Deadhead and Buried

by H. Y. Hanna

  “…aren’t they gorgeous?” Jenny was saying, pointing at the wallets. She looked meaningfully at her companion. “And it’s my favourite flower too: snowdrops—”

  “Snowdrops?” The man pulled a face. “You don’t want to carry something with them on… My nan always told me that snowdrops are bad luck. Mum said she used to pick them every February when she was a little girl, but my nan would never let her bring them into the house. Said they were an omen of death.”

  “Oh, rubbish! That’s just an old superstition,” said Jenny, wrinkling her nose. “Come on, darling… they’re gorgeous and I’d been looking for a new wallet… and it’s nearly my birthday…” she wheedled.

  The man sighed and glanced at the display again, then did a double take. “Bloody hell—is that the price?”

  Jenny pouted. “Are you going to be like Pete was and only ever get me cheap gifts?”

  “No, but I’m not paying two hundred quid for that scrap of leather there either,” said the man firmly. Then he put his arm around a still-pouting Jenny and said, his voice softening, “Listen, I’ll take you out to dinner on Thursday—we’ll go to the most expensive restaurant in Oxford… how about that? We’ll hire a punt and go on the river first—maybe get some strawberries and champagne—then go to dinner after that—”

  “Oh, Tom…” Jenny looked at him reproachfully. “You know Thursday nights I clean that lawyer’s office—I won’t be finished until well after eight.”

  “All right, we’ll skip the punt then. I’ll come and pick you up straight from work—”

  “Straight from work!” Jenny squealed indignantly. “A girl’s got to have time to put her glad rags on!”

  The man put his hands up defensively. “Okay, okay… how about the night after, then? You got a late job then as well?”

  Jenny gave a coy little smile. “No, but if it’s a Friday, then I would expect a lot more than a dinner date… I’d expect a weekend somewhere nice…”

  The man grinned at her and started to say something, then his gaze slid over Jenny’s shoulder, to look Poppy straight in the face.

  His eyes turned suspicious. “Eh! What are you staring at, then?”

  Poppy jumped guiltily. She didn’t realise that she had become so engrossed in eavesdropping, she had completely forgotten to maintain her act of looking in the shop window and had simply been staring at the couple next to her. Mumbling an excuse, she hurried away before Jenny could turn around and see her properly. Not that Pete Sykes’s wife had met her before or would recognise her, but still, Jenny did go into Bunnington from time to time and Poppy didn’t want any awkward scenes.

  She stepped panting out of the Covered Market a few minutes later and paused beside a street sign to catch her breath. Some detective I turned out to be, she thought. And she wasn’t even sure if her attempt at sleuthing had been worth it. Had she actually overheard anything that might be meaningful to the murder investigation? She frowned as she replayed the couple’s conversation in her head. Nothing really… other than the fact that Jenny Sykes seemed to be shockingly blasé about her husband’s recent death. Here she was out with another man, laughing and flirting, and her husband had only been dead a few days. There had been no sign of grief, no horror… Poppy felt quite repelled by the woman’s careless indifference.

  She walked slowly back to the bus station at Gloucester Green, passing the block of units that held Hubert Leach’s property agency. She wondered if she might see her cousin again. There was no sign of him—however, something else caught her eye: the logo on the sign next to “LEACH PROPERTIES LTD.”. She hadn’t noticed it before but now she realised that the logo depicted a dainty white flower with three petals, drooping over shyly. It looked very similar to the designs embroidered on those leather wallets in the Covered Market. It was a snowdrop!

  It seemed an odd choice for a property company logo. Then Poppy remembered her cousin talking about his love of bulbs, especially snowdrops. What was it that Charles Mannering had called him? A “galanthophile”…? Yes, that was it. It’s funny, Poppy mused as she continued walking to the station concourse—you almost expect a big, brash man like Hubert Leach to prefer big, gaudy blooms like gerberas or giant lilies, not an unassuming milky-white flower that could barely hold its head up!

  The trip to Bunnington seemed a lot quicker than on the day she had first arrived, perhaps because the route was more familiar now, and Poppy almost felt a strange sense of homecoming as she walked down the lane to Hollyhock Cottage. As she approached, she was surprised to see a large crowd milling around outside the garden gate. The air was filled by the hubbub of excited conversation.

  “What’s happened?” she asked one of the villagers in the crowd.

  The woman turned a glowing face to her. “They’ve found the murder weapon!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Poppy looked at her in surprise. “In the cottage?” she asked.

  The woman jerked her head towards Bertie’s house. “No, in the garden next door! Can you believe it?”

  Poppy felt her heart give a lurch of dismay. She pushed through the crowd and hurried down the lane to Bertie’s front gate, where the young police constable was now standing guard. She was pleased to see that he was dealing with a particularly persistent journalist and she used the opportunity to slip past him.

  “Hey! Wait, you can’t go in—” he shouted after her.

  “Uh… Inspector Whittaker asked for me,” said Poppy quickly. “I’m the girl who found the body. She wants to ask me some more questions.”

  “But she’s not—”

  “Don’t worry! I know where I’m going.”

  Before he could reply, she gave him a breezy smile and stepped into the garden, shutting the gate behind her. Once inside, she followed the sound of voices around the side of the house and soon came upon a small crowd of people standing by the stone wall that separated this property from her grandmother’s. It was not far from the gap where she had met Bertie yesterday and she saw him now, looking very old and defenceless, surrounded by several police officers. She was surprised to see that Suzanne was nowhere in sight—no wonder the constable at the gate had been confused when she claimed to be meeting the detective inspector!

  Einstein stood beside his master, glaring at the men around them, all his hackles raised. The terrier looked as if he would have liked to fling himself at one of the officers and it was only the taut leash in Bertie’s hands that restrained him.

  “…but I don’t know how that came to be on my property. I assure you, I’d never seen it before,” Bertie was protesting.

  “Well, of course you’d say that,” a man said scornfully. He was the only one dressed in civilian clothes amidst the group of uniformed constables and Poppy guessed that he was a detective—although he looked the very opposite of a “cool, professional investigator”. His tie was askew, his protruding belly hanging over his trouser belt, and his face was drawn back in an unpleasant sneer. Poppy recalled seeing him with Suzanne yesterday—she’d heard him being addressed as “sergeant”—and it was obvious that he was enjoying being “top dog” while his boss was not around.

  “You might be able to lie to others but you can’t lie to me, old man,” said the sergeant. “I’ve got the knack of reading people, see? And I can tell that you’re lying.”

  “But you just said I can’t lie to you so how can I be lying?” said Bertie, looking confused.

  The sergeant flushed. “Don’t mix up my words!” he snapped. “Now, I’m asking you again—how does a bloodstained spade end up in your garden?”

  Bertie frowned thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t know… It could have arrived here in any manner. There are an infinite number of possibilities, you know, if you really want to calculate all the potential pathways—and then if you believe in the Multiverse Theory, there are all the parallel universes to consider too and—”

  “Shut up! I didn’t ask you about sodding parallel universes—I asked you about here! Now!
” The sergeant jabbed a finger at the ground beneath his feet. “You’d better have a good explanation for why the murder weapon was found in your garden—”

  “Sir…” one of the uniformed constables interrupted, looking uncomfortable. “Sir, we’re not sure yet that it’s the murder weapon. Forensics haven’t tested—

  “Of course it’s the bloody murder weapon!” he snarled. “It’s got blood stains on it, hasn’t it?” He turned back to Bertie and wagged a finger in the old man’s face. “I know you did it and I don’t need some stupid tests to prove it.” He smirked. “Can’t wait to see the guv’nor’s face when she gets back and I tell her I’ve nicked the murderer already—

  “Wait—you’ve got it all wrong!” Poppy cried, darting forwards.

  The sergeant swung around. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “I’m… I’m the girl who found the body,” she said. “And I think you’re making a terrible mistake. I mean, anyone could have tossed the spade over the wall, from the cottage garden. It has nothing to do with Bertie— with Dr Noble, I mean.”

  The sergeant scowled at her. “The weapon was found in his garden, there is a gaping hole in the wall between the two properties, and he has no alibi for the night of the murder… don’t tell me that doesn’t look suspicious?”

  “Well, yes, it does, but… but it could just be circumstantial evidence. Honestly, he isn’t the murderer. He’s just a normal resident of the village—” Poppy glanced at Bertie and noticed for the first time that the old man was wearing a white lab coat over a cooking apron, and had swimming goggles on his head. She cleared her throat, “—um… who has an unusual wardrobe. But he wouldn’t hurt anyone, much less murder them. Look—if he had really murdered Pete Sykes, surely he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave a bloodstained spade lying around in his own garden?” she pointed out.

  The sergeant flushed angrily. “That’s… that’s just random speculation,” he blustered. “I deal in facts and the facts point to Dr Noble being the murderer.”

  “But they don’t! They don’t have to point to anything!” Poppy burst out, losing her patience. “Where is Inspector Whittaker? Have you spoken to her since finding the spade?”

  “She’s been called to another case. I’m Detective Sergeant Lee—I’m in charge here now,” he said, jutting his chin out. “And I don’t need you sticking your nose in and questioning my judgement!” Pointedly, he turned his back on her and said to Bertie, “Come on—you’re coming down to the station with me.”

  “Oh!” Bertie jerked back, looking alarmed. “I must get back—” He turned and started trotting towards the house.

  “The suspect is getting away!” yelled the sergeant, obviously thinking he was in an American cop show. “Quick! Stop him!”

  Two officers hesitated for a moment, then hurried after Bertie, trying to reach out and grab the old man. It was hard to do, though, with Einstein running in circles around his master, barking and growling and his leash tangling in everyone’s legs. One constable tripped and fell on his bottom, whilst the other hopped from foot to foot, trying to avoid the terrier’s teeth on his ankles.

  The whole thing looked more like a comic farce than a dangerous arrest and Poppy saw Sergeant Lee scowling furiously. He stalked over himself and grabbed Bertie’s elbow roughly. Poppy gasped as she saw him aim a kick at Einstein—although thankfully, the little terrier’s reflexes were quick and he easily dodged the vicious foot.

  Bertie struggled to pull his elbow free. “Let me go! I must get back in the house—”

  “Hah! You think I don’t realise your ploy to escape?” said Lee. “Think you can sneak out of a window on the other side of the house and go on the run?”

  Bertie looked at him in astonishment. “On the run? Why would I want to go on the run? No, no, I need to get back in the house because I’ve left the rice pudding in the oven and if I don’t take it out before we go to the police station, it will burn terribly. It’s so hard to achieve that perfect caramelised skin on top of the rice, don’t you think?”

  “Wh-what? Rice pudding?” spluttered Lee, going very red in the face. “Are you trying to take the piss?”

  Bertie looked affronted. “Certainly not. I would never urinate here in the garden—how uncouth. I always use the indoors lavatory.” Then he brightened. “Oh! Would you or one of the other officers like to use the toilet? I’m looking for some test subjects for my new Loo Blaster.” At the looks of bewilderment from the other police officers, he added proudly, “It’s a new toilet brush gun I’ve invented, with ejectable heads.”

  Sergeant Lee’s chest heaved and veins stood out on his forehead. He spluttered ineffectually, looking totally at loss for words. Finally, he took a deep breath and said through gritted teeth, “Just… go and sort out your bloody rice pudding… and get back here.”

  Bertie trotted off, Einstein at his heels, and returned a few moments later, minus his goggles but now carrying a battered leather suitcase and an umbrella.

  “Always be prepared—you never know when it’s going to rain in England,” he told Poppy cheerfully. Then he handed her the leash. “Would you do me a favour, my dear, and look after Einstein for me? I don’t think they allow dogs at the police station and I wouldn’t like to leave him tied up outside on the street.”

  “Oh, of course, but Bertie, listen…” Poppy put an urgent hand on his arm. “You know you don’t have to answer any questions until you’ve spoken to your lawyer? Do you have a lawyer, don’t you?”

  Sergeant Lee made an angry movement. “You keep out of it!” he snarled at Poppy. “Don’t go giving him any ideas!”

  Bertie patted her hand. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’m sure it’s just a mix-up, that’s all. And in fact, this is a marvellous opportunity to test my new Laughing Gas Air Freshener! It not only freshens the air, you see, but also injects some much-needed cheer and humour into the workplace.” He patted his suitcase. “I’ve got the cannisters here and I just need a group of men and women in an enclosed space… so the police station should be perfect!”

  “Er… Bertie, maybe that’s not such a great idea…”

  Before she would say more, Sergeant Lee grabbed the old man’s arm and began stalking towards the front gate, hauling Bertie after him. The other police officers, looking a bit shamefaced, trooped after the sergeant. Einstein gave a forlorn whine as he watched his master disappear from sight.

  Poppy reached down to give the little terrier a reassuring pat. “It’s all right… he’ll be back soon,” she said, with more conviction than she felt. Giving the leash a gentle tug, she started to lead the dog out of the garden as well. He resisted for a moment, then trotted uncertainly after her.

  The police cars had left and the crowd was thinning out now. Poppy led the terrier up the lane, past the cottage garden, and back to Nick’s place. She hesitated on the threshold—this wasn’t really her house and she hadn’t got Nick’s permission to bring a strange dog into his home—but the only other option was to tie the terrier up outside and she didn’t have the heart to do that.

  Anyway, it’s just for a few hours, she thought. I’m sure Bertie will be released soon. And even if they keep him overnight, surely he’ll be released tomorrow? Whatever Sergeant Lee says, they have no concrete evidence showing him to be the murderer, so surely they can’t keep detaining him? And Nick was away for a few more days still, she remembered. By the time he returned, Einstein would be back in his own home, so Nick need never know.

  So salving her conscience, she unlocked the front door and led the terrier into the house, releasing him from his leash. They hadn’t gone two steps down the hallway, however, when she heard a ferocious hiss followed by an outraged yowl. Uh-oh. Nick might have been gone, but she’d forgotten that there was another resident here—one who did mind the presence of a strange dog in the house very much.

  “H-OW? H-OOOW?” demanded Oren, stalking forwards, his eyes narrowed to slits and all his fur standing on end.

 
; Einstein stiffened on seeing his old enemy and lifted his lips to show his teeth. He let out a loud growl which was undoubtedly the canine equivalent of “Go stuff yourself!”

  Oren hissed at the insult and spat furiously, sending back a few choice words of his own. The terrier bristled and returned with a volley of barking, which had the cat puffing up even more.

  “N-now, now… there’s no need for this,” said Poppy, putting out her hands. “Why don’t we just… uh… calm down and try to make friends, eh?”

  Oren shot her a contemptuous look which clearly told her what he thought of that idea, whilst Einstein kicked back with his hind legs a few times, his head lowered, looking as if he planned to charge the cat. Poppy grabbed his collar and, holding on tightly, she dragged him sideways into the first doorway she could see, slamming the door shut after them. In the hallway outside, she heard Oren give another furious yowl—obviously making sure that a cat always got the last word—then subside into silence.

  She straightened with a sigh and realised that they were in the sitting room. Well, Einstein could simply stay here until his owner got back to claim him. It was a large comfortable room, with direct access to the garden through the French doors, and soft carpet for the terrier to lie on. She glanced at the bookcases lining the walls and decided she would keep Einstein company by spending the afternoon here—it was a great excuse to curl up and read.

  Her growling stomach reminded her, though, that she hadn’t had any lunch yet and it was already mid-afternoon. Slipping back out into the hallway, she found Oren sitting outside, twitching his tail and staring fixedly at the closed sitting room door. He gave her a reproachful look as she bent to pat him, and she said:

  “Don’t worry, Oren—Einstein’s not staying. He’ll be going back to his own home.”

  “N-ow!”

  She laughed. “No, I can’t take him back now. He’s got to stay here until his owner gets back, but it should just be for a few hours, okay?”