Pudding, Poison & Pie (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 3)

by Sigrid Vansandt

  Christmas was only a few days away. It was time to bring in the tree. Early that morning, Merriam and Martha went on a short hunt for one before leaving for London to meet with Sinead Peters about Lord Percy’s manuscript.

  They tramped through the snowy landscape up into the pines and firs along the high ridge. The weather was lovely and cold. In a low pasture below them, a herd of sheep grazed on whatever bits of stubble poked through the snow. A farmer was driving a cart pulled by a tractor with a huge pile of hay for feeding his herd. Like excited children bundled in layers of warm woolens, the sheep ran and mewed at the welcome breakfast.

  “My, my, my,” Martha said, coming to a standstill to take in the sheer beauty of the Yorkshire countryside. “What a magnificent place to call home.”

  Johns, too, stopped his climb and surveyed the same valley he’d known as home all his life and that had been in his family for over two hundred years.

  “It brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it?” he said simply.

  “True, it does. I wish I had arms big enough to reach out and give it a tight hug to myself,” Martha said, her arms stretched wide as if to actually give it a try.

  Johns laughed at her antics. “You’re a funny woman, Littleword. What’s your own home like in Arkansas?”

  “Different, very different. Deep valleys with dense forests of pine, fir, oak, and walnut trees. Caves of limestone and water, water everywhere. The Osage people called western Arkansas their hunting grounds. We have bears, cougars, coyotes, and lots of snakes, some friendly, some not so friendly.”

  Johns tried to see the place Martha described as an overlay for the more barren landscape of this part of Yorkshire. “I’d like to go there someday and meet your family.”

  Martha was quiet. He looked over to her and the earlier radiance wasn’t there anymore.

  “I said something wrong, didn’t I?” he asked.

  “After my husband died, my parents came here to live with me to help with Kate. Mama wanted to go home one day. It wasn’t much longer before they both passed. I have a brother in Pineville, Missouri. He’s a bigwig with an international company in Bentonville. When he’s in London, we always go to see him. He likes to take us to tea at the Ritz.”

  Martha smiled at the memories.

  “I would still love to see this place you called home. I’ve never been to the States.”

  “It’s big, Merriam, so big in some places, it makes your head hurt to try and take it all in,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s time to take Kate again. She needs to see some things. We’re funny pioneers; me and Kate. We’re Americans settling in the opposite direction.” Martha laughed at her own realization.

  Johns watched the red hair play in the wind of the moors and the infectiousness of this Southern lady’s spirit warm the otherwise grey day and make it bright.

  “I love you, Martha,” he said standing there with his tall walking stick looking more like a highland laird than a gentleman policeman-farmer.

  Martha smiled up at him, her face rosy from the wind and the walk. “I love you, too.” She walked up to him and nuzzled into his warmth, wrapping her arms deep into his open coat and tucking her head under his chin.

  “You fit perfectly,” he said, his heart beating strongly. Martha could hear it through the layers of clothing and the strong Yorkshire wind.

  “Come on, Merriam. Let’s go get a Christmas tree. Polly’s ready to decorate and we don’t want to slow her down.”

  They headed for the high ground, a place that reminded them both of home.

  Chapter 31

  AFTER THE TREE WAS UP in its stand and Polly was busy vacuuming up needles, Helen and Martha left for London. They needed to be there by three o’clock that afternoon. All the experts wanted to meet and most were leaving for their Christmas holidays afterwards. The highways were busy with travelers trying to make it home, so the going was tedious.

  “So, when we’re done,” Helen was saying, “let’s plan on staying in London for the night. We can do some fun Christmas shopping. I can’t believe it. My daughter, your daughter, and all of us will be together at Healy for Christmas this year.”

  “Ooh, I know. I’m so excited. Could we play hide and seek one night?” Martha asked, her eyes bright with hope.

  Helen laughed. “You know what? That does sound fun. Wouldn’t Emerson enjoy us playing with him like that?”

  “Absolutely he would. Children love it when adults play kid games. More adults should try hide and seek. A house like Healy was made for the game.”

  Nodding, Helen said, “You’re definitely right. Let’s do it.”

  Martha sat back with a contented smile on her face.

  “Of course staying in London tonight is exciting, too. I want to go somewhere tomorrow to pick out some things I know Kate wants.”

  Soon the girls were in the great city of Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Sherlock Holmes, and Harrods. They parked the car and went to the offices of Hisox Insurers.

  Sinead Peters, a pretty, blonde Irish woman of about thirty-five, met them in the glass and steel modern lobby. She shook both their hands.

  “Follow me, ladies. Almost everyone is here. We’re waiting on Sir Alec Barstow. He’s coming down from Cambridge.”

  They stepped into a glass-cage elevator and were whisked downwards. When the doors opened, they were, at least, three stories below ground level. A security guard wearing a semi-automatic gun in a side holster gave a curt nod as Sinead ran a retinal scan on her right eye. Clicking noises were heard as the computer verified her identity, followed by the sound of heavy metal bars moving inside the vault door. Sinead pushed the surface with only her fingertips, and the door opened to her touch.

  “Wait for me,” a baritone voice boomed behind them. “I’m not as quick on my feet as even yesterday.”

  It was Sir Barstow, the scholar from Cambridge. He was at least eighty years old, a bit hunched over from years of assiduous study, and wearing a huge, padded Skipsea jacket with toggles for buttons. His smile was cheerful and his color ruddy.

  “Nice to see you again, Helen,” he said with warmth in his voice. “You look beautiful as always.”

  Helen gave him a hug and a kiss on his cheek, making his eyes shine even bluer. “And you are more charming each time I see you, Alec,” she returned.

  “Who’s this?” he said, turning to Martha with almost a roguish tone and a sparkle to his expression. “I know I would have remembered meeting you, my dear,” he said to Martha, who extended her hand for him to shake. He accepted it more as a gallant than as a business colleague, and, lifting it to his lips, he kissed the top of it with a gracefulness honed from years of experience charming women.

  Martha was delighted. She beamed up into his wise, yet sprightly face and actually blushed.

  “My name is Martha Littleword. I’m Helen’s new colleague.”

  “Well, allow me to let you in on something,” he said, lowering his voice and bending down closer in order to achieve a more confidential position. “In a minute, a bunch of puffed-up academics and literary experts, not to mention a doctor in forensic analysis, will begin sniffing over that manuscript. The scientist won’t care if it’s authentic or not, he’s a numbers man, but the others have a lot riding on their interpretation, mainly their entire careers. I’ll know if it’s legitimate in less than ten seconds. Blow them all out of the water.”

  He pumped his eyebrows up and down, smiling mischievously.

  Martha grinned with sheer enjoyment of this man’s force of personality. “How will you know it’s the real deal?”

  He laid his finger aside his nose and winked at her. “I’m a divvy, darling. Have been since I put my hands on my first Gutenberg bible. It’s a tingling and quiet awe you feel when you touch something. The item speaks to you in a way fiddle-faddle stuff never will. Your senses come alive and you are humbled. Helen has a bit of the divvy in her as well.”

  “How do you feel about a little wager? We could put some
money down on how long it takes for the experts to make a decision,” Martha whispered to her new favorite.

  Barstow gave her an appraising look.

  “I like the way you think, Red. You’re on. The loser has to buy the winner dinner. I say they poo-poo it on the first go-round, then white-coat over there will talk about DNA tests and some such stuff, which will cause them all to reconfigure their assessments. If it hasn’t already occurred to them, they’ll actually start looking at the manuscript. The whole process, with tea break, will take at least two hours. Tiresome stuff.”

  Martha looked around the room at the collection of men and women. Sir Barstow might be a divvy when it came to documents, but Martha Littleword was a divvy of the human animal. She smelled the anticipation and excitement in the air of the room. Too many furtive glances at the simple manuscript lying on a white cotton sheet in the middle of a table told her those experts were itching to get their hands on it.

  “I tell you what, Sir Barstow,” she said quietly, still maintaining their confidential attitude, “I say it only takes forty-five minutes after the reading of the forensic report for them to call it a draw. They’re going to want to reconvene at a later date in order to check their sources.”

  The old, wizened scholar laughed uproariously, causing the others in the room to almost jump out of their three-piece suits and shoot affronted looks in their direction.

  “If I’ve been in one of these academic poker matches, I’ve been in a hundred. I like my steak and lobster from Goodman’s in Soho. Wear something plunging and black.”

  With one last wink, he sauntered over to the table and chatted with the other people. Martha couldn’t help adoring him. He was a caution, as her grandmother would have said.

  Sinead Peters started the meeting and soon Helen joined Martha over on the modern looking grey settee next to the wall.

  “It’s going nicely. No one is contesting anything. I bet we know something in a preliminary sort of way, in less than an hour,” Helen confided quietly.

  “Who’s the heavy?” Martha asked.

  “The heavy? What do you mean?”

  “You know, the one the rest of them will, at some point, finally fall in line behind?” Martha explained.

  “Oh, yes. Well, that would be the other white-haired man wearing the red bow tie, checkered shirt, and white tennis shoes.”

  “The one who looks like he’s swimming in his own clothes?” Martha said, with a low chuckle.

  “Yes, that’s the one. He’s the scholarly antithesis of Sir Barstow. Barstow’s a divvy and the best in the world, whereas Dr. Edmond Winters has a PhD in Tudor Theatrical Studies, written six books on Shakespeare’s life and work, and authenticated Elizabethan works on paper for almost every major museum in both hemispheres.”

  “So, if Barstow says it’s Shakespeare and Winters says it isn’t, what happens?” Martha asked.

  “It’s hard to say. The forensics have come back and the man wearing the grey suit, Dr. Eisner, says all the tests are spot on for the early seventeenth century. Handwriting analysis was done, as well. They compared the manuscript with the only known examples of Shakespeare’s handwriting, which are his signature. It’s going to be interesting.”

  Suddenly, a brouhaha erupted at the table. Sir Barstow and Dr. Winters were arguing with a lady in a navy suit, Dr. Barbara Penrith, from Nottingham.

  “It’s impossible to say if Shakespeare, Dr. Winters, was familiar with a cat named Minerva. The point is, he usually used cats as a metaphorical tool, but in this instance, he gives the cat a proper name. I don’t see this being his work at all.”

  “Rubbish!” Sir Barstow exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table causing everyone to jump in the room. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Barbara, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

  “I have to agree, Barbara,” Dr. Winters joined in. “Your argument is sound in that cats have been used in a negative light in all of Shakespeare’s plays, but that does not preclude his possible use of them in a positive one. Besides, it’s well known that he was fond of his publisher, Edward Blount, who loved cats. It’s possible Shakespeare may have put the cat in as a way of paying homage to his friend.”

  “Why, that’s right, Edmond,” Sir Barstow said, snuggling up to his usual nemesis with a newfound love. “There’s also precedence for the unusual use of the dog, Crab, in Two Gentlemen from Verona. If we’re going to get sticky about it, Barbara, we need to rekindle the age-old squabble about how Shakespeare was able to write so convincingly well about Italy having never visited there. The cat is not an issue. Am I right, Ed?”

  Sir Barstow and Dr. Winters had never been on the same side before. It caught them both off guard and poor Dr. Penrith was casting around the room for some form of formal support.

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “I’ll consider ceding on the point regarding the highly unusual characterization of a cat, but we need more time to consider the text. Certainly, parts of this play have Shakespeare’s voice, but it will take time to compare this manuscript with other earlier known examples of his plays.”

  Helen stood up and went over to the table. “So, should we push for a second meeting?” she asked enthusiastically.

  “Absolutely, and have the people from Sotheby’s and Christie’s here. We need them to try and imagine an unfathomable amount this priceless thing may be worth,” Barstow crowed flinging his hands above his head.

  Everyone laughed and soon they all made their way to the elevator. The meeting had been almost exactly fifty minutes in total. Martha and Helen walked out with Sir Barstow and Sinead Peters, taking the lift together.

  “What time is dinner?” Martha said, giving Sir Barstow a few mischievous bats of her eyes.

  The well-read rapscallion nudged up against her. “You are a devilish woman, and I’m completely at you and my lady Helen’s service. I’ll have my car pick you up at seven. Please tell me you’re not married.” With a scandalous smile, he exited the glass elevator and lolloped toward the exit saying, “Don’t forget, something plunging!”

  “Phew,” Sinead said, once they saw him hopping into the back of his Rolls, “he must have been quite the Romeo in his time.”

  “I’d say, he’s still playing the game. Probably not doing too badly, either,” Martha observed.

  “One thing’s for sure,” Helen said, turning to the two other women, “we’ve had an incredible success. Let’s get to the hotel, have a glass of champagne and wait for Sir Barstow’s chauffeur to arrive. Something tells me, we’re dining in style tonight.”

  Chapter 32

  THE CAR STOPPED IN FRONT of the hotel and Helen and Martha, tired from their long day, took their luggage and went inside to the reception desk, letting the steward take their car to the garage. They checked in and went to their room immediately.

  “I’m going to lie down and sleep for an hour. Sir Barstow’s message said he won’t pick us up until seven thirty,” Helen said, plopping down onto the fluffy white linen duvet and sinking deep into its pillowy softness with a sigh.

  “Me, too,” Martha said, already tucked in between her sheets. “I’m beat. That gives us, at least, an hour to nap.”

  “I talked with Mr. Brickstone. He’s extremely happy and told me to enjoy London.” Helen’s voice trailed off into soft breathing. The girls slept.

  They must have been asleep an hour because when Martha awoke, the room was dark and the only light coming in through the curtains were the street lamps and other city lights. Helen was still curled up like a contented baby, so Martha went into the cozy sitting room adjacent to their bedroom. Shutting the door to not wake Helen, she grabbed her phone and checked the time. There was a message from Mr. Brickstone. He had asked for her to call him at her convenience.

  No time like the present, Martha thought to herself, so she dialed the number.

  “Hello, Mrs. Littleword. Thank you for calling,” he said pleasantly.

  “Hello, Mr. Brickstone. I saw your
message. How may I help you?”

  “I sent another document by carrier to your hotel. Helen’s not answering her phone and I’m nervous about having it left at reception. I wanted to let you know it was there and hoped you’d retrieve it.”

  “Yes, Helen’s taking a rest. It’s been an exciting day. I’ll run down and get it for you. Please don’t worry. I’ll make sure she gets it.”

  Mr. Brickstone thanked her and hung up. Putting on her shoes, she left a note for Helen on the coffee table and grabbed her phone. Outside in the hall, Martha realized she didn’t have any pockets, so she stuck the phone in her bra along with her room card and went down to the lobby.

  Martha checked with the front desk clerk. There weren’t any packages for Mrs. Ryes. He asked her to give him a moment to check with one of the other attendants. Martha agreed and went into the traditional English sitting area. She sat down in a wine-colored leather wingback chair near the fire to wait.

  “Mrs. Littleword,” a timid female voice said behind her. Looking around, Martha saw a young woman standing beside her chair.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Melissa Sutherland. I’m sorry to be late. The weather is turning bad and I had a nervous drive from Warwickshire.”

  “That’s okay, Miss Sutherland. I hope you’re not going to try and go back again tonight,” Martha said kindly.

  “Yes, I have to. I’m the nurse for Lord Percy Farthingay.”

  Martha remembered Denise saying that the Lord had a nurse. “I talked with Mr. Brickstone only a few minutes ago, are you the carrier with the package for Helen?”

  Melissa nodded. “Oh no! The package is in the car. What was I thinking?” She dug in her purse. “It’s all the way back in the car park.”

  “Come on. I’ll walk with you. Is it the hotel’s car park, because I didn’t bring a jacket?”