Deadhead and Buried

by H. Y. Hanna

  They were all “old” celebrities, of course—many no longer seen or heard of anymore—but that was exactly what Poppy wanted. She was interested in any male rock stars from around the time she was born and she pored over the pictures, looking hopefully at the faces…

  Then she paused, her eyes widening as the magazine fell open on the centrefold: an article about the suspicious death of an Oxford research student who had been working late in the university laboratories one evening. A name in the text jumped out at her and she felt the breath catch in her throat as she read the sentence: “Dr Bertram Noble, head of the Department of Experimental Science at Oxford, is being questioned by the police and is currently the prime suspect…”

  Bertie? Poppy gripped the magazine tighter, her eyes devouring the rest of the article. There was not very much more information—just interviews with the tearful parents of the student, begging for justice to be done, and then a rehash of the young man’s achievements and his promising future that had been cut short. Poppy put the magazine back in the box and rifled through the rest of the stack but although she pulled out every issue she could find from that time period, there was no other article about the student’s death.

  “Hey—you buying anything? This isn’t a library, you know!”

  Poppy looked up to find the irate stall owner glaring at her from the other side of the table.

  “Oh… er… sorry…” She shoved the magazines back in the box, retrieved the potted alstroemeria, and walked away.

  She paused on the street corner just beyond the square, her thoughts in a tumult. Could she have been wrong about Bertie after all? She still couldn’t bring herself to believe that he could hurt anyone on purpose. But Charles Mannering and Nell were both right—how much did she really know about the eccentric scientist? The article she had just found proved that it wasn’t very much. She’d had no idea that Bertie had once been a prime suspect in a suspicious death. And now he was a suspect in another—was that too much of a coincidence?

  But the police have already questioned him and released him, she reminded herself. They would have had access to his past records and yet they still let him go. Surely that proved that Bertie was innocent? Although she had watched enough police dramas to know that suspects were often released if there wasn’t enough evidence to charge them with a crime. Still, Poppy recoiled from the idea. She just couldn’t believe that that sweet old man could kill anyone! Blow them up accidentally, yes—she thought with a wry laugh—but not murder them in cold blood.

  And yet… she couldn’t help suddenly remembering Nell’s voice, warning her of her blind affection for the old inventor.

  It’s not true—I’m not prejudiced, she thought fiercely. And I’m not trying to find a substitute father figure in Bertie!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Poppy stopped outside the window of LEACH PROPERTIES LTD. and looked up at the display of posters, each profiling an available property. She still had no plan, but suddenly that didn’t seem to matter. Her impulsive purchase of the potted plant followed by the confrontation with Boyo had filled her with a sense of reckless courage. She opened the door to the agency and marched straight in. The interior was not very big and consisted mostly of more property posters covering the walls, a small conference table in one corner, a door to an inner office, and a reception desk behind which sat a young woman tapping away at a keyboard.

  She looked up and smiled as Poppy entered, saying with practised smoothness: “Welcome to Leach Properties. Can I help you? Are you looking for a property?”

  “Uh… yes, I am,” said Poppy, taking the cue given to her.

  The girl lifted a clipboard with a printed form attached and handed it to Poppy. “If you can fill in your information… Are you looking to buy or to rent?”

  “Oh… er… to rent.”

  “Any area in particular?”

  “Um… do you cover south Oxfordshire?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got a few properties there.”

  Poppy glanced at the closed door of the inner office. “Does… er… Mr Leach handle all the properties himself?”

  “Oh, he mostly does sales, although he does occasionally show some of the rentals. He’s away this afternoon, though—were you hoping to speak to him?”

  “Oh no, that’s fine,” said Poppy, hoping that the relief wasn’t too obvious in her voice. In actual fact, she had walked in without considering whether her cousin might be there and had been bracing herself for Hubert to suddenly appear from the inner office.

  “You can put the pot down here, if you like, while you fill out the form,” the girl said, indicating an empty spot on her desk. She peered at the green stems. “What is it, by the way?”

  “It’s an alstroemeria,” said Poppy, feeling a silly sense of pride. “I just bought it from the farmer’s market.”

  “Oh, I didn’t recognise it without the flowers—my nan used to grow alstros!” said the girl. “She was mad about them. Had all sorts of different colours. Said they were the best flowers for cutting—they last ages.”

  “Yes, that’s what the lady in the market said too,” said Poppy. She glanced at the closed door of the inner office again and said nonchalantly, “So… um… have you been working here long?”

  “Yeah, about a year. I used to work in Didcot before this—Oxford’s much nicer.” The girl grinned. “Better shops at lunchtime.”

  Poppy gave the girl a conspiratorial grin of her own and said in a chatty tone, “Ooh, yes, tell me about it. I love having a mooch in the lunch hour. Do you get a decent break?”

  The girl made a face. “I’m supposed to get an hour but Hubert is always finding excuses to make me come back earlier.”

  “I had a boss like that,” said Poppy sympathetically. “She was always making me stay late too—but never paid me any overtime.”

  “Yeah, old Hubert is just like that!” said the girl indignantly. “Like earlier this week—” She broke off as the phone on the desk rang. “Leach Properties—can I help you? …I’m afraid Mr Leach isn’t here this afternoon… I’m not sure if he’s returning to the office at all today… Yes, okay, I’ll tell him that… Yes, of course… Don’t worry, Dr Goh, I’ll make sure to tell him it’s important and ask him to ring you as soon as he can…”

  Dr Goh? Poppy stared at the girl, who had hung up and was busily writing a note on a yellow pad, oblivious to her sudden interest. Where have I heard that name before?

  Poppy racked her brains. Then it came to her: the first day she’d come to Oxford and had nearly bumped into Hubert outside the agency. He had been talking rather furtively on the phone and she had been so intent on avoiding him that she hadn’t paid the conversation much attention. Now, though, his words came back to her with vivid clarity:

  “…that’s why they call it ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’… all you have to do is express your concerns if they ask… and naturally, I’d make it worth your while, Dr Goh… no, no, no one else will know about this…”

  Poppy felt her pulse quickening as the implication suddenly hit her: “…and naturally, I’d make it worth your while…” Had Hubert been offering a bribe? But for what?

  Then the answer hit her as well: what if Dr Goh was her grandmother’s GP? Charles Mannering had said that there were two witnesses to the will: Pete Sykes was one and her grandmother’s doctor was the other. With Sykes dead, the doctor was the only person who stood in Hubert’s way if he decided to contest the will on the grounds of mental incapacity…

  Had she overheard Hubert offering a bribe to her grandmother’s GP? After all, who better to testify than a doctor, whose professional opinion would be trusted and respected? She had to find out if Dr Goh was her grandmother’s GP!

  “Are you all right?”

  Poppy came out of her thoughts to find the receptionist looking at her oddly. She realised that she had been gripping the edge of the desk and staring into space, her breathing fast and urgent. Now she made a conscious ef
fort to relax her hands and drop them to her side, while forcing a smile to her face.

  “Uh… yeah, sorry, my mind wandered for a moment… Um—was that Mr Leach’s doctor?” she asked brightly.

  “I dunno. Don’t think so.”

  “Um… I hope Mr Leach hasn’t got any serious medical issues or anything like that?”

  The girl shrugged and eyed her with sudden suspicion. “I dunno. He didn’t say. Why are you asking?”

  “Oh, no reason… I just thought maybe… it sounded urgent…” Poppy stammered.

  The girl gave her another strange look, then she held out a hand. “Have you finished with that form?”

  Poppy glanced down at the clipboard. The last thing she wanted to do was to leave something with her name in writing for Hubert to see. She made an exaggerated show of looking at her watch, then gave a loud gasp.

  “Oh God—is that the time? I’m sorry, I’ve got to run. I’ll have to pop back another time. Thanks so much for your help!”

  Shoving the clipboard back across the counter, Poppy grabbed the potted alstroemeria and hurried out of the agency before the girl could say another word. Outside in the street, she paused several yards down from the agency door and considered what to do.

  The key thing was to confirm that Dr Goh was her grandmother’s GP. She wondered how she could find him… There must be a directory somewhere of GPs practising in Oxfordshire. But even if she did find him, how was she ever going to get a look at his list of patients? Perhaps the clinic where he worked would have a database on a computer that she could somehow sneak a look at? But how would she distract the receptionist and—

  Suddenly, she realised the easiest way to check Dr Goh’s identity. It was so simple, she wanted to smack her head for not thinking of it earlier. Of course! She could simply ask Charles Mannering! He had a copy of the will with the two named witnesses, and in any case, he would probably know the name of her grandmother’s GP anyway. “Goh” was uncommon enough that if her grandmother’s GP did have that name, the chances were good that it was the same man.

  And if she could show that Hubert was bribing one of the witnesses, surely that would scotch his attempt to contest the will? It wasn’t proof that he was the murderer but it certainly gave him a very strong motive and would hopefully convince the police to investigate him further. And in the meantime, her inheritance—and the cottage—would be safe…

  Shifting the pot into one arm, Poppy pulled her phone out with her other hand and called Mannering’s office. Unfortunately, the lawyer was also out at meetings all afternoon and wasn’t expected to return to the office that day.

  “I can leave him a message to call you first thing tomorrow morning,” offered the secretary.

  “No, that’s all right—don’t bother,” said Poppy, remembering that Mannering’s house was in Bunnington. She didn’t have his home number but she could pop over later to see him. She was sure the kindly solicitor wouldn’t mind.

  ***

  When Poppy arrived back in Bunnington, she was surprised to see that the young constable was no longer standing outside the gate to Hollyhock Cottage, and when she peered into the garden, it seemed eerily quiet and empty after so many days of seeing men in masks and white overalls coming and going. She noticed that the striped police tape was also no longer around the house… Had the police released the crime scene?

  Elated, Poppy stepped into the garden and walked slowly up the path. She felt as if she was looking at the cottage garden with new eyes. Yes, it was still overgrown and crowded with weeds, but it no longer seemed like such an intimidating jungle of green. In fact, she found that she was beginning to recognise some shapes and colours in the jumbled undergrowth. Yes, that was a phlox plant! And there, peeking out from under a tangle of brambles, was a geranium—a true hardy geranium, not a pelargonium, she thought, with a smug smile to herself—and surely that was a delphinium over there in that corner? Poppy found that she was grinning like an idiot. It might have sounded silly but, somehow, finding and recognising plants from her grandmother’s encyclopaedia—“in real life” here in the garden—felt as thrilling as catching sight of a lion or rhinocerous on safari.

  She stopped at last by the front door of the cottage and, with a sense of ceremony, bent and placed the potted alstroemeria down to the right of the doormat. Then she stood back and admired the effect.

  “N-ow? N-oow?”

  Poppy turned around to see Oren strolling down the path towards her. He must have followed her through the open gate into the cottage garden. His tail was up and his expression friendly as he approached—a far cry from earlier when Bertie and Einstein had been at Nick’s house for tea. Now that the canine intruder had been removed from his home, it seemed that the ginger tom was ready to forgive her and was coming over to say hello.

  Oren walked up to the alstroemeria and rubbed his chin on the rim of the pot. As Poppy watched him, she realised that with the crime scene now released, she could move back into the cottage. She wouldn’t have to spend the night at Nick’s place. She was surprised to find that she felt a sense of regret—not only at losing the obviously more comfortable sleeping arrangements but also at not having Oren’s company. Somehow, the irascible feline seemed to have grown on her.

  “Come on, Oren—let’s go back and get my things.”

  “N-ow?” said Oren, looking up at her.

  Poppy laughed. “I’d better do it before it gets dark. Don’t worry—I’ll still be coming over to feed you until Nick gets back, and you can spend the evening with me in the cottage, if you like.”

  The ginger tom flicked his tail in approval, then turned and led the way back up the path, out of the gate and over to Nick’s house.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Poppy spent the next hour tidying up Nick’s house (minus his study), stripping and remaking the bed in the guest bedroom with fresh linen, and generally making sure that all evidence of Einstein’s stay were removed. She had picked some flowers from the cottage garden on her way over and now arranged them in a small vase, which she left on the kitchen counter together with a thank you note. Then, with her few belongings stuffed in a carrier bag slung over one arm, she hefted the thick volumes of her grandmother’s plant books in the other and left the house, carefully locking the door behind her.

  Dusk was falling as she let herself into Hollyhock Cottage and deposited her things on the wooden table in the kitchen. It had been nice to have the distraction of the domestic chores in the last hour, but now her troubled thoughts returned—in particular, her worries about Bertie’s involvement in the murder. For a second Poppy was tempted to go next door and ask the old inventor about the magazine article she’d seen, to find out more about his past and what had really happened with that old case of suspicious death. But she knew she couldn’t really do that—for one thing, she didn’t know how to bring up the subject without making it sound like an accusation, and for another, it felt too insolent. She had met Bertie barely two days ago and although they seemed to have quickly struck up a warm friendship, she really hadn’t known him long enough and certainly didn’t know him well enough to justify that kind of presumption.

  Thinking of Bertie reminded her of something else that had been nagging at the back of her mind: the strange words the old inventor had muttered as he had looked at the photo of the crime scene. What was it he had said? It had sounded like complete gibberish… Poppy closed her eyes and dredged up the memory: something about a voyage to Laputa… and Barbi? No, Balnibarbi… and Luggnagg… and then something like Glubdub… Glubbub-drib? Oh, and Japan.”

  It did sound vaguely familiar, almost as if she had read it somewhere once, a long time ago, but Poppy couldn’t figure out where the line was from or what it meant. She went to find her phone and—relieved to see that the battery was holding up for once—she fired up the internet browser and did a search for that sentence. She wasn’t sure of the exactly spelling for some of the words, so it took a bit of detective work but at l
ast, she found the line. She sat back, smiling to herself as she looked down at the screen: “A Voyage to Laputa, Balnibarbi, Luggnagg, Glubbdubdrib, and Japan.” Of course! That’s why it had sounded familiar! The line was a title from one of the sections in Gulliver’s Travels, a favourite childhood book of hers.

  Poppy frowned. Now that she had found the source, though, she wasn’t sure if she was any closer to an answer. From her memory of that section of the story, there was nothing that had any relevance to the photo of Pete Sykes’s body lying in the flower bed. Perhaps the reference isn’t in the story but in the title itself? she wondered. It was such an odd title with the list of strange-sounding names of fictional places—and then the last one “Japan” standing out from the rest as being of the real world. She caught her breath. Perhaps that was what Bertie had been hinting at? That something in the photo didn’t belong there—something was the odd one out? But what?

  Poppy sighed. Maybe there was no hidden meaning, no cryptic message. Maybe Bertie had just been trying to express—in his eccentric way—that the dead body looked incongruous in its beautiful surroundings, amidst the bed of flower blooms. She put her phone down. She wasn’t getting anywhere mulling over Bertie and the host of mysteries surrounding him. What she needed to do was focus on the other suspects in the case.

  Hubert, she reminded herself. Yes, she had been planning to ask Charles Mannering about her grandmother’s GP. She glanced at her watch and decided that the lawyer had probably come home now. Slipping a cardigan on to combat the night chill, she let herself out of the cottage and set off across the village.