Murder Knows No Season

by Cathy Ace

  ‘But of course,’ replied Christine sweetly. ‘I didn’t mean to imply any sort of impropriety – just that if we can find her assistant before we need to call in the police, Jacintha thinks it would be best for the girl’s reputation.’

  ‘Well, so long as we’re clear on that one, Miss Wilson-Smythe,’ replied Mavis formally.

  ‘Oh, come off it, Mavis, it’s me, Christine – don’t Wilson-Smythe me, please. Anyway, it was Aunt Aggie who wanted a fee agreed before she’d even let me get in touch with you; she’s very business-like you know. In fact, she might even give you a run for your money, Mavis.’

  Mavis’s eyebrows suggested she thought this hardly likely. She turned to Annie and Carol, purposefully hooking her short, neat, grey hair behind her ears as she did so; all three of her colleagues knew her mannerisms well enough to realize this signified she meant business.

  Serious business.

  Mavis spoke gravely. ‘Well, what do you say, girls? It’s a great deal more than anyone else has ever paid us, and if we find her quickly we could have the bonus money in the bank by the end of the week – then there’d be no worries for another few months, I’d say.’

  Annie managed a: ‘Du-uh, go for it,’ and Carol vigorously nodded her agreement.

  ‘Right then,’ said Mavis. She turned militarily on her heel to face Christine once more. ‘I’m assuming you’re for it?’ Christine nodded. ‘Of course, we’ll need to get all the facts as they are known,’ continued Mavis, ‘and we’ll need real insight and information to be able to do our best, you know that, Christine – can you make sure the family understands that, and co-operates?’

  ‘Of course,’ gushed Christine. ‘I told Aunt Aggie all that this morning, before I phoned you. By the way – we can have that nasty meeting about money some other time, can’t we? Much better to be making it, than talking about it, eh?’

  Christine was surprisingly light-hearted in her manner as she led her three colleagues upstairs to the morning room to meet her aunt. Carol wondered what the woman whose husband owned a ridiculous amount of land in London, and beyond, would be like. She hoped she’d be nice, and not stuck-up; Carol didn’t like people who were stuck-up.

  Mavis could tell – by the looks on their faces – that Lady Agatha Wraysbury wasn’t what Annie or Carol had expected. As Matron of Battersea Barracks she’d met many family members of the retired soldiers in her charge, quite a number of whom had been titled, so she was less surprised than her colleagues by the sight that met them as they entered the morning room.

  A woman around her mid-fifties, red-haired, freckled, compact and hard-bodied, sat curled in a large armchair upholstered in a jovial floral print, sipping amber liquid from a huge crystal brandy bowl. She wore faded jeans topped by a white shirt with a stripe that exactly matched her new-penny hair. Her feet were bare.

  As she rose to greet her guests, it was clear she was just about five feet tall; she stood nose-to-nose with Mavis, but Annie towered a foot above her. Tea, coffee and home-made biscuits were already spread on a silver tray on a table beside her, and the duchess allowed Christine to take the lead in the conversation while she served refreshments.

  ‘Now stop me if I get any of this wrong, Aunt Aggie.’ Lady Agatha Wraysbury nodded as Christine began, ‘Jacintha phoned you at seven a.m. because her assistant, Poppy Brown, had failed to arrive at Jacintha’s florist shop with the stock she was supposed to have gone to the New Covent Garden Market to purchase this morning. Jacintha knows Poppy left the shop at about three p.m. yesterday afternoon, but she never arrived at the shop at four a.m. this morning to collect the van. The van’s still there, but there’s no sign of Poppy. Jacintha has already been to Poppy’s flat, and there’s no sign of her there either. And she couldn’t see the cash in an obvious place when she used the key Poppy leaves at the shop for emergencies to go in to check if Poppy was at home. Correct?’

  Lady Agatha nodded and replied in a pleasantly deep, rounded voice, ‘Correct, dear. Jacintha has tried Poppy’s mobile phone, but it’s going to voicemail. Repeatedly.’ She looked across the tea tray at Carol, Mavis and Annie. ‘I’ll admit, ladies, I have had misgivings about Poppy; true, her arms bear an inordinate number of tattoos . . . but this fact is not the root of my concerns. No, it’s her choice in men-friends which has given me pause; Jacintha has told me some worrying tales about Poppy’s proclivity for preferring to consort with men of a certain sort. And I have some grave worries that her choices might have led to . . . well, this. My husband and I have agreed we’ll support Jacintha’s decision to not call in the police at this time, but both he and I are terribly worried – because our daughter is terribly worried. Our call to you is our attempt at a compromise.’

  Mavis could tell Annie was all but squirming with questions; she glared at her colleague, hoping she’d keep quiet for a moment longer.

  Christine continued, ‘Jacintha trusts Poppy, you see, and feels she wouldn’t have done anything like run off with cash. Poppy is the only person trusted by Jacintha to purchase flowers from the market. Jacintha believes she’s reliable, and totally trustworthy, Aunt Aggie.’

  ‘You told me I had to be truthful when I spoke to your colleagues, Christine, and that’s all I’m being. Truthful.’ Lady Agatha’s tone remained calm.

  ‘And that’s most helpful, Your Grace,’ said Mavis, hoping to cut Annie off before she leaped in. It didn’t work.

  Annie cleared her throat. ‘Any chance we could talk to Jacintha herself?’ Mavis thought it was a sensible request.

  Christine nodded. ‘She can’t leave the shop. It’s Mothering Sunday in two days – so this is one of her busiest times of the year. She’s overwhelmed. But I can get her on my phone and ask her whatever we want. She offered.’

  Christine made the call, and put Jacintha on speakerphone. The process took about fifteen minutes, then the women allowed Jacintha to return to her duties.

  Mavis referred to her notes. ‘So, to summarize,’ she announced, gaining everyone’s attention, ‘Poppy’s been with Jacintha for more than two years; she began there to gain work experience, then became a trainee, and now is her trusted assistant. Poppy is habitually responsible for taking sums of cash home with her overnight, then collecting the company van from the garage beside the shop in Holbein Mews to arrive at the New Covent Garden Market to purchase flowers soon after it opens at four a.m. She’s usually back at the shop, with the stock all suitably stored before seven a.m., at which time Jacintha comes down from her apartment upstairs, and they begin to create the floral arrangements either for the shop, of for deliveries to be made that day.’

  Mavis paused and looked up. Everyone nodded.

  She continued, ‘Poppy left the shop at the end of her day yesterday, around three p.m., and told Jacintha she was meeting someone for a drink that evening. She didn’t specify who. She was going home to change, and drop off the funds she’d need for the next morning. Jacintha hasn’t been in contact with Poppy at all since then, with the exception of having received a “selfie” from Poppy, which the girl sent last evening around seven thirty p.m., saying she was having a lovely time. It shows Poppy and an unknown male. This morning there’s been no sign of Poppy; the company van hasn’t moved since yesterday, and Jacintha has discovered that Poppy did not go to the flower market this morning. She ascertained this fact by speaking to a couple of the people she knows there who were, indeed, surprised to not see Poppy there today – of all days – it being one of their busiest of the year, due to the fact most florists see an increase in business of around five hundred percent for Mothering Sunday floral purchases.’

  Another check, more nodding heads.

  ‘Poppy had a sum of ten thousand pounds when she left the shop yesterday, in cash. This is not the largest sum she’s ever been trusted with. There have been no problems before. Jacintha is absolutely convinced Poppy is trustworthy.’

  ‘She kept saying “Poppy’s a good girl”, didn’t she?’ said Annie. ‘Your Grace
says Poppy might have a bit of a weakness for men-friends who aren’t all that pleasant.’ Mavis could tell Annie was hunting for all the right words. ‘Jacintha doesn’t know who Poppy was meeting for a drink. Could that be something, do we think?’

  ‘I know you’ll think I’m a mother blind to her daughter’s imperfections,’ said Lady Wraysbury, ‘but I don’t believe I am. It’s not easy growing up with money and a title in a society that’s obsessed by both. It’s so easy to get side-tracked, or just coast along for years without doing anything useful at all. I’ve seen it a dozen times in the children of my friends. But, from a young age, Jacintha knew what she wanted to do, and took a great deal of time learning how to do it, and become good at it. She has some wonderful contracts, and her floral designs have won awards. JWF is the shop at which most of London’s better people choose to purchase the flowers they want to give to loved ones. She’s doing well for herself, and I’m terribly proud of her. But she’s never been the best at judging people, and she’s always had a weakness for “strays”. I’m hoping this girl Poppy hasn’t taken her in.’

  Mavis understood what Lady Agatha meant. ‘I have two boys myself,’ she said, ‘and I love them, true enough, but I could run off a list as long as my arm of the things they’re no good at. However, that doesn’t mean I can’t be surprised by them, sometimes.’

  ‘Jacintha thinks something bad has happened to Poppy,’ said Christine. ‘I say we give Poppy the benefit of the doubt for a while, and do what we can before getting the police involved; once they know about that cash, Poppy’s reputation is in jeopardy. Maybe she’s lying hurt somewhere, doesn’t know who she is for some reason, or can’t speak . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘We should check the hospitals and so forth straight away.’

  ‘Could Jacintha send you the “selfie” she received, Christine, and you forward it to us all?’ asked Carol. ‘I’ll dig up contact info for all the hospitals. I’ll get myself back to the office to do it, because I’ll have access to more and better equipment there. Why don’t I get going with that?’

  Everyone agreed, and Mavis said as Carol rose, ‘I think we should all take a taxi back to the office. Christine – would you prefer to come with us, or stay here with your aunt?’

  Lady Wraysbury answered. ‘You go, Christine. I’m worried about Jacintha, of course, but more about how she’s going to manage on such a busy day when she doesn’t have anyone to help her, than about the money; it’s a large amount, certainly, but we can help her with that. What I cannot do is find her an experienced florist at short notice, nor – apparently – a way to replace the stock she needed for today. I believe she’s begging all she can get from her contacts at the market, and they’re helping her out by delivering what they have left that she can use. Poor girl; if I had any ability in the flower-arranging department myself I’d lend a hand, but I have . . . oh my dear me! Why did I not think of that?’ Lady Agatha shooed the women of the WISE Enquiries Agency out, saying, ‘I have a girl who comes in to do the flowers for us here twice a week. I’ll phone her immediately. Maybe she can lend a hand. You do what you can, and I shall do what I am able. Please keep me informed.’

  Mavis left having developed a liking for the duchess, and also having been pleased to hear the woman’s natural Irish brogue creep through the cracks in her clipped English accent just before they left, when she’d been at her most natural, and excited. A bit like Christine, really. The family connection was clear to see.

  Lady Agatha called, ‘Tell Riordan to hail a cab for you, I’m phoning my girl.’

  Mavis nodded.

  Poppy Brown peeled open her heavy eyelids, and sneezed. Everything around her was dark. She couldn’t move; her hands were tied behind her back, and her ankles were bound. She was lying down, curled up in the fetal position. She tried to extend her body, but her feet and head hit walls. Wriggling around didn’t help; there were four walls very close about her. She tried to sit upright, but there wasn’t enough room. The words ‘Little Ease’ drifted into her consciousness from a history lesson somewhere in her past.

  Gathering her thoughts and limbs about herself she managed, finally, to bring her feet through her arms so that her hands were in front of her body; she silently, and wryly, acknowledged that her years of gymnastics at school were paying off in the most unlikely manner. It was too dark for her to see the hands she held up in front of her eyes, and the cords binding her wrists were so tight she could barely feel her fingertips. She wriggled her fingers, trying to bring some life back to them, and did the same with her toes. Poppy had no idea where she was, or why she was there.

  Finally able to rub her itchy nose, Poppy felt around her wrist-bonds with her tongue. She could make out narrow, flat leather cords that had been wound around and around her wrists and tied with many knots, in several places. She started to pick at a knot with her teeth, tasting the bitterness of the wet leather.

  A slight movement of the air brushed her cheek. She turned her face toward the direction of the faint breeze and sniffed. Someone was frying bacon, somewhere not too far off. The smell set off her saliva glands, which ached as they watered. Poppy realized she was hungry.

  She wondered when she’d last eaten . . . then what day it was, what time it was, and how long she’d been there . . . wherever ‘there’ was.

  And she wondered why whoever had put her in this place hadn’t bothered to do anything to prevent her from shouting out. Her instincts told her not to take advantage of this seeming oversight, but to try to get her hands free, or at least to try to get her eyes to focus on something – anything – to allow her some sense of place.

  She was feeling totally disorientated, and, truth be told, more than a little frightened.

  What the hell was going on?

  As she nibbled at the leather on her wrists, she thought back to the last thing she could remember; it had been Thursday evening, and she’d met her brother Rob at The Hereford Bull on Gloucester Road for a drink and an early meal. He was up from Brighton for a long weekend with his girlfriend Helen, who lived along the road from the pub. Then . . . nothing.

  What had happened to bring her to this place?

  And where was Rob?

  ‘Turn the gas down – you’ll burn it,’ shouted Gary to Natasha.

  ‘Shut your bleedin’ face, or cook it yourself,’ Natasha screamed back.

  ‘I ain’t eating no sandwiches with no burned bacon in ’em,’ shouted Gary toward the kitchen.

  ‘All the more for me then,’ came the reply over the loud sizzling.

  Gary Gilchrist thought about his girlfriend’s response, and decided to take action. He hoisted himself out of his armchair. As he peered into the grimy kitchen he saw Natasha Moon slathering margarine onto slices of thick, white bread. She looked up at him, defiantly, through clouds of greasy blue smoke, and poked out her tongue.

  ‘Tash. You’re bleedin’ burnin’ it, you silly cow. Turn the gas down,’ shouted Gary, but the singer on the radio wailed ever louder as Natasha pushed hard on the volume button, and Gary’s protests were drowned out. He walked away, grumbling to himself.

  If it wasn’t for the fact she was pretty accommodating between the sheets, Tash would have been out long ago, but she served her purpose, he supposed. However, he wondered if she had it in her to stick with him and keep her mouth shut, with what he had planned. She might be a good old party gal, but she’d already kicked up a fuss about trying to feed the girl he’d locked in the coal cellar. Tash knew too much for him to let her out of his sight now, he knew that. Maybe when he’d picked up the ransom money Tash would have to have a little ‘accident’; after all, he’d be able to afford a much better class of bird when he was a millionaire.

  He’d dropped off the ransom note last night. If they followed the instructions they’d be ringing soon. Gary looked at the clock on the mantelpiece – almost ten thirty. He’d better turn the girl’s phone back on again. Not long now, he thought, and he snapped open a can of beer. It fizzed
onto his hand. As he licked it dry, he noticed there was blood under his thumbnail.

  Stupid bugger, fighting like that, he thought. Why hadn’t the big feller just gone quietly? Obviously he should have put more of the stuff in his beer, but how was he to know he’d have the constitution of an ox? If only he’d passed out, like her downstairs, he wouldn’t have had to knock him out the second time, and cut him. And when he’d cut him, he’d bled like a stuck pig. It was all over the inside of the van; he’d probably never get it off. Not that it mattered, of course, ’cos after he’d picked up the three million quid they were going to give him, he’d never need to go near no van ever again.

  As he thought about the money, he wondered if he should have asked for more. The girl’s father had more money than he knew what to do with, so of course he’d pay up. There hadn’t been anything on the telly, so he was pretty sure he’d have kept the coppers out of it, like Gary had told him to in the note.

  Yes, by this time tomorrow he’d be three million quid better off, and set for life. He’d be able to get out of this dump and travel the world in fine style. All he had to do was pick up the money and he’d be on Easy Street. He stabbed at the remote control, changing channels blindly, then spotted something that caught his eye.

  ‘Tash, come here!’

  ‘Bleedin’ ’ell, Gary, do you want these sarnies or what? I can’t be doin’ two things at once, can I? What’s up now?’

  ‘Look at this on the telly. Showing off her flower shop, ain’t they? Not ’cos she’s gorn, but ’cos it’s Mothers’ Day coming up. See? Her shop, and a load more of ’em. Waste of money, flowers, right?’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ replied Tash. Gary wondered why she sounded so dreamy when she said it. Silly mare.