by Joyce Cato
The tent was divided into two sections, with the fruit and veg at the back, and the jams, preserves, pickles and other old country-recipe baked goods flanking them on either side. The flowers took pride of place in the front.
‘Ah, here I am,’ Graham said, eyeing the lily table with a faintly worried look. He wished now that he’d paid more attention to the flower books that Monica had got out of the library for him.
‘I like those pink ones,’ Monica said promptly.
‘Hey, no getting to the judge,’ Graham objected. ‘Can you see the sweet peas?’
It took only a minute to find Monica’s own table, and she eyed the expanse of pastel-coloured sweetly smelling blooms with just a little trepidation. ‘Graham, they all look the same to me,’ she said in mild panic.
‘Don’t worry. Just sniff them, hold them up to the light, check the stems and pretend you know what you’re doing. No one will know the difference. At least, that’s what I always do and I seem to get away with it,’ he advised her with a somewhat shocking, cavalier insouciance.
‘Oh, thanks a bunch,’ Monica said sourly, not so sure by any means that she’d be able to get away with such a bluff as easily as a man wearing a dog collar, but she shot him a grateful grin nevertheless. ‘Let’s have a look at these famous roses then,’ she said, for even in Heyford Bassett they’d heard the rumours that Sam Dix had come up with a cracker of a display of his favourite Peace rose.
It wasn’t hard to find, and looking at the huge, pretty heads of pink, cream, and yellow, Monica couldn’t resist lowering her dark head for a crafty sniff.
‘Hmm, wonderful,’ she said softly.
‘Quick, Sir Hugh’s coming,’ Graham hissed at her, and Monica shot back upright to guilty attention. It would definitely blot her copybook to have the chairman catch her out poaching on a fellow judge’s terrain.
‘Ah, Mrs Noble,’ Sir Hugh said jovially in passing, pretending – like the gentleman that he was – not to have noticed her lapse in etiquette. For although it was undoubtedly very bad form for judges to inspect other judges’ tables like that, he was rather fond of Peace, and had been longing to have a sniff himself. In fact, it was no secret that it was his absolute favourite, and once the judging was over he’d probably have a proper look-see.
Malvin Cook, oblivious to protocol, was still wandering around the fruit and veg section, admiring an entry of carrots.
Sir Hugh, wondering why there were always stragglers, glanced impatiently at his watch. They were still short of several judges, including Lady Daphne herself. He smiled indulgently at the thought of her, as always. A law unto herself was Her Ladyship – she always had been, and no doubt always would be.
With time on his hands, and happy about the little item now safely tucked away in his inside pocket, he wandered around the stalls, winding up at the gladiola table. His own Woodpecker entry was especially fine, although he had entered others, of course; but he suspected the Woodpecker would clinch it for him.
He continued on slowly down the table, his knowledgeable eyes going ahead to scrutinize the others as he did so, and suddenly he stiffened. At the very end of the table were four entries, but it was the pure white blooms that immediately caught his eye. Slowly, feeling his pulse quicken in dread, he walked up to them, giving himself time to take in their form. Yes, as he’d suspected, they were perfect. Damn! A challenger.
Although he knew Daphne liked colour and drama, like Woodpecker, she also had the true aristo’s liking for purity and simplicity of form.
Quickly his eye fell to the name on the little plaque in front of the display, and his eyes bulged. He went so red he looked as if he was about to have a fit of apoplexy. Sir Hugh saw his gardener and, most unusually, imperiously beckoned him over.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Graham, who’d been one of the few to notice Sir Hugh’s sudden ire. ‘It looks as if poor old Malvin’s done something to get himself into the dog house. Sir Hugh looks madder than a wet hen. It looks like Malvin’s for it, all right.’
‘Who?’ Monica said.
Quickly her husband explained to her the history of Sir Hugh and Malvin, and their mutual obsession with getting Sir Hugh’s name on the Cadge-Hampton cup.
‘You think he’s spotted some hitch in the plan, then?’ Monica smiled, unable to take it at all seriously.
Graham, a little more experienced when it came to the passions and obsessions of men, deemed it wise to slowly meander over and see if he could head off any unpleasantness.
‘Look at that!’ he heard Sir Hugh hiss in his gardener’s gnome-like ear. ‘He didn’t even grow them himself. I heard he’d hired some damn fancy gardener from the parks service!’
Graham hid a smile. Strictly speaking, Sir Hugh hadn’t grown his own flowers either – Malvin had. But this hardly seemed the time to point it out. He glanced at the flowers in question. They were certainly lovely examples. He also had excellent vision and was just able to make out the name on the rival entry. And his heart sank: Ross Ferris.
‘Arrr, I knows,’ Malvin said, his rolling Cotswolds accent even thicker than usual. Malvin’s accent always got more noticeable the more excited or angry he got. ‘I noticed ’em afore.’
‘Well, what do you think?’ Sir Hugh spluttered, still red-faced and incensed.
Malvin looked troubled. ‘Thems good ’uns,’ he muttered reluctantly.
James Davies, looking over the roses, also sensed the strain and tension emanating from the small group of men and, curious, started to come over.
‘They’d better not win,’ Sir Hugh growled. To have the Ross Ferris name on his cup… . It wasn’t even to be thought about! ‘If they do, mind you, Cook,’ Sir Hugh hissed, ‘you’re fired!’
Beside her husband, Monica who’d just joined him, gasped in genuine distress. ‘Oh no,’ she whispered, clutching his arm. ‘That poor old man!’
But Graham merely patted her hand mildly, and smiled comfortingly. ‘No, it’s all right. He threatens to fire Malvin at least once a month, or so I’ve heard. Neither of them takes the threats seriously,’ he whispered back. Then, a little louder, said soothingly, ‘Good afternoon, Sir Hugh. At least we’ve got the weather for it today. The last time I was here it rained cats and dogs as I remember.’
Sir Hugh started and turned around. Monica smiled at both men, but couldn’t help but notice the look on the old gardener’s face. For a man who regularly got fired and didn’t take any notice, he certainly seemed upset. She felt the urge to go over to him and reassure him that everything would be all right, but she did no such thing, of course, sensing that it would only embarrass him.
And with a muttered word that could have meant anything, Malvin excused himself and shuffled away.
But once at the entrance, she noticed, he turned and cast the white gladiolas a strange, and distinctly malevolent look before stomping out.
For some reason, it made her shiver. Which was silly, of course, because it was all only about flowers.
‘Ah, there you are, Sir Hugh,’ James Davies’ teddy-bear like figure joined them. ‘Are we all gathered?’
To Monica’s surprise, she saw a look close to consternation appear in Sir Hugh’s eyes as the local vicar smiled at him. ‘’Fraid not, Jim,’ Sir Hugh said, sounding friendly enough. Perhaps too friendly? Monica thought. There was almost too much of the hail-fellow-well-met about him now. Was there some problem between the squire and the vicar that Graham hadn’t thought to tell her?
‘We’re still missing your better half, I’m afraid, and Daphne, of course,’ Sir Hugh added with a somewhat strained smile.
James nodded knowingly. ‘Ah yes, Her Ladyship. She’d be late to her own funeral, I fear.’
Sir Hugh’s eyes didn’t quite meet James’s but he laughed heartily, his glance moving on to a spot just over his shoulder. Yes, he’s definitely uncomfortable around James, Monica thought now, with a glimmer of interest in her eyes. She glanced across at Graham to see if he’d noticed it, but her husband was
looking as bland-faced as was possible.
‘Well, I supposed I’d better give yet another call to arms,’ Sir Hugh said. ‘See if we can’t roust out your good lady and our other straggler.’
They watched him walk off toward the entrance with his loud hailer, detouring on the way to the rose table to bend over the display of Peace, cup the biggest bloom in his hand and inhale heartily. He admired the flowers for some moments before stepping outside and bellowing orders to recalcitrant judges.
Monica, unable to stand it any longer, walked up to him, touched his arm gently, and said, ‘I think they’re both in the tea tent. Or they were when I just left them. I’ll go and fetch them for you, shall I?’ She smiled sweetly.
In the tea tent, both Wendy and Vera heard the impatience in Sir Hugh’s voice as he called yet again for the judges. ‘Oh dear, I’d better go. Vera, are you sure you can cope on your own?’ Wendy said, sounding harried.
‘Or course I can, love,’ Vera said comfortably. ‘I told our Ernie, as soon as he hears Sir Hugh calling you to the tent, that he’s got to come and give me a hand. And he will,’ she added meaningfully, a gimlet look in her eye. He knew what would happen if he didn’t. Then she smiled in evident satisfaction. ‘Look, here he comes now.’ And indeed, through the tent’s open doorway, they could see Ernie’s rather ape-like figure cutting a swathe through the crowd. He gave a strange sort of hand-to-forehead nod as he approached the tent, and Vera realized that the countess must still be standing just outside. Poor old Ernie never did quite know how to act around her.
It amused Daphne no end.
Wendy removed her pinafore and looked around for her handbag, a small, neat, white affair in real leather. ‘Does my hair look all right?’ she asked, without any real interest. As she spoke, Monica stepped into the tent.
Vera glanced at her friend’s damp strands and smiled. ‘You look lovely,’ she lied pleasantly. A customer, who’d just purchased some lukewarm squash, finished it thirstily and put the plastic cup back on the table. ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Noble,’ she said, catching sight of Monica. ‘Come to round up Wendy?’
Monica smiled and spread her hands helplessly. ‘You know Sir Hugh,’ she said, stepping aside to let the customer pass her. Just as she was leaving however, the woman, who looked to be in her fifties, stumbled over one of the guy ropes and, her arms flailing and unable to find anything to hang on to, took a rather spectacular and nasty tumble onto the hard-packed grass. She gave a little grunt and a pained ‘Whoof!’ as she hit the ground, and instantly Wendy, Monica, Vera, and Ernie were all rushing to help her.
‘Hey, missus, you ought to take a little more water with it next time,’ Ernie grinned teasingly as he reached down to help haul her, rather unceremoniously, to her feet.
The poor woman was beetroot red with embarrassment by now, in spite of the pain in her elbow.
‘Good grief, I’m a clumsy so and so,’ she said, her voice a little uneven with fought back tears of surprise and pain.
‘Here, let me get you a nice cup of tea and a chair,’ Vera said, instantly making herself truly useful. ‘Lots of sugar too. That’s the thing for a shock. And falling over at our age is a bit of a shock,’ she added over her shoulder, as if somebody was arguing with her.
Wendy quickly got a deck chair and placed it on the ground and, still muttering about her big feet and not watching where she was going, the older woman sank into it gratefully.
Monica, in an effort to ease her embarrassment, related a story of her own, telling how she’d fallen over in the street once whilst shopping, and how foolish it had made her feel when she’d burst into tears. Vera came back with the tea, and then nodded at the guy rope. ‘Ernie, that thing’s a menace. I’ve seen one or two other people trip over it today,’ she added, casting a comforting glance at the older woman, as if to say she was not the only one with two left feet. ‘Can’t you have it up and hammer it in somewhere else?’
Ernie, knowing that it was useless to argue about proper tent construction with his wife, obediently nipped inside, where he’d stashed his tools out of sight, and set to with a hooked jemmy and a mallet. ‘Soon have this fixed, love,’ he said with a wink to the woman in the deck chair, as if that would make her feel any better.
She blushed even harder, then rubbed her elbow ruefully and smiled.
Daphne Cadge-Hampton pulled out a tiny silver flask from the beaded bag on her arm (a 1920s flapper special) and handed it over. ‘Try some brandy,’ she said succinctly. The lady demurred modestly, then took a hefty swig.
Daphne nodded in approbation. That’ll make her forget about her elbow, she thought smugly. It was nearly 100 proof.
Ernie, swinging the mallet with precision onto the newly placed tent peg, finished his labours and casually tossed the jemmy and mallet behind one of the boxes of crisps lining the inside of the tent, careful to make sure they were out of sight. You never knew when his Vera would get it into her head that other pegs needed moving about, and he didn’t want to spend the rest of the day hammering away.
‘Wendy, love, you’d really better get to the flower tent before poor Sir Hugh throws a fit,’ Vera reminded her.
Wendy gave a sudden little cry of guilty assent. ‘Oh my word, yes! I’ll just pop inside and get my bag.’ She ducked back into the now deserted tent and reappeared a few moments later.
‘Ah, we’d better all make a move, I reckon,’ Daphne spoke up. ‘He doesn’t like to be kept waiting, old Hugh,’ she added, and smiled in such an impish way that all four ladies (and Ernie) glanced at her in astonishment.
Daphne, chuckling as if at some amusing secret, led the way.
In the flower tent, Sir Hugh saw with relief the little gaggle of judges come inside, and ran a quick check over the tent. Good, no civilians were left inside.
‘Right then, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said loudly. ‘If we can all gather over here.’ He indicated the prize table, and looked set to embark on his speech. Graham heaved a great big sigh. Monica, coming to a halt beside him, slipped her hand beneath his arm and shot him a hard-luck grin. Just then, Daphne Cadge-Hampton turned her head. Monica had a brief glimpse of too-red lipstick and the impression of a liberal application of face powder, but it was the expression in the old lady’s eyes that had Monica feeling suddenly cold.
Once again she had that strange sensation of undercurrents. Of menace. Of something being off.
Daphne was looking at someone specific, Monica noticed, but, in the gaggle of judges now grouped around the table, she couldn’t quite be sure who it was. In vain, she tried to follow the line of the countess’s gaze. It could have been Ross Ferris she was watching so assiduously. Or perhaps James. Or any of those immediately surrounding him.
As Monica’s wide, apprehensive blue eyes returned to the aristocrat, she knew that there was no mistaking the look on the old woman’s face now. She simply couldn’t tell herself that she was imagining things this time. She’d caught the old woman, Monica realized, in a rare moment of vulnerability. And she looked almost frightened. No, Monica corrected herself barely a moment later, so engrossed in her thoughts that she actually shook her head. Not frightened exactly. But grim. And worried.
Yes. Monica nodded, knowing that she’d got it right this time. Her Ladyship, Daphne Cadge-Hampton was definitely worried about something. The question was what? What could an indulged, still-powerful, lofty old aristocrat possibly have to fear at her own local flower show?
CHAPTER 8
In the tent, all eyes were now turned respectfully to Sir Hugh. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, clipboard firmly in hand. ‘For all you old hands, I hardly need to tell you the rules and regulations governing your own areas of expertise,’ he smiled affably around the tent. ‘However, for the new judges amongst you,’ and here he shot a withering glance at Ross Ferris, ‘I’d like to take the time to point out just a few things… .’
Outside, the tombola stand was doing a cracking trade, and the six-a-side football was edging tow
ards its final match. Nobody paid particular attention to the flower show, but such was the size of the crowd, it was almost inevitable that a few people should notice Malvin Cook approach the big tent and, avoiding the main entrance, slip craftily around the side instead.
Of those who did notice this, however, only two saw what he actually did next. One of them was Dr Gordon Trenning.
‘As you know, we have three separate cups, donated over the years to the gladiola class, the leek class and the chrysanthemums,’ Sir Hugh nodded at those specific judges, ‘so special care has to be given to these. All the rest of the classes have rosettes for first, second and third prize.’
Beside Monica, Graham stifled a massive yawn and tried to look as if he was engrossed in being lectured on his judging duties.
Malvin Cook had never given his short stature much thought. True, as a boy he’d often been the target for bigger bullies at school, and growing up, he’d also discovered that a lot of ladies preferred taller men; but since he’d only ever had eyes for his Phyllis, that had never been a problem for him. That afternoon, however, as he bent down to sidle under the loose side flap into the back of the main marquee, he had reason to actively thank his lucky stars that he was so squat, small and fit. For, in only a matter of seconds, he’d managed to wriggle and slip inside the tent with almost no noise and very little fuss. And, far more importantly, without being detected by those within.
As he’d expected, Sir Hugh was giving his speech at the top end of the tent, so Malvin, in a crouching walk that years of bending and manual labour had made easy for him, began duck-walking his way towards the flower tables. There was something he just had to do… .
Back outside, Gordon Trenning paced and sweated as he watched the small man duck inside the flower tent. He quickly looked around to see who else had noticed, feeling as if all eyes must be on him, or on the tell-tale loose side-flap of the tent. But with children running around with ice creams, and the fancy-dress competition getting underway, it was hard to see if anyone had noticed Malvin’s illegal entry, and it was doubtful that they’d have cared if they had. The villagers, although avid gossips, also had a blithe live and let live philosophy.