by H. Y. Hanna
Mannering compressed his lips, then took a deep breath and said, “If you’ll follow me…”
Pivoting on his heel, he walked stiffly out of the foyer. Hubert started to follow, then turned to Poppy and made a sweeping bow.
“Ladies first.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Poppy half expected Hubert to start giving her a sales pitch as soon as they sat down at the table, but to her relief, the man seemed to be telling the truth when he said that he was starving. He focused most of his attention on the food, and he wasn’t shy about asking for second helpings, or badgering Mannering to open one of his best bottles of wine. Poppy could see the elderly lawyer struggling to maintain a civil demeanour.
“Mm… mmm…” said Hubert, guzzling the glass noisily. “This is fantastic plonk, Charles! Never realised you kept such a good cellar. Should pop by more often, eh?” He laughed and raised his glass in a mock toast.
Feeling sorry for Mannering and hoping to give him a bit of respite from Hubert’s attentions, Poppy said: “So you live in Oxford, Mr… sorry, I don’t know your last name?”
“It’s Leach, but you can call me Hubert. After all, we’re second cousins, did you know that?” He grinned and gave her a lewd wink. “Close enough to be kissing cousins but far enough for the kissing to be legal, eh?”
Poppy recoiled in distaste. “I didn’t realise I had other family here.”
“My mother and your grandmother were first cousins. So I’m her cousin once removed. And to answer your question, yes, I live in Oxford. Got an office there too. Real estate. Specialising in new housing projects and developments.”
Charles Mannering cleared his throat. “It was Hubert who first approached me and told me that Hollyhock Cottage would be a prime site for redevelopment. In fact, I believe he may have been a bit rash and already negotiated a deal with the developer months ago, on the assumption that he would have the property to sell,” he added tartly.
The other man flushed. “Yes, well… it was a fair assumption, considering that I thought I was going to inherit the estate.” He shot Poppy a sour look and added bitterly, “I was Mary Lancaster’s only living relative and her previous will left everything to me. How was I to know that there would suddenly be a new will leaving everything to her ‘long-lost grandchild’?”
Poppy looked down, feeling guilty even though she knew she had no reason to.
“I suppose you’ve checked her credentials and everything?” Hubert said to Mannering, only half joking.
The lawyer looked outraged. “I beg your pardon!” he said icily.
Hubert laughed, unabashed, and put his hands up in a defensive gesture. “Hey, no harm in asking. I mean, when a new will suddenly appears out of nowhere, you’ve gotta wonder, eh? How do I know it’s legitimate?”
“I assure you, the new will was thoroughly vetted and is completely legitimate,” said Mannering through gritted teeth. “It was signed by Mary Lancaster, in the presence of two witnesses.”
“Yeah, and one of those was Pete Sykes. We all know how trustworthy he was,” said Hubert sarcastically.
Poppy’s ears pricked up. Her grandmother’s last will had been witnessed by Pete Sykes, the man who had been murdered… was that a coincidence?
Mannering looked like he had reached the end of his tether. Raising his voice, he said curtly, “Mr Leach, if you have any issue with Mary Lancaster’s final will, I suggest that you take it up formally in a court of law. But I warn you, it can be a lengthy and expensive process to contest a will, so you would be well advised to ensure that you have the grounds to do so first.”
Hubert scowled. A long, strained silence descended on the dining table. At last, trying to ease the tension, Poppy asked:
“Um… do you garden, Hubert?”
“Oh yeah, when I have the time.”
“What sort of plants do you grow?”
“Oh, the usual stuff—and bulbs. Really into bulbs.”
“Bulbs?” Poppy looked confused.
“Yeah, you know—daffodils, tulips, freesias, crocuses, anemones… and snowdrops. Especially snowdrops. Love ’em.”
“Hmm… I tried some snowdrops in a pot last year, but I must say, they were quite disappointing,” said Mannering, thawing enough to join in the conversation again.
“Yeah, they don’t like pots, snowdrops,” said Hubert with authority. “Prefer to naturalise in the ground proper. But you can dig ’em up ‘in the green’ and move ’em around after they’ve finished flowering, so they’re actually a lot easier to manage than other bulbs.”
“You seem to know a fair bit about them,” Mannering commented, looking at the other man with new respect. “You must grow a lot of them?”
Hubert grinned. “Yeah, every variety I can find. There’s very little I won’t do to get my hands on some of the small white stuff.”
“Small white stuff?” said Poppy, startled.
“Good God, you’re not one of those galanthophiles, are you?” said Mannering.
Hubert gave a sheepish laugh. “Yeah, guilty as charged. Bank manager was gobsmacked last time he called to check an unusually large withdrawal and I told him it was to buy a Galanthus plicatus.”
Mannering turned to Poppy, who was still looking blank, and explained, “‘Galanthophile’ is the name given to people who are fanatical snowdrop collectors.” He shook his head. “Although I have to say, even as a keen gardener myself, I really cannot understand the hobby. They charge up and down the country in freezing winter every January and February, hunting for new varieties and paying hundreds of pounds to get their hands on something that looks, frankly, just like any other snowdrop.”
“Hey, that’s not true,” protested Hubert. “There are important subtle differences—you just can’t see ’em. Besides, I’ll bet you spent a fair whack on that conservatory of yours,” he added with a knowing wink.
Mannering gave a dry laugh. “Well, yes, you’re right… guilty as charged as well. It is wonderful to have somewhere to grow the nonhardy varieties, though, and not have to worry about moving plants when the temperatures drop…”
The two men plunged into a discussion about different methods of overwintering plants and, as she watched, Poppy was amazed to see how the topic of gardening seemed to have acted as a neutraliser and even a sort of bridge between them. By the time the meal ended, Hubert and Mannering were back on friendly terms. Still, Poppy was glad when her cousin took his leave at last. She herself didn’t stay much longer afterwards either. It had been a long day and she was suddenly keen to get to bed. Charles Mannering offered to walk her back, but Poppy waved him off, saying that it was only a short stroll across the village.
As she as stepping out the front door, Poppy thought of Bertie and wondered if she should tell Mannering about him. But for some reason, she felt reluctant to speak. Despite the furtive behaviour she had observed and the mysterious bundle he had been carrying, she didn’t believe the old inventor to be dangerous. In fact, he seemed like nothing more than a lonely old man with no one but his little terrier for company, and she didn’t want to bring suspicion and trouble on his head. So she simply bade Mannering goodnight and headed out into the night.
The house was still dark and Nick wasn’t home yet when Poppy got back. She let herself in and walked down the darkened hallway to her room. When she got there, however, she discovered that while Nell’s fears about the crime writer’s desire to get into her bed might have been unfounded, the same couldn’t be said about his cat. The ginger tom lay sprawled across the pillows and regarded her with lazy yellow eyes as she came into the room.
“Oren—what are you doing here?” said Poppy with a sigh.
He yawned widely and stretched out his front legs, flexing his claws.
Poppy reached out and gently tried to shift the cat. “Come on…you can’t sleep on my bed. You’ve got to go.”
“N-ow…?” said Oren.
He rolled onto his back, exposing his white-furred belly, and til
ted his head, looking up at her mischievously. Poppy laughed in spite of herself. Like his owner, Oren could switch on the charm when he chose to. Now, he batted her hand playfully with one velvety paw and purred in a persuasive manner.
“Oh… all right, you can stay for a bit,” said Poppy. “Just until I get undressed and clean my teeth.”
But when she was ready to climb into bed a few minutes later, she couldn’t bring herself to push him off. He looked so comfortable stretched out on the blankets.
He can stay a bit longer, just while I’m reading, she told herself, curling up against the pillows with one of her grandmother’s plant books. But that’s it. After that, I’m picking him up and chucking him out…
The next thing she knew, it was morning. Poppy sat up, yawning, then frowned as she felt a heavy weight across her ankles. She rubbed her eyes and gave a groan as she saw who was draped over her legs: a sleek ginger tom, fast asleep with a self-satisfied look on his face. She looked around and found the heavy hardback plant encyclopaedia open on the bed next to her, and the bedside lamp still on. In fact, her pillows were still propped up against the headboard and she had a slight crick in her neck from sleeping in a funny position. She must have nodded off while reading, she realised. Yawning again, she struggled to free her legs from the tangle of cat and blankets, and get out of bed.
Oren meowed indignantly as he was jostled awake. He stood up and arched his back in a perfect cat stretch, then jumped off the bed and stalked to the bedroom door, where he sat down and looked expectantly back at her.
“Uh-uh… first you take over my bed and now you expect me to be your personal butler?” said Poppy.
“N-ow…” said Oren, pawing the door.
Aarrgghh. She was beginning to sympathise with Nick’s exasperation with the demanding feline. Still, she did need the bathroom so she might as well let the cat out too. Opening the door, she peeked out into the hallway. All seemed clear. Poppy scooted to the bathroom and re-emerged a few minutes later feeling more awake, having splashed some water on her face. But she hesitated as she was about to return to the bedroom and paused, listening, instead. The house seemed quiet. Nick must have got back very late last night and was probably still asleep. She was dying for a cup of coffee and it would probably be safe to slip to the kitchen to make a mug and bring it back to bed.
It took her a few minutes to explore the gleaming kitchen and she tiptoed around, opening cupboard doors and drawers as quietly as she could. There was a monster of a coffee machine in one corner—fancy enough to rival anything in a professional espresso bar—but she eschewed that, fearful that it would make too much noise. Instead, she hunted around until she found a jar of instant coffee, some milk, and a mug, and set about making herself a hot drink. She was just tiptoeing across the kitchen, intent on filling the kettle at the sink, when a deep voice sounded behind her:
“Good morning.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Poppy yelped and whirled around, to find Nick Forrest leaning against the doorjamb, regarding her with amusement. He had a steaming mug in one hand and a whiteboard marker in the other, and Poppy noticed ink marks all over his fingers.
“Oh, you’re up!” said Poppy.
She was irritated to find that he looked bright-eyed and cheery, with his jaw freshly shaven and even his normally unruly hair seemingly tamed. In contrast, she was very conscious of how she must look, with sleepy eyes, serious “bed hair” and bare feet, and dressed in nothing but an oversized sleep T-shirt. It made her feel vulnerable and at a disadvantage, and she didn’t like it.
“I thought you’d still be asleep after the late night out,” she said, almost accusingly.
He didn’t react to her tone, saying mildly, “No, I went to bed, but then I suddenly thought of a possible solution for my plot hole, so I went back to my study. I’ve been at it for a few hours but I think I may have finally worked it out.”
“You mean… you’ve been up all night writing?” she said incredulously.
“Yes, just about. I stopped about an hour ago and thought about going back to bed, but the sun was already coming up so I just had a shower instead.”
It’s no wonder he’s always so crabby, if he stays up half the night writing, thought Poppy. She’d be in a bad mood all the time too if she was always sleep-deprived. Writers were odd creatures. She couldn’t imagine giving up a night of sleep, just to finish writing a story.
“So you figured your whole plot out?”
“Not completely—I still have to work out some details—but the general concept should work.” He smiled, looking pleased, and again Poppy was struck by how his saturnine features changed when they were alight with good humour.
Nick indicated the coffee machine. “Fancy a cup?”
“Oh, no, don’t bother—I’m more than happy to have instant—”
“It’s no bother, otherwise I wouldn’t ask. I’m making another cup for myself as well.”
“Oh… in that case…”
A short while later, Poppy followed Nick out of the kitchen, carrying a steaming mug of her own. The aroma of fresh coffee was wonderful and all she wanted to do was go back to her room and curl up in bed with her flower book again. But after Nick’s pleasant manner and efforts in making her the coffee, she felt rude just abandoning him. So she followed him politely as he led her to a room at the end of the hallway, overlooking the back of the property.
She stopped short as she stepped in and looked around with a mixture of incredulity and awe. She had never seen any place in such a mess. Books were stacked haphazardly in every available space—strewn across the desk, teetering atop cabinets, ranked along the windowsill, and even piled high in the single armchair which faced the desk. Any place not occupied by books seemed to be filled with papers: Post-it Notes and scribbled scraps of paper, newspaper cuttings and torn magazine pages, brochures, leaflets, cards, napkins with doodles… and along one wall was an enormous whiteboard on which Poppy could see a diagram that looked a bit like a spider’s web, with names and places all connected by various arrows.
“Uh… have a seat…” said Nick, looking distractedly around and running a hand through his hair.
Poppy wanted to say “Where?” but bit her tongue and instead perched on the arm of the armchair. Nick climbed over a large antique globe, tripped over a tangle of computer cables, and finally rounded the side of his desk, to sink into a large leather chair behind it. Poppy noticed for the first time that there was a laptop open on the desk, half buried under mountains of books.
“Do you do all your writing in here?” she asked, glancing at the chaos around them.
“Most of it. Sometimes I go out on the terrace for a change of scene… but if I stay here, at least I only have to search one room when I’m looking for my research notes and other material.” He made a face. “Blasted things—never there when you need them.”
“You know…. It would probably be easier to find things if you cleared the floor a bit and sorted out all these papers and put books back onto the shelves. I’d be happy to help you,” Poppy offered. “It would be a small thank you in return for letting me stay here.”
Nick scowled. “You sound like my housekeeper. She’s always trying to clear this room out. No, don’t touch anything—I know where everything is. I have a system.”
Poppy glanced around once more. Some system. She saw Nick scowl again, as if reading her thoughts, and hastily pointed to the diagram on the whiteboard, saying:
“What’s that?”
Nick leaned back to look at the far wall. “Oh, that’s my character map. The relationships between the characters in my novels can be quite complex sometimes and this helps me keep everything straight, as well as work out their flaws, needs, and motivations.”
Poppy got up for a closer look. “Do all authors use character maps like this?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I started doing it, actually, as a relic from my CID days of putting information up in link ch
arts in the incident room, and I guess it’s stuck.”
Poppy swung around in surprise. “CID? You were in the Force?”
He grinned. “For my sins. Got to the rank of Detective Sergeant before I landed my first book deal and the rest, as they say, is history.”
Poppy wondered if that was where he had met Suzanne Whittaker. “I suppose your background and experience comes in really useful in your writing,” she commented.
“Yeah, they do say ‘write what you know’ and it helps when you’ve had first-hand experience of murder investigations and criminals.”
“Don’t you miss doing it for real, though, as opposed to writing about it?”
“Sometimes. But the thing is, fictional detective work is much more fun… sadly.” At Poppy’s puzzled expression, he explained, “What I mean is, investigating a case in real life is often just a boring slog of paperwork, tedious interviews, lack of leads, missing murder weapons, and barely half a decent suspect… whereas in books, you can have all the brilliant deductions, the convenient clues that tell you exactly who the murderer is—and the case is all wrapped up in just a few days, even by amateur sleuths!
“Plus you can use all sorts of unorthodox methods to investigate suspects too,” he added. “Suzanne is always reading my manuscripts and shaking her head at the things my detective gets up to. She keeps insisting that he’d never be able to do those things in real life, but the point is, in my books, I am God and rules can be easily broken.”
“What sort of things?” asked Poppy, intrigued.
“Oh, things like searching a house without a warrant, ‘borrowing’ evidence from Forensics to show witnesses, taping an interview without informing the suspect…”
“But… that’s all unethical,” said Poppy, slightly appalled.
Nick shrugged. “It gets results, though. Sometimes the ends justify the means.”
“I’m surprised Suzanne lets you near any investigation now,” said Poppy. “Who knows what you might do, just because you want to research something for your latest novel.”