by Joyce Cato
All afternoon something had been nagging at her, insisting that she’d seen or heard something important. But it just hadn’t occurred to her, until a few minutes ago, what it was.
Jason was leaning forward on his seat now. ‘You think Trenning gave her the capsule?’
‘Don’t you?’ Monica challenged. ‘After that near miss with Sean Gregson he was probably desperate to get rid of it. And Wendy, being Wendy, would have listened to him, and soothed him, and told him that he was doing the right thing, and that of course she’d take the nasty, dangerous thing off him. And probably promised him that she’d talk to her husband about it, and not say a word to anyone else.’
‘But would Trenning really just hand it over like that?’ Flora said doubtfully. She too was beginning to get caught up in the tale, in spite of herself.
‘Why not? Don’t forget, Gordon was used to doing what a mother figure told him. And Wendy, in spite of everything, still had that aura of … kind competence about her,’ Monica answered, her voice as tired as she was beginning to feel.
‘All right, so she suddenly has this fantastic gizmo given to her,’ Jason said briskly. ‘But you’re contending that she actually used it?’
Monica nibbled her lower lip. ‘Yes. It’s all those circumstances conspiring against her again. She had time to think about it, you see. She knew what Ross Ferris must have been planning to do – swap flower classes with her husband. She knew, thanks to Trenning, how easy it was to kill someone. Just hold your breath, plant the capsule, remove the tiny covering from the little sponge so that human breath would set it off and … there you go. No more husband. Your son’s death avenged. And no more life as a duty-bound vicar’s wife. Like I said, I think she was a little mad by then. I think she was utterly desperate. I think, in her confused mind, she saw some kind of freedom for herself in killing James.’
For a moment, the room was silent, as everyone considered her words.
‘So far I agree everything’s psychologically sound,’ Jason said. ‘But what about the rest of it?’
‘The rest of it was easy,’ Monica said bitterly. ‘Even there, fate was conspiring against her. Or with her. Or … whatever. She even shared a table with James. How easy it must have been for her to plant the capsule unseen and unsuspected. Dead easy, in fact,’ she added sadly, then winced, the unintentional pun making her wish that she’d chosen her words with better care.
‘But she wasn’t the only one with motive and opportunity,’ Flora pointed out stubbornly. ‘What about Malvin Cook?’
Monica, to everyone’s surprise, suddenly grinned. ‘Oh, I know what old Malvin was up to,’ she said, almost chuckling now. ‘That’s why I had to go back to the tent and check. When you caught me, I was counting the number of flowers on each of the gladiola stems.’
Jason blinked. ‘Huh?’
Graham chuckled suddenly. ‘The clever old sod!’ he said, understanding Monica’s drift instantly.
Monica nodded. ‘I know,’ she grinned at her husband. Then, taking pity on Jason’s puzzlement, she explained. ‘Earlier on, we’d all heard Sir Hugh threaten to fire him if they didn’t win the Cadge-Hampton gladiola cup that year. Oh, nobody took the threat seriously, but I’ll bet Malvin was just as miffed as anyone to discover there was an entry that could upset their victory. Especially when the contender was Ross Ferris! You can imagine how that rankled. So Malvin sneaked back into the tent to simply nip off the bottom flower on each of Ferris’s stems.’
‘Why?’ Flora asked, fascinated in spite of herself.
‘Because the judges, amongst other things, think the perfect flower stem has to have so many flowers out in bloom on it. I can’t remember now how many it is for gladiolas. Five? Six? Anyway, when I counted the flowers up, all of Ross Ferris’s entries had one less flower on them than the rest of the other entries. And you could even see the pale green scar on the stem where they’d been nipped off.’
Graham shook his head, still smiling.
‘So you see, Malvin Cook did go into the flower show tent sneakily, and for nefarious purposes,’ Monica confirmed. ‘Just not to plant a murder weapon, but to nobble his opponent!’
Flora, who’d momentarily stopped scribbling, suddenly set to on her shorthand again.
‘For a while there, we were looking very strongly at Sir Hugh,’ Jason mused. ‘He was seen sniffing the Peace, giving him the perfect opportunity to plant the capsule. He hated Ross Ferris. And we know now that he and Gordon Trenning had a little arrangement of their own going on.’ Briefly, he told them about their rendezvous behind the tea tent.
Monica shook her head firmly. ‘No. If Sir Hugh was going to kill someone, he’d do it face to face. The soldier’s way.’
Flora shifted on her seat. ‘You’ve explained about the Reverend Davies. But what about the murder of Gordon Trenning?’
Monica’s face paled. ‘Yes. That was bad. I mean, I know James’s death was bad but… .’ She faltered, shook her head, and took a deep breath. ‘This is how I think it happened. Wendy knew, once James was dead, that Gordon Trenning would realize what she’d done, and go to the police.’
‘So he had to die too?’ Jason said. ‘A bit cold-blooded, wasn’t it?’
Monica licked her dry lips and nodded. ‘Yes, and I think that’s going to haunt her for a long time to come. When she’s back to being her normal self again.’ She shook her head, forcing herself to carry on. To think logically and freeze out her emotions as best she could. If she stopped to think about what Wendy would have to go through… .
‘Has anyone told you about the lady falling over in the tea tent, and how Ernie came to get the mallet?’ she asked.
Jason nodded and she rubbed a hand wearily across her forehead. She was feeling as wrung-out as a dishrag. Nevertheless, she ploughed on gamely.
‘It was just after Ernie had fixed the tent peg that Sir Hugh called the judges to the tent again. At this point, we were all outside comforting the woman who’d taken the tumble, and Wendy said something about going back for her handbag. When the tent was momentarily empty. It was the only chance Wendy had to take the mallet from where she’d seen Ernie toss it and transport it to the back of the tent and hide it in the loos.’
‘That’s premeditation,’ Jason said sharply.
‘Yes. I know,’ Monica said miserably. ‘After, well, after James died, she was counting on the fact that someone would take her back to the tea tent. It was the obvious place after all – under cover, and with hot sweet tea for shock ready on hand. And, of course, that’s just what happened.’
‘And that’s significant how?’ Jason pressed.
Monica sighed. ‘How long do you think it was before the rumours started to flow that someone had died in the flower tent?’ she asked quietly.
‘Not long,’ it was Graham who spoke.
‘No. And what do you think would have been Gordon Trenning’s first reaction to it?’ Monica turned to look at him.
Graham paled and nodded. ‘Yes, I see. He’d already be nervous and highly strung. If he’d heard that someone had died, his own guilty conscience would immediately have him wondering if his capsule was somehow involved,’ he predicted.
‘And of course, he would have seen Wendy being helped into the tea tent,’ Monica took up the tale once more. ‘You can bet that he was keeping a worried eye out for her, if only to see that she brought her husband over to see him. And seeing her leaving the show tent so soon, he was bound to be worried. He’d want to know what was going on. And because he’d been around the back of the tea tent before, to talk to Sir Hugh—’
‘He’d know there was a way in there,’ Jason interrupted. ‘But wait a minute, none of the ladies who were with Wendy Davies mentioned seeing him in there. He could hardly have just walked in and demanded to know what was going on.’
‘No,’ Monica said grimly. ‘It was more … horrible than that. The other woman who was with Wendy – I can’t remember her name – said that Wendy was in shock, that s
he was shaking and ill.’
‘Acting, no doubt,’ Flora grunted.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Monica said, more inclined to be charitable. ‘I think she probably was in shock. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d thought that in reality the capsule would never work. But it did, and suddenly her husband really was dead.’
‘Let’s get back to Trenning,’ Jason said flatly. He’d had enough of speculation; what he wanted now were more solid leads. Facts that he could get his teeth into.
‘All right,’ Monica agreed. ‘He sees Wendy being led to the tent, and hears the rumours. Someone’s dead and he’s worried. It’s imperative that he find out what’s happening, so he goes to the back of the tent and Wendy is waiting for him.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Jason said.
‘How do you make that out?’ Flora said, at the same time.
Monica held up her hand. ‘If you talk to that little woman again, she’ll tell you that Wendy went to the loos to be sick. Very sick. Naturally, Wendy would have made sure that they didn’t go with her, and they wouldn’t have pushed it. It’s one thing to offer tea and sympathy, but when somebody’s being physically sick, the last thing they want is someone around to witness it. It’s one of the most embarrassing and horrible things that can happen to someone in public, and no one wants anybody around to hear and smell and … well, you just don’t. Especially if you’re a lady,’ Monica added, a shade primly.
Jason nodded. ‘OK, I’ll accept that. But they wouldn’t have left her alone for long,’ he pointed out.
‘They wouldn’t have needed to,’ Monica pointed out sadly. ‘Through the tea tent’s open front, Wendy would easily have seen Gordon approach and veer off to go around to the back. She’d have known that he was after a private word with her, and that she was being given the perfect opportunity to deal with him. She wouldn’t even have to come up with a plan on how to find him or engineer the use of the mallet without being seen. How long would it take her to feign sickness, nip out the back, reassure Gordon that her husband had died of a very natural heart attack, and then, when he’d turned around to leave, lift the mallet, bring it down on the back of his head, and then toss the mallet over the fence?’
‘Not long,’ it was Graham who finally spoke into the appalled silence, echoing what they’d all been thinking.
‘No. Not long at all,’ Monica agreed grimly. ‘Then it’s back to the tea tent and her friends and to simply wait. Don’t forget, everyone else was still in the flower show tent at that point. Wendy was the only one who’d been in both the flower show tent when James died, and in the tea tent when Gordon died.’
‘And there she stayed,’ Flora said softly. And shivered.
‘The one thing she wouldn’t want to do is go home,’ Monica pointed out. ‘In the tea tent, she could hear all the latest developments. And wouldn’t have to think too much about what she’d done.’
Once again there was a long moment of silence.
‘It all fits,’ Jason admitted at last. ‘All along we’ve had trouble connecting the two murders. Finding someone who could have done both. And had a reason for committing both.’
‘I’m only surprised no one else suspected her,’ Flora said flatly. Like her boss, she had no more doubts that Monica Noble had got it right.
‘Oh, but someone did,’ Monica contradicted softly.
‘You,’ Jason said.
But Monica was already shaking her head. ‘Oh no. Or, at least, not until very recently. No, I think someone else was on to her right from the start.’
Jason stared at her for a moment, then his eyes narrowed, and he slowly nodded. ‘The countess,’ he said softly. ‘And you weren’t totally right when you said that Wendy was the only one in both the flower show tent and the tea tent. Her Ladyship was also in both.’
Monica nodded. ‘Yes, exactly. And I think she’s one smart and on-the-ball woman. I think she knew how close to breaking point Wendy really was. Whether she actually saw her do anything, or whether she just put it together, like I did,’ Monica shrugged, ‘I don’t know.’
‘And she’ll certainly never tell us,’ Jason predicted wryly.
‘No. But all along she wanted to get Wendy away from here,’ Monica pointed out. ‘A woman like Daphne Cadge-Hampton feels a very strong sense of community. I think she’ll probably get Wendy a top-notch lawyer and stick by her through thick and thin.’
Jason rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘She might get away with the manslaughter of her husband due to diminished responsibility, but the murder of Gordon Trenning … ’ he shook his head.
He turned to Flora. ‘Right. Now we know where to look, it shouldn’t be too hard. There might be fingerprints on the mallet, and I want Wendy Davies’s clothes gone over by forensics. And for pity’s sake, get me some corroborative testimony.’
When he thought of all there was still to be done, he could only hope that they’d find enough evidence to convict.
‘I think you know,’ Monica interrupted diffidently, ‘that if you tackle her with it straight out, she’ll probably give you a full confession.’
Monica was to be proved right about the confession. Wendy Davies, when questioned, did indeed admit to both killings, breaking down thoroughly, and being sent at once to a secure, psychiatric facility.
She pleaded guilty in court four months later.
And, barely a week after that, as they were sitting in the living room of their flat back at Heyford Basset, Monica and Graham’s local television news programme began to give out a short report on her sentencing.
Monica rose hastily and switched off the set. Graham, watching her, held out his arms and when she’d snuggled up against him once more, held her close. He’d buried his old friend, taking the service in James’s own parish church, and now it was time to let go.
‘Do you think they’ll hold another flower show next year?’ Monica asked, her voice a little muffled, since her head was tucked under his chin and her ear pressed to his chest, listening to the comforting rhythm of his beating heart.
‘I imagine so,’ Graham said quietly. ‘Life goes on, after all. They’ve already appointed another vicar to Caulcott. And I don’t think Sir Hugh or Her Ladyship will let the tradition die along with James. Which is just as it should be.’
‘Yes,’ Monica agreed stalwartly, then added more tentatively, ‘but if they do have another flower show, let’s not go.’
‘No,’ Graham agreed, his hand tightening on the top of her hand and squeezing gently. ‘We won’t go,’ he promised.
And kissed her.
By the same author
Birthdays Can Be Murder
A Fatal Fall of Snow
Dying for a Cruise
An Invisible Murder
Deadly Stuff
An Unholy Mess
© Joyce Cato
First published in Great Britain 2015
ISBN 978 0 7198 1971 1 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1972 8 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1973 5 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1625 3 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Joyce Cato to be identified as
author of this work has been asserted by her
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988