by H. Y. Hanna
Whirling, she rushed back into the cottage and hurried into the bedroom, where she rummaged around for her phone. Where had she put it? She was sure she had left it on the table by the bed… She’d sent Nell a quick text message before going to bed the night before—perhaps she had put it automatically back in her handbag without thinking? Yes. She found the phone in the depths of her handbag, but when she pulled it out, her face fell in dismay. It seemed to be completely dead. She shook it and jabbed the power button several times, but it remained unresponsive, the screen blank.
Poppy sighed. The phone was several years old—this model wasn’t even available on the market anymore—and its battery had been playing up for months now, often discharging suddenly for no reason. She desperately needed to upgrade but a new phone was something she just couldn’t afford at the moment.
Now she cursed under her breath and stood undecided in the middle of the bedroom. The cottage had no phone—she’d checked yesterday—so the only option was to go next door and ask Nick Forrest for the use of his. She hated the thought of having to ask him for anything, but there was no other choice. Gritting her teeth, she left the cottage and walked next door. She had barely climbed the front steps, however, when she bumped into Nick coming in out of his house. Making an effort to keep her voice neutral, she said:
“Uh… look, I really think we need to call the police first. I was wondering if I might borrow your phone—the battery on mine is dead—or maybe you’d like to call them yourself—”
“The police are on their way.”
Poppy gaped at him. “Huh?”
“The police. They should be here in a few minutes.”
“Oh.” Poppy felt slightly mollified. “Oh… okay. Thanks for calling them. I suppose we ought to go back and wait by the body—”
“Did you touch anything?”
“No. Well, other than last night… I think I might have brushed against it by mistake.” Poppy shuddered at the memory. At Nick’s quizzical look, she told him what had happened, adding excitedly, “Your cat… now that I think about it… I think he was trying to tell me about the body! He kept meowing at me and trying to get me to go out into the back garden…”
Nick shrugged. “Perhaps. Humans have a tendency to anthropomorphise everything, though.”
Poppy bristled. “I wasn’t imagining it. Cats are supposed to be very clever—”
“Oh, I’m not doubting his intelligence,” said Nick in a dry voice.
Poppy wondered if he was implying that he was doubting hers, and she bristled even more. “Well, I’m telling you, if it wasn’t for your cat, I wouldn’t have found the body. I would never have even known that it was there!”
“Why are you at the cottage anyway?”
“Oh… It’s mine. I mean, I’ve inherited it. My name is Poppy Lancaster. I’m Mary Lancaster’s granddaughter.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t know Mary had a grandchild.”
Poppy tried not to sound defensive. “My mother was… er… estranged from her family so I never met my grandmother when she was alive.”
His voice softened slightly. “I’m sorry… I just never heard Mary talk about a granddaughter—or even a daughter.”
“Did you know her very well?”
He shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose.”
“What was she like?”
Nick chuckled. “Difficult. Very stern, very proud. She didn’t suffer fools gladly. She would have made a great character for a book,” he added enthusiastically. “I often thought of creating a character inspired by her. In real life, though, I think her manner put a lot of people off—if it wasn’t for the fact that she grew such fantastic plants, she’d probably have had no customers!”
“Oh…” Poppy digested this. “Did my grandfather run the nursery as well?”
He shook his head. “I never met him. I only bought this house about ten years ago. Your grandmother was widowed very young, I believe, and brought up your mother alone. She must have had a pretty tough life—it wouldn’t have been easy for a woman to be a single mother in those days.”
Especially with a daughter as wild and rebellious as Holly Lancaster had been, thought Poppy. Although she was still hurt and angry that Mary Lancaster had never made any effort at reconciliation, she began to think more charitably of the woman who had been her grandmother.
As if reading her thoughts, Nick Forrest added, “She could be very prickly and she was too proud and stubborn for her own good, but she was a good woman, Mary Lancaster. She always donated plants to welfare societies to help raise funds for charitable causes, and also often gave seedlings away for free to people on limited income. She was very generous to me too: she knew that visiting her garden always helped me a lot, especially when I’m wrestling with writer’s block.” He chuckled. “Something about the natural, unrestrained style of a cottage garden, I think. It seems to encourage creativity. Anyway, she invited me to go over any time I liked.”
“Oh… is that why you were there so early this morning?” asked Poppy.
“Yes, I’ve hit a snag in the plot and it’s been driving me crazy. I was working on it until late last night, then woke up early this morning and couldn’t sleep. I thought a walk there might help to clear my head.”
He hesitated, then cleared his throat and added gruffly, “I’m sorry if I was a bit brusque with you last night. You came over just when I was deep in a scene that I’ve had to rewrite several times already. I’m… er… not in the best of moods when I’m writing, especially if things are not going well.”
Bloody hell, you could say that again, thought Poppy. A T-Rex with a sore head would have seemed friendly compared to him last night. Still, she acknowledged the apology and said dryly, “I’m beginning to see why you liked my grandmother. You seem to be kindred antisocial souls.”
He tossed his head back and laughed, and Poppy was surprised by the change in him—with the brooding expression gone and his dark eyes alight with humour, he radiated unexpected charm.
Nick grinned. “Yes, we understood each other. We both liked our solitude and just wanted people to leave us in peace—her to her plants and me to my writing.”
Poppy started to answer but was interrupted by the sound of an engine. She turned to look out at the lane, expecting to see police cars, but instead she saw a sleek grey Audi pull up in front of the house. An elegant, dark-haired woman emerged and came swiftly through the iron gate and up the front steps to join them. It was the lady she had seen with Nick last night.
She smiled at Poppy and held a hand out. “I’m Detective Inspector Suzanne Whittaker. I believe you found the body? I’d appreciate it if I could ask you a few questions.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“…and can you remember what time you arrived at the cottage yesterday?”
Poppy frowned and shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t remember exactly. I caught the two-thirty bus from Oxford and it stopped at a lot of places. It was definitely mid- to late afternoon. Maybe three-thirty… four o’clock… thereabouts?”
“And you saw nothing unusual when you first arrived?”
“No… but I don’t know if I would have noticed if something was ‘unusual’. This is the first time I’ve visited so I don’t know what the cottage normally looks like. There weren’t any smashed windows or broken locks, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Suzanne Whittaker flashed her an appreciative look. “Yes, that is what I was getting at.” She glanced down at her notes. “But you said later you did see a man trying to break in?”
“Yes, that was probably around an hour after I’d arrived. I was out the back, by the cutting flowerbed, and I heard the sound of breaking glass at the front, so I came around the front to investigate. He was standing by one of the windows and he had a sort of chisel-thing in his hand. He looked like he was trying to force the window open.”
“Did you get a look at his face? Would you be able to identify him again?”
Poppy h
esitated. “I… I’m not sure. He ran as soon as he saw me. I did catch a glimpse of his face and I think I would recognise him again, but… well, it was such a brief look, I can’t be certain.” She paused, then asked: “Do you think maybe that’s what happened? Maybe Pete Sykes interrupted someone else trying to break in and got in a fight with them?”
Suzanne shook her head. “It’s too soon to draw any conclusions, really. However, it seems likely that Sykes was struck on the head by a heavy tool—perhaps one of the large spades or garden forks in the greenhouse at the back of the cottage. So if you’re telling me that the house was all locked up, with no signs of a break-in, then perhaps the murder weapon came from somewhere else.”
“Or the murderer had the keys to the cottage!” said Poppy excitedly. “I just remembered something! When I went to Oxford yesterday to pick up the keys from the lawyer’s office, the secretary couldn’t find them. She had to give me the spare set from the office safe.”
“Really?” Suzanne perked up. “That’s very interesting. I’d been planning to speak to Charles Mannering shortly. As executor of the estate, he will have dealt with Pete Sykes and I was hoping he could give me more information about the dead man. I will certainly bring this up with him.”
They were standing together beside the garden gate, and now Suzanne glanced towards the cottage and the back of the property. The cutting flowerbed was hidden from view by the building of the cottage itself, but Poppy could see part of the rear garden and several men in white overalls busily walking about.
Suzanne followed her gaze and said: “We’ll know more once the forensics team have had a chance to process the crime scene. They will probably test each of the tools in the greenhouse for traces of human hair or tissue.”
Poppy grimaced and marvelled at how Suzanne—like Nick Forrest—seemed able to talk so coolly about such gruesome details. Well, perhaps it was not surprising. As a member of the CID, Suzanne probably spent her days immersed in rapes, murders, and other serious crimes.
“Are you staying at the cottage?” Suzanne asked. “I understand that you own it now.”
“Well…” Poppy hesitated. “Yes, sort of, although I had originally been planning to head back to London today. My things are still there, you see. I’d only meant to stay one night at first, just to see what it was like.”
“I’d be obliged if you could remain in Oxfordshire for the next few days at least,” said Suzanne. “Do you have any friends or family nearby? Somewhere where you can stay for a while? I’m afraid you can’t stay in the cottage while it’s still a designated crime scene.”
Poppy shook her head. “I don’t know anyone hereabouts. I’d have to go to a hotel and the expense—”
Suzanne snapped her fingers. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll ask Nick if you can stay in one of his spare rooms. That way, you’re just next door and can return easily to the cottage as soon as we’re done.”
“Oh no, I don’t think—”
“I’m sure he won’t mind. He’s rattling around in that huge house by himself anyway. And he probably won’t even notice that you’re there—he’s in a world of his own when he’s deep in a manuscript,” said Suzanne, chuckling and rolling her eyes. “Give me a moment to speak to the forensics team and then I’ll ring him.”
Poppy started to protest again, but Suzanne had already turned and walked away. She huffed with frustration. Nick Forrest had given a brief statement and left shortly after the police arrived, probably to return to his beloved manuscript. The last thing she wanted to do was impose on his solitude and she hated the thought of having to beg him for any kind of favour.
Still… Poppy’s practical side asserted itself: she had to admit that it made sense and would save money. If she insisted on returning to London each night, there would be the costs of the train tickets, not to mention the hassle and time spent going back and forth, and the only other option was to spend the night in a hotel or B&B.
Suzanne took longer than expected briefing the rest of her team, and Poppy waited impatiently, conscious of a nagging hollow feeling in her stomach. In all the excitement since finding the body, she hadn’t had a chance to think about breakfast and now she realised that she was starving. She hadn’t had anything to eat since the chocolate bar last night and her stomach was protesting loudly.
Finally, Suzanne returned, holding her phone and looking pleased. “I’ve just spoken to Nick and it’s settled. He’s actually going away on a book tour tomorrow so the house will be empty anyway—in fact, you’ll be doing him a favour, if you don’t mind feeding his cat?”
“Oh, of course,” said Poppy.
“Great,” said Suzanne enthusiastically. “He’s out this evening but I’ve got a spare key anyway.” She glanced at her watch, then added, “If you can hang on for a bit, I’ll take you over myself after I finish—”
“Actually… do you mind if I pop into the village to get some food first?” Poppy gave her a sheepish grin. “I haven’t had anything to eat since last night and I’m starving.”
“Oh Lord, yes. I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised the time. Yes, you go and get some lunch. In fact, if you have a word with the landlord at The Lucky Ladybird, he’ll put your meal on the police tab. It’s the least we can do for kicking you out of the cottage,” said Suzanne with a smile.
“Thanks—that’s really kind of you,” said Poppy, pleasantly surprised.
“And take your time, don’t worry about rushing back—I’ll be here…” Suzanne gestured to the back of the cottage.
***
The Lucky Ladybird was the quintessential English country pub and when Poppy arrived, she found the large, timber-framed interior already filled with locals, all buzzing with gossip about the murder. Like many villages, Bunnington had a thriving grapevine and it seemed that the residents already knew as much about the case as the police… probably more!
“…likely to be some kind of gang, I shouldn’t wonder. Pete Sykes always looked like the type who would get mixed up with the wrong sort,” said one middle-aged woman with a knowing look.
“Yes, I always thought so too!” said her friend, not to be outdone. “Came over to help me do some weeding once and kept offering to sell me a bunch of iPhones for cheap. All the latest models too. Where did he get them, I ask you? Wouldn’t give me a straight answer when I asked him. Fell off the back of a lorry, no doubt.”
The third woman at the table shook her head. “I think it was drugs. It’s always drugs. D’you know, I read in the papers that drug dealers even have loyalty cards these days—like your Tesco’s Clubcard—and they give you a free gram of cocaine after five orders... can you believe it?”
A man called out from the counter by the bar: “No, no, no… I’ll tell you who murdered Pete Sykes: his missus, that’s who.”
“His missus?” The three women turned to looked at him sceptically. “What, Jenny Sykes?”
“Aye. Wanted a divorce, didn’t she? But Pete wouldn’t give her one.”
“How d’you know that?” demanded the first woman.
The man smirked “I keep my ears open.”
“But why would she want to leave him?” asked the second woman.
“She was shagging another bloke, what else?”
“Get out! Jenny Sykes? She was Pete’s high school sweetheart, wasn’t she? She’d never even look at another man.”
“That’s not what I heard,” said the man with a smug expression. “I heard that Jenny is a right little tart who—” He broke off suddenly as he noticed Poppy standing near them and turned to her with a wide smile. “Well, hello… hello! Haven’t seen you around the village, miss. You visiting?”
“Er… yes, sort of.” Poppy hesitated, then decided that if she was going to stay at the cottage, even for a little while, she should make some effort to befriend the locals. “I’m staying at Hollyhock Cottage.”
One of the women raised her eyebrows. “You the new owner? Have they sold that place already?”
&nbs
p; “Last I heard, old Mannering had some property developer lined up to bulldoze the place,” her friend added. “Turn it into posh townhouses.”
“Oh no—I heard that he’s trying to sell it as a gardening business,” the third woman said.
Wow, thought Poppy. The village grapevine really is something! Still, she was surprised that they hadn’t guessed who she was. She would have thought the villagers would know all about the unusual terms of Mary’s will and the search for the long-lost granddaughter to take over the family business. Perhaps old Mannering was more discreet than she’d given him credit for.
“No,” she said aloud. “Actually, I’m Mary Lancaster’s granddaughter and I’ve come to stay at the cottage for a while.”
The women all turned and regarded her with bright-eyed interest, and Poppy tried not to squirm under their avid gaze.
“Mary Lancaster’s granddaughter? Well, I never!” said the first woman, her eyes wide.
“I didn’t know she had any family. Well, other than that nephew—you know, the real estate chap. I thought he inherited the place,” said her friend.
The man by the bar counter spoke up again: “I knew she had a daughter… but Mary would never talk about her. What was her name? Harriet? Hayley?”
“Holly,” Poppy supplied. “Yes, she was my mother.”
“Was?” said the first woman sharply.
“She passed away last year. She had breast cancer.”
“Oh no… I’m sorry, luv.”
“How awful! You poor child!”
Poppy was touched by their genuine sympathy. They might have been nosy gossips, but their hearts were in the right place. They fussed over her now, inviting her to sit with them and asking her if she’d had lunch, then calling the pub owner to take her order. By the time the food came, and Poppy was able to tuck into a hearty plate of fish ’n’ chips, she found that the crowd of curious villagers around her had doubled in size. She was pleased to discover, however, that several of the newcomers were from the older generation and that they remembered her mother. She asked eagerly for their recollections, keen to learn more about the early childhood that her mother would never talk about.