by Joyce Cato
Melissa watched her husband’s face twitch and scowl, and knew that he was being eaten alive by anger and frustration. It made her want to laugh out loud. Revenge and victory was such a sweet combination.
‘Come on, Ross,’ she said softly. ‘You know how you hate to be made a fool of in public. And all I want is a reasonable divorce settlement. Just tear up that pre-nup, and let’s get together with my lawyers. I’m sure we can come up with a … mutually beneficial arrangement.’
And she laughed as he turned and stomped away, because she knew she’d won. The flat in Notting Hill would be hers. Along with all her jewellery and as big a lump of cash as she thought she could get away with!
Everything had come up roses after all.
And then she laughed again as the aptness of that phrase suddenly struck her.
Monica made her way from the tea tent to the pavilion, where she’d already spotted the tall, elegant figure of her husband. Suddenly, she desperately wanted to be near him. But as she walked, her mind was whirling like a kaleidoscope, flashing up images at her, nagging away at her for being such a dunce.
It must be obvious, if only she could sort out all the wheat from the chaff.
She could see it all in her mind. James and Ross Ferris, changing flower classes. Sir Hugh declaring loudly how much he loved Peace. Malvin’s sneaking entrance into the tent. Daphne Cadge-Hampton and her secret, long-ago love affair. Wendy, broken and shocked. James, crumpling to the ground. Gordon Trenning, and the fight with his girlfriend’s angry father. Gordon Trenning, dead behind the tea tent, his head bashed in. The capsule. The capsule. Always it came down to what had become of the capsule… .
By the pavilion, Graham saw his wife coming towards him, and as he watched her approach, he saw her suddenly frown. He noticed that her steps were slowing almost to a standstill, and, pushing away from the wooden wall, he went to meet her halfway. By the time he’d reached her, however, she’d stopped dead in the middle of the field, her expression grim and sad.
‘Graham,’ she said softly, when he took her cold hand in his. ‘Oh Graham!’
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ he asked, but in his heart, he already knew. He’d seen that expression on her face once before.
Monica looked at him with big, wide, tragic eyes. ‘Oh Graham,’ she wailed, her throat clogged with unshed tears. ‘I know who did it. And why. And … oh Graham, I wish I didn’t!’ She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his shoulder, revelling in his strength. She felt his hands come around and press comfortingly between her shoulder blades. Their warmth and strength seemed to seep into her, giving her courage, and at last she raised her face to his.
Tears were brimming in her eyes, threatening to overflow.
He took a deep, fortifying breath. ‘Let’s go and see Jason, shall we?’ Graham said simply.
Miserably, Monica nodded.
CHAPTER 18
‘Sir, they’re beginning to complain that they can’t leave,’ Brian Gilwiddy said, looking at Jason curiously. The Caulcott Green church clock had just struck seven. It was a good twenty minutes slow, and the remaining witnesses, understandably, all wanted to get off home.
Jason looked across the small fortune-teller’s tent, noticing how the yellowing sun was creating the kind of light that made everything seem eerily underwater. It was time to—
‘Sir, Mrs Noble and her husband are outside.’ Another constable stuck his head around the door, the same one that had announced Monica earlier. And, sure enough, once again his superior said unhesitatingly, ‘Send them in.’
Monica came in nervously, a strangely abashed look on her face. Instantly, it triggered a memory in Jason, of another time and another place, when she’d come to him with just such a look on her face. He said, without heat, and without mockery, ‘You think you know who did it?’
The two constables and Flora Glenn boggled.
Monica merely nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, somewhat inanely. ‘But yes, I think I do.’
Jason nodded, glanced across at Graham, who looked steadily, and blank-faced, back at him. For a second the two men, so vastly different in so many ways, looked at each other in perfect accord. Then Jason stirred restlessly. ‘Gilwiddy, tell the people on the gate that nobody’s to go just yet. But that they’ll be able to leave very soon now,’ he commanded.
‘Sir,’ Gilwiddy said smartly, trying not to stare at Monica. At the tent flap, the other constable withdrew, correctly interpreting Jason’s get-lost glance.
‘Sit down, both of you,’ Jason ordered wearily, indicating the two chairs. To Flora he said simply, ‘take every word down. I’ll record it as well for a back up,’ he added, and set his mini tape recorder going.
Flora, looking nettled, got out her notebook and pencil again, her lips held in a tight grim line of disapproval. It was clear that she didn’t expect anything of earth-shattering importance to happen next, but also that she hadn’t quite got the nerve to say so.
Jason looked at Monica. His level, ice-blue eyes met her cornflower, softer blue gaze, and he took a slow, deep breath. ‘You don’t look happy,’ he said quietly. He remembered that whilst he might have a heart hardened by years of dealing with criminals, this lovely young woman was still, in so many ways, so worryingly innocent. And thus capable of being hurt. And here he was, once again, watching her being hurt.
Monica shook her head. ‘No, I’m not happy. It’s all so sad. So horribly sad,’ she agreed dismally.
‘Do you think we’re dealing with just one killer or two?’ he asked, wanting to get that out of the way first.
‘Oh, one.’
He nodded. That seemed, on the face of it, almost impossible. And whilst he wasn’t, yet, getting his hopes up too high, he nevertheless had the sneaking feeling that, just like last time, this woman had come up with the answer. Was it just a knack she had? Like some women could knit fantastically patterned jumpers, and others could paint pretty watercolours? Was Monica Noble just a natural detective? He was beginning to think so, but he’d reserve his final judgement until he’d heard her out. After all, her success last time could just have been a fluke.
By her side, Graham was looking more and more tense. She’d been totally silent on their walk over, and he had no idea what she was going to say, but a sick feeling, deep in the pit of his stomach, had him feeling almost scared.
‘All right,’ Jason said, ignoring the you’ve-got-to-be-kidding looks his disbelieving sergeant was throwing at him. ‘Who do you think is our killer?’
Monica took a deep, deep breath. Then she blurted miserably, ‘I think it’s Wendy Davies.’
Flora all but snorted. In his chair, Graham jerked further upright, opened his mouth, took one look at his wife’s wretched face, then closed it again.
Jason blinked. The widow! Normally the first suspect in a killing was the spouse, of course. But this time he hadn’t really given her much thought at all. In fact, in view of her precarious physical and mental state, he realized that he hadn’t even got around to interviewing her yet. Perhaps, if he had, things would be different now.
‘I see,’ he said slowly. Then added simply, ‘Why?’
Monica sighed. ‘Look, it’s all so … muddled. I’ve been hearing things here and there, and putting bits and pieces together from what I’ve seen with my own eyes and should have connected, and didn’t. Can I just tell it how I think it happened, and then leave it to you to … you know, pull my theory to pieces?’
And she really does want me to be able to do just that, Jason thought sympathetically, as once again their blue gazes met and held. She really wants to be wrong, and for me to prove it to her. But she doesn’t really believe that I’ll be able to, he thought.
‘All right. You talk, we’ll listen,’ he said agreeably.
Monica nodded. ‘It all begins, I think, with the death of little Tommy Davies. He was an only child, and his mother adored him. I mean, really, really adored him. He was her whole world – I think
she and James had such a hard time having a baby that when Tommy came along… . Well.’ Monica shrugged a shade helplessly. ‘I don’t know if you know all the circumstances of his death, but on the night that he was ill, we were all almost snowed in, the weather was that bad, and James was out in the Davies’s only car, visiting a sick parishioner. I’m not sure who it was, but… .’ Here Monica waved a hand vaguely in the air. ‘It doesn’t really matter. The thing that does matter is that, in Wendy’s mind, her husband wasn’t there when they needed him so badly. He’d left them alone, taken their only means of transport and it was all up to Wendy to cope by herself. Of course, you and I and everybody else knows that it wasn’t anybody’s fault. Both James and Wendy thought at first that Tommy just had a touch of the flu. And James wasn’t able to predict the future any more than anyone else can. If he’d known what was going to happen, of course he wouldn’t have left. But he did, and Tommy died, and I don’t think Wendy ever got over it. Or forgave James.’
Monica paused for a breath, then glanced across at Graham, knowing that what she had to say next would affect him the most, and wanting him to know that she wasn’t getting at him personally. ‘But it got steadily worse after that. Wendy was still “the vicar’s wife”. She was still expected to perform. To chair the meetings. To deal with everyone else’s crises. To be the sturdy British oak who never waivers. I know it’s not your fault,’ here she reached across for Graham’s hand, ‘but I don’t think you clergymen fully realize just how much pressure there is on your wives. We’re not allowed to be like other wives. We’re supposed to be perfect, all the time. And, of course, Wendy couldn’t be.’
She was talking to him now, to her husband, and both Jason and Flora felt a shade uncomfortable to be listening in. Nevertheless, both of them were beginning to feel that she might be on to something. As police officers, they had already learned that motives arose not just out of the classic four – love, hate, money, and revenge – but were also brought about as a result of many other kinds of human weaknesses and pain.
‘What Wendy needed was to grieve,’ Monica continued, her tear-bright eyes still on Graham, who was pale and thinking furiously. ‘To get angry. To rant and rave and do all the other things that mothers who’ve lost their children are allowed and even encouraged to do. But she couldn’t. And I think it all built up in her. I think she went … well … a little bit mad.’
Here she turned to Jason. ‘Oh, I don’t know whether you people would agree. I mean, I’m not a doctor, I don’t really know what you or the law would call technically “insane”. And I’m not trying to build up a defence for her. I’m just telling you what I feel myself. What others have been telling me. From Vera Gant to the milkman, everyone’s been telling me that Wendy’s been hit hard. And I think the Countess of Fulcome knows it more than most.’
Flora stirred restlessly on her seat. ‘It’s a long jump from harbouring a festering grudge against her husband to killing him,’ she said, still with an edge of mockery in her voice. ‘And especially in such a spectacular way.’
Monica nodded. ‘I know,’ she said, her voice a little wobbly as she tried to keep a hold of herself. ‘And that’s what’s really so tragic about all this. I don’t suppose for one moment that Wendy would ever have even thought about killing James if things hadn’t happened the way they did. I think she would just eventually have had a complete breakdown, and would have been hospitalized for a while. With therapy, she would have been helped to grieve, and perhaps even feel some sort of happiness again. At worst, she and James might have ended up divorced. But – and this is what’s really so hard to take – circumstances went so badly against her. A whole string of them. It’s enough to make even sceptics believe in the Devil.’
By her side, Graham stirred. ‘What do you mean?’ She was getting into his territory now.
‘Well, just look what happens,’ Monica said, brushing away a single tear that had escaped and was running down her cheek. ‘She’s in the tea tent, minding her own business, when in walks Ross Ferris. As usual, he’s cock-sure of himself and full of beans, and makes some remark about the flower show judging. Wendy, in all innocence, tells him that the real challenge this year is the dahlia class, and instantly Ross Ferris reacts.’
‘Wait a minute,’ it was Jason who interrupted. ‘If you’re telling me that Wendy Davies knew about the swap of roses for dahlias made between her husband and Ferris, you’re on the wrong track. Ferris himself swears that nobody was around when he asked James to swap with him.’
Monica smiled. ‘I daresay you’re right. But how hard would it have been, do you think, for Wendy to have guessed what Ferris was going to do? You’ve interviewed the man – did he strike you as being subtle?’
Jason grimaced. ‘No.’
‘Exactly. Wendy tells him her husband’s got the choice job, and instantly he gets this look on his face and walks off. Ask Vera Gant what she thought about it – she was there. I’ll bet she confirms that it was as obvious as pie what Ross Ferris was going to do. And Wendy Davies knew it too.’
Jason slowly rubbed the side of his nose with a forefinger, a habit of his when he was thinking hard. He pictured the scene, and slowly nodded. ‘OK. Let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that I concede that it wouldn’t have been impossible for Wendy Davies to have guessed that Ferris would bully her husband into swapping his roses for the dahlias. But what does that prove?’
Monica smiled wearily. ‘Nothing in itself. But who should come in a few minutes later, but Gordon Trenning.’
Jason and Flora both stiffened. Of course, Trenning had been seen in the tea tent several times, but so had everyone else there that day. It had been a scorcher of an afternoon, and everybody had been in and out after tea or cold drinks. Nothing in that to arouse their suspicions.
‘So what are you saying?’ Jason demanded.
Monica sighed. ‘You should have another word with Vera to confirm what I’m about to say. But I was there myself and saw Gordon Trenning come in looking very woebegone and nervous, and asking for James. Obviously, he had something on his mind. And now, I’m going to theorize a bit, but not, I think, beyond the realms of reasonable supposition,’ Monica insisted. ‘First, tell me what you know about Gordon Trenning,’ she added.
Jason was willing to go along with her – up to a point. ‘He’s a man who’d been wronged by his employer; that was no great secret. Ross Ferris probably robbed him of millions. Stole his creation. Made him a laughing stock of the scientific community, or so he believed. But,’ Jason was beginning to guess – or think he could guess – where she was going with all this, ‘we’ve found no evidence so far to suggest that Trenning was a violent man.’
‘Exactly,’ Monica put in. ‘Not the sort, you’d think, to simply get a gun and just shoot his boss?’
‘No,’ Jason concurred. ‘From everything I’ve been hearing about him, he was a rather ineffectual sort of man. But a thwarted one, nevertheless. So what does he do? He makes a dastardly clever exploding cyanide gas capsule,’ Jason finished, somewhat impatiently. ‘Monica, we have already gone into all that.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ Monica agreed soothingly, ‘but bear with me. Have you considered how he felt once it was done?’ she urged.
Jason’s eyes narrowed. With care, he attempted to put himself in Gordon Trenning’s shoes. ‘OK. Let me see. Here’s a man who’s probably enjoyed himself enormously building this little gadget. He’s had a lovely time fantasizing about the moment of his boss’s death.’ Jason’s eyes widened as he suddenly saw the point she was trying to make. ‘But it’s all been in his head,’ he hissed, sitting up a little straighter. ‘Making it was no doubt a wonderful catharsis. But, suddenly, he’s left with an actual murder weapon, right in his hand. He takes it to the fete, but he’s almost certainly already regretting doing so.’ Jason wondered if he was getting carried away, but it had a very realistic feel to it. It simply felt right. Anyway, there was no harm in theorizing.
‘And then he has the near miss with Sean Gregson,’ Monica chipped in encouragingly.
‘Right. And if the capsule had broken when he was grabbed by the lapels, they would both have been dead. Suddenly, it’s all very real. And he was scared. Very scared,’ Jason carried on.
Graham nodded. ‘I see what you’re both getting at. To him, the making of the capsule was all the release he needed.’
‘Right. But the actual killing?’ Monica shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so. I think he was too much of a rabbit to want to go through with it.’
Jason, who wasn’t as scared of using psychology as a tool as some of his fellow officers, was prepared to go along with this – up to a point. Just to see where it led. ‘Fine. So, say the set-to with Sean Gregson brought him to his senses, what do you think happened next?’ he demanded.
Monica began to look grim. ‘Well, what do you think a mummy’s boy would do when he’s in trouble?’
‘Run to mummy.’ It was Flora Glenn who spoke, surprising everyone into looking at her for a moment. She flushed.
‘Yes. But mummy’s dead,’ Monica said. ‘So he had to find someone else. Someone who would make him feel better. Who’d take the capsule from him and destroy it and, most importantly of all, would never tell on him. Who does that sound like to you?’
‘A vicar,’ Graham said flatly. ‘And he was right. If he’d gone to James, James would have counselled him. And he wouldn’t have reported him unless he’d thought that there was any continuing danger to Ross Ferris.’
‘Which, by now, there wouldn’t have been,’ Monica said firmly.
‘But there’s no evidence for all this, or that he even spoke to James,’ Jason pointed out dampeningly.
‘No,’ Monica agreed heavily. ‘Because when he went to the tea tent, he found someone even better. Mrs Vicar. Another mummy. In other words, Wendy Davies,’ she said heavily. Monica shook her head as she thought back to that scene in the tea tent. ‘Poor Wendy. At the time, I could see that Trenning looked in need of help, and almost offered to step in, but Wendy beat me to it. James wasn’t there, but she was. I even saw Wendy take him to one side to chat. I lost sight of them for a bit until Wendy came back a while later. But it’s not hard to guess what they talked about, is it?’