresh face you brought with you?” she countered.
His voice dropped to a whisper, “It’s the inspector from the Leeds Constabulary who’s taken over the murder investigation.”
“Your mother told us. Helen and I thought she’d been killed, too. Who in the world would have wanted to murder your wife?”
Martha and Johns’ eyes met. Unspoken words hovered between them.
“Well, after meeting her, I can see she may have had a few enemies,” Martha admitted.
“They’ll check for gas. Did you smell anything when you went inside?” Johns asked. They both watched as two firemen started to go inside.
“It smelled like bitter almonds, if I could call it that,” Martha said simply.
Johns turned on her with a serious look. He grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Did you breathe any of it?” He turned away still holding her and yelled for one of the paramedics to come quickly.
“What’s wrong, Merriam? Why are you acting so excited?” Martha demanded.
“Hush for a minute,” he said softly and yelled over to where the fire chief was talking with one of his people.
“James! It’s cyanide gas! Get your men out of there!”
Every one of the emergency people, the police and the firemen milling about the outside of Mrs. Cuttlebirt’s house stopped cold in their tracks. Then, like there’d been a snap in the universal time continuum, they all moved quickly and the fire chief was shouting orders at the top of his lungs.
“Go inside your house, Martha,” Johns commanded. “I’m sending one of the paramedics in to give you oxygen. This is serious. This is murder.”
Chapter 21
THE DAY WAS BEGINNING TO ebb away as the forensic team and the police brought in powerful work lights and set them up outside of Flower Pot Cottage. Martha was told to shower head to toe and put her clothes into a special plastic bag to avoid any contamination within her house. Johns was handling this investigation and Knells decided it was a perfect time to re-interview Martha and Polly about Saundra’s murder.
He’d asked politely if Martha was up to talking after the paramedic finished her oxygen treatment. Helen and Lana stayed in the kitchen, while Polly sat wrapped in Martha’s favorite fuzzy blanket holding Pepper, Mrs. Cuttlebirt’s orphaned terrier in the oversized chair by the fire.
“Feeling better?” he asked Martha. For a second, he found himself watching how her hair caught the light of the fire. He righted himself as he saw her nod in the affirmative.
“Do you remember, since your statement yesterday, anything new about the period of time you spent talking with Saundra Johns?” he asked, watching her face for hesitations or evasive gestures.
“We’ve been discussing it,” she indicated Polly, petting Pepper, who was sleeping soundly. “Helen and Lana, too, but the only thing I feel that might be possible is she was poisoned.”
Pudding, Poison & Pie (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 11