“I’m going to kill that mushroom of a man,” Mrs. Thyme said under her breath. Then she yelled at the closed door, “Good! I hope you freeze in there! I’m not going to let you out, you short cretin from Spain!”
All they could hear in response was a muffled yell. “Leave me woman!”
Mrs. Thyme turned abruptly to see Helen and Martha staring at her with amused expressions. “The man is a swine. I’d like to toss him into the river out front but Piers loves him and thinks he walks on water. I bet he would sink instead of float.”
She walked toward the girls. “You’re here for the soup,” she said, her temper waning.
“Yes, he wanted us to pick it up because we’re heading back to The Grange and can drop it off on the way,” Martha explained with a smile.
“I have it waiting up in my office.” Mrs. Thyme walked with a deliberate stride towards the front of the house.
“What about Senior Agosto? Will he be okay in there?” Helen asked.
“Him? Oh, he will be just fine.” She waved one arm in the direction of the kitchen. “He loves it in there because he can act like a mule and then stomp off into his refrigerator. Oh, don’t worry, lasses, the door has a safety latch inside. Unfortunately.”
Once in her office, Mrs. Thyme handed the girls a heavy plastic container full of potato soup. She pointed out the bag she had packed for Piers.
“I’ve put in some nice toiletries and a few changes of clothes. His mobile is also in there. He is a sweet man, you know?” she said to both of them while never taking her eyes off the container of soup. “He doesn’t have anyone to watch over him except me and I’m a poor excuse for a mother. He so loved Emilia and I didn’t think he would ever get over her death. The child means everything to him but the situation worries me.”
“What about it worries you, Mrs. Thyme?” Martha asked.
She looked at the floor and then back at Martha. “I…I don’t know if he has pushed it too far.” Sinking down into her pillowed, wing-back chair, she continued in a tired voice. “So many horrible things have happened this last week. He’s in danger, isn’t he?”
“Mrs. Thyme, you’re not to worry about Piers, okay? He’s in safe hands at the hospital. But what do you mean, ‘pushed it too far?’” Helen asked.
“He naturally wants his child. Any decent parent would. Do you think someone is trying to stop him from getting custody? I know Sir Carstons was such a brute and the child would inherit a fortune. Someone might want Piers dead so he isn’t a threat with his suit anymore.” She looked back and forth from Helen to Martha seeming to seek an answer from them.
“Mrs. Thyme, we think whoever murdered Carstons may have tried to kill Piers. His computer has surveillance videos which may show who the killer is,” Martha explained. “Do you know of anyone at the party last night who is a good shot with a rifle?”
Mrs. Thyme considered Martha’s sincere face. “The police asked that, too. So many of Piers’ guests are regulars at his shooting parties in the fall. Practically everyone who was invited has been here before, so they would have a good idea of where the guns are kept, but they’re always locked up. Louis Devry is an excellent shot. He and Piers used to go grouse hunting as boys here on the estate.”
“The police took most of the guns with them last night,” Mrs. Thyme added. “Wait, here is something odd. This morning while I was looking for my cat out behind the kitchen garden, I saw where the vines had been torn away from the wall. That wall is wide, you know. The gardener’s son loves to walk on top of it, but he hasn’t been home since the last school holiday.”
“Do you mind if we take a look?” Helen asked.
“Sure, lasses. You run along. I’ve got lots of work to do and a mule to bring to harness.” She lifted herself up from the comfortable old chair with a sigh. “Oh, by the way, please take this package to Piers. I found it this morning in the strangest place. The old linen cupboard in the cellar. I thought about putting it on his desk but with all the weird happenings going on, I wasn’t sure what to do with it. It might need to be at The Grange. He’ll know what should be done.”
She handed them a sizable manila envelope. Something clicked in Martha’s mind. Hadn’t she seen something like that before? But where?
Managing their parcels for Piers, they made their way out to the car.
“Let’s put this in the Green Bean,” Martha said referring to her Mini Cooper, “and then we can go check out the garden wall. Might be a clue.”
The girls locked the car doors and went around the back of the house.
The kitchen garden connected to the enclosed garden where the party had been the night before, and both were situated behind Healy House. Along the face of the wall, many vines and flowering plants had created comfortable homes. The girls could see where some of the vines had recently been pulled away.
Sunning himself on the top of the wall was a black tabby Maine Coon cat. He lifted his head and yawned luxuriously.
“Must be Mrs. Thyme’s cat,” Helen said.
The cat opened his eyes widely and then went back to squinting in the bright sunlight. He rolled over and showed his soft, furry tummy as if trying to entice them into a nice scratch.
“Look at him, the scoundrel. I wonder if he’ll actually let me pet him?” Helen moved towards the posing cat. She reached up as high as she could and gently scratched the top of his head between his two black ears. The cat purred loudly.
“He’s a friendly old fellow,” Martha said joining in the scratching but on the cat’s tummy.
The cat, satisfied with their dutiful homage, rolled over on his side and put his back to them. Flicking his tail, he got up on all fours, did a deep back stretch, and sauntered off toward the top of the wall of the adjoining garden. He turned around, looked at them and artfully composed his tail in the shape of a shepherd’s crook.
Martha and Helen took the bait and followed him along the wall until they came to the round opening in the stone work pointed out by the German guest the previous night.
“This is the spot where the gunshot may have come from,” Martha said.
“Look. The police have put up their tape to keep everyone out. If someone wanted to shoot Piers, this would have been an excellent spot.” Helen stuck her head and shoulders through the circle. “Hey. Look here, Martha. There’s some kind of fabric hanging along the inside of the wall. I bet I can just reach it if I…”
Helen leaned in farther to grab the cloth. “Martha!” Helen screamed as she lost her balance and fell forward head first through the hole.
Martha gawked as Helen’s feet flew straight up into the air. With a quick lunge toward the up-ended legs, Martha grabbed the flailing ankles and pulled hard. She reached for Helen’s belt and held it tightly until Helen could steady herself along the inside of the stone wall. Helen inched her hands upwards until they reached the bottom of the opening. Twisting herself around, she sat down inside the circular window for a minute and took a few deep breaths.
“Hey. You okay?” Martha asked, trying to catch her own breath.
Helen panted. “Whew. That’s a steep drop on the other side. The ground is lower over there by probably two feet. Look what was hanging there. It looks like a torn piece of a glove. You can see the shape of a finger section.”
“Let’s keep it and show it to Chief Johns when we get back to the village. Might be a good clue,” Martha said, delighted with actually finding something the police had missed.
“Why would anyone scramble along the edge of the garden wall then drop down and shoot someone from this opening? All they would have to do is walk around. Right?” Martha pointed out.
“True. Why indeed?” Helen dropped back down to the ground to stand by Martha.
They stared up at the wall and the circular opening. Then both turned slowly around to view the fields stretching out behind the gardens. The answer hit them both at the same time. The field was actually an enclosed area. Down near the opposite edge of the field,
they could see small wooden buildings resembling kennels.
“Dogs. Of course,” Helen said.
As if on cue, three German Shepherds rounded the corner of the far edge of the kitchen garden and charged toward Helen and Martha.
“Oh, my God! Let’s get out of here!” Martha screamed.
Helen jumped back into the round opening and used it as a step to scramble onto the stone wall. Martha followed her and in less than a minute both women were working their way along the top of the wall while the three massive dogs growled and bounded beneath them.
“Why don’t they bark?” Martha yelled at Helen.
“How should I know?” Helen yelled back. “Maybe they’re trained to stalk their quarry quietly and then rip out their throats.”
“Lovely visualization, Helen,” Martha said, trying to keep her balance on the wall.
They reached the kitchen section of the gardens and found the cat squinting at them from the safety of the roof.
Martha glowered at the cat. “I think that rascal knew exactly where he was taking us.”
They found a ladder leaning against the inside of the wall and made their way down into the safety of the kitchen garden.
“No, Martha. The cat was showing us a clue and how the person must have managed to circumvent the dogs last night,” Helen said.
She gave a short salute to the cat who responded with an indifferent yawn before flopping onto his side with his back to them. Ignoring them completely, he began his daily ablutions focusing on his right hind leg.
“You never know who to thank in this business, do you?” Martha laughed, looking at the cat’s backside.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” Helen said. “All this excitement is making me hungry. That sandwich didn’t fill me up.”
Martha, delighted with the idea of eating again, added, “Danger makes me hungry. I know the place. The cook is partial to comfort food. Sound good?”
Helen nodded. “Let’s do it. We better eat quickly. Louis Devry is meeting you at The Grange at three. Don’t want to keep the boss waiting.”
Chapter 20
THE TRAVELLER’S INN WAS ALWAYS a busy hostelry in Marsden-Lacey on a Sunday afternoon. Church was over and so was Sunday dinner. The local villagers who were interested in football liked to congregate at The Traveller’s to watch the game, drink a few pints and yell at the television. Of course, it was also a great place to enjoy a good meal and to slip away from one’s nearest and dearest.
DCI Johns hastened down the High Street toward The Traveller’s intending to have a bottle of Fullers porter and a nice plate of pie and mash. He sensed that something in his comfortable and established reality had shifted and he needed a nurturing environment and a good meal to settle his thoughts. This slight shift in what he had always known, had come out of the blue and, more irritatingly, without his consent. As he pushed the old, iron-studded door with a heave, his gaze rested on Lilly serving Doc Whithersby at the bar.
Johns plumbed the depths of that deviation again and found something had moved and wasn’t likely to realign itself anytime soon. He no sooner averted his eyes from Lilly and Whithersby’s cozy tête-à-tête, when his gaze fell on the tasseled mane of a red-haired woman.
His heart took a leap and banged against the fault line which he was now certain had moved irrevocably. Quickly doing an about face and heading for the opposite side of the pub, he joined the old men who liked to sit by the fire and talk about how the government was testing their faith in the future of England. Johns sat down with a huff and glared at the back of that fluffy, red pile of hair.
What in the world had gotten into him? Lilly was the type of woman he had always imagined for himself. She was slim, dark-haired with almond-shaped eyes and a serenity he had always admired. From his old-man corner, he watched Whithersby flirt with Lilly while she laughed at his probably feeble attempts at humor.
Johns shifted his glance again to look at the mess of red hair bobbing about with every move of the woman’s head. He wondered at its curls and the way it glowed from the soft sunbeams streaming through the windows. Probably smelled good, too, he thought.
The head turned around and he stiffened. He immediately focused intently on his beer bottle. Without looking up, he heard the two women chatting and getting nearer to his table. Raising his gaze from his bottle, he gave the two arrivals at his table a slim smile.
“DCI Johns. What a nice surprise. We might have a clue to share with you,” Helen said, practically bubbling with good humor.
Martha stood behind her, looking through her purse.
“A clue? What have you two been up to?” Johns tried to mimic Helen’s pleasant tone.
Martha looked up and squinted in the dusky light as if to make sure they were addressing Johns and it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity.
“We were at Healy picking up some things for Piers and decided to look around near the spot where we thought the shooter might have been hiding,” Helen said. “We found a torn piece of a glove.” She took the plastic bag Martha had finally retrieved from her purse and handed it to Johns.
“Ladies,” he asked in a low, gravelly voice, “you didn’t cross the pretty yellow tape we have wrapped around the entire garden, did you?” And then, in a “how I talk to idiots” tone, he added, “There is an attempted murder investigation going on and tampering with the site will get you arrested.”
Both Helen and Martha, seemingly indifferent to his barbed sarcasm, pulled out chairs and sat down. This took Johns by surprise, confused by their apparent chumminess. His gaze darted back and forth between the two of them.
“We think,” Helen said, “the video files hold the answer to who killed Sir Carstons. We would like to see them.”
“What? No.” Johns pulled himself upright and looked at them like they were crazy. “What on God’s green Earth makes you think I’m in the habit of sharing evidence or teaming up with…with…the general public on an investigation?”
“Why not?” Martha reached over and took a swig out of his beer bottle.
Grabbing the bottle back from her with a shocked look, he said, “Because the police are not in the habit of confiding and sharing evidence with the public. That’s why.”
Martha leaned back in her chair with a twinkle in her eye and crossed her arms. “You don’t have the files, do you? In fact, I bet you’re having to wait until Piers is deemed okay by his doctor before he can be interviewed and you can check out those files.”
Johns found himself suddenly attuned to Martha’s closeness and at the same time thrilled with her nerve. How dare she taunt him with the truth about how he didn’t have the files yet? How dare she try and steal his beer? Was the woman baiting him or was she simply crazy?
“Mrs. Littleword and Mrs. Ryes, if I find out you are in any way messing about in either of my investigations, I will lock you up. Do you understand?” He tried to sound in command.
Helen, sitting in her usual straight-back, debutante manner, gave Johns a look that would have wilted a weaker man. She remained silent.
Martha responded. “We’re only trying to help because we feel personally involved in both incidents. If you wish to throw us in jail, then you had better get on with it because we have no intention of ignoring our duty to our friends or this community.”
Martha rose from her chair in a regal hauteur. “Come, Helen. We’re not getting anywhere with the big commandant who likes to throw his weight around. We were just trying to be helpful and he doesn’t appreciate our efforts. We’ve got places to be.”
Helen and Martha exited The Traveller’s Inn, leaving Johns to ponder his newly-arrived plate of pie and mash. He wasn’t sure whether to arrest them or to eat his dinner. The food won out.
While he ate, his mood lifted and he found himself secretly pleased with the notion of himself as a commandant. He studied the fabric through the plastic bag. Better give it to forensics.
His mind went back to the shocking moment when Martha
had actually taken a drink out of his beer bottle. The act was brash and audacious yet somehow enticing.
There was definitely something about that woman he was finding hard to ignore.
THE MINI COOPER HUMMED ALONG the main road toward Wayford. Louis Devry had stood up Martha again. He hadn’t made the meeting at three so the girls decided to drive to the hospital to drop off Piers’ things. With the car’s top down and the rolling English pastures in lush summer finery, they couldn’t help admiring the views in the hazy, soft evening light.
Helen drove while Martha fiddled with the radio. Finding a station playing old tunes from the Rat Pack’s heyday, the girls sang “Fly Me To The Moon” along with Frank Sinatra. They enjoyed reliving their adventure atop the old garden wall and laughed at their conversation with Johns in The Traveller’s. Neither had felt so alive in years.
Ten minutes later they pulled into a visitor parking place at the hospital in Wayford. Piers was being allowed visitors so there was no need to sneak past the nurse’s station. According to the nurse who was busily doing paperwork, Piers was with a visitor and they would have to wait their turn.
Soon, a tall, slim woman came sashaying down the corridor. Lana Chason stopped mid-stride. Recognizing Helen and Martha, her face brightened and she quickened her step toward them.
Martha and Helen offered her weak grins of acknowledgment and waited to see where it would go from there.
“I’m so glad to see a pair of friendly faces. There’s a nurse here who frightens me,” Lana said looking over her shoulder nervously. “Are you here to see Piers, too?”
Martha, clutching the huge bag packed by Mrs. Thyme, gave one of her cheery smiles. “Yes, we’ve been given the job of delivering Mrs. Thyme’s soup.”
“Oh, he’ll be much happier to see you then. I’ll warn you, he’s in a grumpy mood.” Lana pouted. “Actually, I’ll be completely honest. He’s like a caged lion in there and I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to make a break for it.” She shrugged and settled one perfectly-manicured hand on her hip. “He’s crazy if he tries. That nurse I mentioned is like one of my brother’s old bloodhounds. She’s got his scent and won’t tolerate him slipping away. You girls be careful. I’m heading home tonight. Bye now, and when you see him, open the conversation with the soup.”
Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 8