The potting shed murder, p.14
The Potting Shed Murder, page 14
Since the police car had turned up at the Papplewicks’ house on Saturday morning and then proceeded to tape up parts of the allotment, it was the talk of the entire town.
What was even worse, in Daphne’s personal opinion, was that she was somehow embroiled in the center of these discussions—and she had no one else to blame but herself. By being discovered snooping in the apparent “victim’s” potting shed, she had inadvertently positioned herself as the prime topic of gossip.
As a Black woman from south London, she had never been under any illusion that her mere presence in some parts of this rural, mostly white area of sleepy England might cause the occasional stir of interest. But nothing could have prepared her for the feeling of exposure that came from being led through rows of cabbages and kale into a waiting police car as a gaggle of locals, rescue hens and the odd child on a bicycle looked on with intense scrutiny.
She hadn’t been arrested of course; Inspector Hargreaves had made that extremely clear. She was being asked a few questions about her reason for being at the allotment, and rather more to the point, why she had been in Charles Papplewick’s potting shed where (and she was aware of this) she had no business loitering at all.
At the station, Daphne had vaguely thought about using the excuse that she was hoping to claim an allotment plot for herself, and knowing that the recently departed Mr. Papplewick would regrettably but quite evidently have no need for his space any longer, she thought that she might as well go and have a look . . . But even Daphne felt that the heartlessness of that explanation was worse than the far less explicable truth.
The real truth, as she’d attempted to explain to an increasingly perplexed Inspector Hargreaves, was that the events surrounding Charles Papplewick’s death and the subsequent accusations of his widow, hadn’t sat well with her from the start. She had purely been attempting to clear the good name of her friend from idle gossip.
“But how did you think searching his potting shed would clear your friend’s name?” Inspector Hargreaves had asked, quite clearly confused, particularly since the papers that had had fallen from Daphne’s hands had done anything but proven her friend’s innocence.
If anything, evidence of a close enough relationship between the pair, where Charles willingly signed over the bulk of his estate to Minerva, confirmed Minerva as a person of distinct interest in this newly opened case. Why would he have left anything to someone who was, until now, assumed to be a random member of the extended community? Why had he not wanted his estate to go to his own wife? What was the relationship between Minerva and Charles? Had they been lovers? Were Augusta’s accusations true—had Minerva been blackmailing Charles?
The questions had been wracking Daphne’s brain. Charles and Minerva’s closeness in the woods had been without dispute—Daphne was quite sure about that. Perhaps they were just jolly good friends, she’d wondered? Unlikely. “Jolly good friends” don’t have a tendency to studiously ignore each other when others are around to witness their interactions while hugging passionately when said others are not. There must have been something more to it. However, determined to stay loyal to her friend, Daphne had decided not to disclose any information about what she had witnessed that Friday evening to Inspector Hargreaves—despite it having occurred only a matter of hours before Charles was found dead. Perhaps there was a connection and perhaps there wasn’t, but she would leave that for Inspector Hargreaves to find out.
In the meantime, she wouldn’t actively assist in redirecting the investigation towards suspicions of Minerva’s involvement. Her lips were sealed. In the short period of time that she had known her, Daphne felt in her gut that Minerva didn’t have a bad, or indeed violent or vindictive bone in her body. However, now that the situation had turned into a case of potential murder, Daphne intended to confront Minerva about what she had witnessed at Silvanus’s party, along with asking the reasoning behind Charles’s will. Confronting Minerva would be done with the sole purpose to help protect her—it would be an act of friendship, and as soon as she could find the energy to drag herself out of bed and out into the public arena again, it would be her main focus. The problem was that Inspector Hargreaves had every intention of doing the same thing—and in his case, friendship had nothing to do with it.
* * *
Three people had been politely asked to attend the police station for informal questioning that Saturday. Augusta Papplewick, Minerva Leek and, unexpectedly, Daphne Brewster. No one had been arrested, and no one had been accused of anything. At this stage it was simply an investigation to clarify the cause of death, due to a few anomalies in Charles Papplewick’s postmortem.
It had only been a slight issue, the coroner had said. Possibly nothing of any real value at all, but it would need to be investigated further by a criminal pathologist to rule out any foul play. He had died of a heart attack, that much was very evident, but it had been a heart attack that had shown no physical warning signs prior to its occurrence, and no obvious medical evidence as to its cause. This was unusual, but not unheard of. Yet there were no blockages in his coronary arteries, no narrowing or atheroma (build-up of fatty deposits), no signs of blood clots or historical damage to the artery wall. He had no history of diabetes, nor high cholesterol, and he was certainly not obese. In fact, for his age, he had appeared to be in perfect health. It was as though he had had a sudden and violent reaction to a toxin, the coroner had suggested. Like a car with a flat battery, his lights had suddenly failed, and he’d died, and yet the motor had not been damaged or left running beforehand. Just a sudden extinguishing of a life—like a bulb blowing.
It was a frustrating situation for Inspector Hargreaves. Almost a murder case but not quite a murder case. Until further investigation they were going to have to treat it as such, but it had started off as a paperwork-led formality. One that would hopefully be cleared up by the criminal pathologist. Everyone knew that nothing suspicious ever happened in the parish of Pepperbridge. An investigation would be a waste of time and resources, plus they were about to embark on the tourist season, where city types descended on the English countryside in droves. It was not a good time to have a potential murderer on the loose.
Inspector Hargreaves had started the morning off going through the motions of a half-hearted investigation. He hadn’t anticipated finding Daphne Brewster bang in the middle of the “unexplained death’s” scene. Discovering her there, caught like a rabbit in headlights, had set the course of the investigation on a different tangent altogether. What with Mrs. Brewster being caught mid-snoop, finding a copy of the will with its surprising beneficiary, coupled with the accusations being fired out by the deceased’s widow (which now made far more sense)—well, it was turning into a far more complicated situation than the inspector would have liked. Murders simply didn’t occur in this small and sleepy part of England, and he rather hoped things stayed like that.
* * *
Daphne had now proceeded from her bedroom to the kitchen table. It was some sort of progress, she felt. There had been no further communication with the police apart from a call to ask if she knew of Minerva’s whereabouts, and they had seemed to have taken her word that she had only been at the allotment out of concern for her friend’s reputation.
She herself had attempted to contact Minerva immediately after her interview and every day since, but yet again her friend had gone to ground and was refusing—or so it appeared—to answer or return any calls. To James’s despair, Daphne had even made him drive over to Minerva’s house in the woodland on Sunday morning (his Land Rover Discovery was far less identifiable than her darling Aggie), but to no avail. Neither Minerva or Silvanus were anywhere to be found, and on questioning one of the other residents in the small coterie of self-proclaimed Wiccans that made up the little commune, Daphne had been met with a blank, although not unfriendly response. No one seemed to know where Minerva or Silvanus had gone or how long they would be gone for. Or at least, none of the residents of the commune were willing to tell her if they did.
* * *
James had been furious. He couldn’t understand why Daphne had been at the allotment on Saturday morning when he’d left her alone for a much-needed break from the village and a lie-in. . . or so he had thought.
“How was I to know that it would turn into a murder investigation?” she had said, attempting to defend herself.
“It makes no difference; you had no business being there because it’s none of your concern—murder or not!” he had retorted, frustrated. “You hardly know the woman, and she’s hardly your friend if she disappears without a trace and fails to tell you.” He slapped his own forehead while talking to emphasize how ridiculous the situation was, and Daphne couldn’t help but stare at the red impression his handprint had left afterwards as he continued. “She couldn’t give two hoots about you—obviously—so why on earth are you attempting to play the savior? She’s going to get you into trouble, Daph, and she’s not worth it.” His tone had changed from one of frustration to one of abject pity as he calmed down, and his hands descended from gesticulating furiously in the air to resting on the back of a kitchen chair as a result.
His words had hurt. Was she really being silly trying to help her new friend? Were they even really friends? For the first time since their arrival in Pudding Corner, Daphne didn’t feel entirely certain about her new life, and it wasn’t a nice feeling at all.
* * *
During the following week, walking into school to drop the children off felt like an endurance test. Word had obviously traveled round the village about Daphne “breaking into the murder scene” and there were a few whispers and several comically theatrical averted eyes in the playground.
By Thursday, Marianne Forbes approached her after the morning bell had been rung. Daphne, seeing no obvious escape route, groaned inwardly. It was another crisp and clear day, and not for the first time, Daphne wished that a heavy downpour would suddenly erupt and give her the excuse to run quickly back to her car. She couldn’t bear the idea of a smug-faced Marianne grilling her for all the “juicy details” or worse still, crowing a few “I told you so’s” about her friendship with Minerva. As it happened, Daphne was pleasantly surprised when Marianne showed an almost sheepish restraint. She asked if Daphne was all right, which allowed Daphne to relax a little, although that was quickly followed by an almost skittish questioning of what details the police had wanted to know at the station.
“Did they mention anything specific about why or how he died?” she questioned Daphne agitatedly. “Was it definitely a heart attack? They don’t think anyone . . . I mean, anything else caused it, do they . . . ?”
Her attitude perplexed Daphne. Marianne remained watchful, her eyes flicking around her, uncharacteristically displaying no signs of obvious relish or enjoyment while digesting Daphne’s response—not that Daphne had filled her in completely, of course.
It was only when Marianne had left that Daphne realized that she had hardly seen her for over a week. Daphne considered it for a moment, realizing the last time she recalled seeing Marianne was on the Friday morning of Charles Papplewick’s death. The morning when Marianne had been screeching insults and hostile ultimatums behind the ever-patient headmaster’s office door.
* * *
Where had Marianne been for the past week? Had she—or the children—been unwell? Her interest piqued, Daphne turned to watch Marianne get into her car. There was something different about her, she noted belatedly—a lack of her usual polish. Her hair was slightly unkempt, her blouse was crinkled and, together with the nervous air she’d exuded throughout their brief conversation, she appeared to be harassed and troubled. Marianne’s smartly coordinated appearance was usually a badge of honor. Wearing a pair of shoes that did not match one’s handbag was normally anathema to her . . . However, that morning, Marianne was wearing gym shoes, an old shirt and a pair of jeans that looked as though they might be her husband’s. What on earth had happened since Daphne had last seen her?
Daphne knew that James wouldn’t approve, but since when had she waited for her husband’s approval before acting on a hunch? Despite her previous resolution to give Marianne a wide berth, Daphne decided that today was the day to renew their friendship—at least until Daphne could find out why she was acting so strangely.
She decided that she would casually drop into Marianne’s house on her way home—perhaps on the pretense of giving her more information about the investigation. First, she’d pop into the Pepperbridge convenience store for some biscuits and a box of Earl Grey. Surely Marianne would take the bait if Daphne arrived on her doorstep wielding tea and biscuits?
This morning, the convenience store was thankfully open.
It had been kept shut for longer and longer periods of time over the past week, and one could never be sure when it would live up to its name.
As Daphne entered the shop, the doorbell tinkling, Nancy Warburton was standing alone behind the counter. Her face was somber and still, and her eyes were staring straight at Daphne, as if she had been expecting her arrival. Daphne felt a sudden flush of self-consciousness; after all, she was now widely known as the woman who had been picked up by the police only a few days ago. She wondered whether that particular piece of gossip had reached the “Oracle sisters”—although, in all likelihood, the sisters had probably informed most of the village about the incident themselves . . .
“I hear you had a meeting with the police on Saturday, Mrs. Brewster.” Nancy had gone straight in without hesitation or pleasantries, and despite half expecting it, it still made Daphne squirm uncomfortably.
“Yes, it was just a misunderstanding . . .” Daphne responded as she hastily scanned the ever-changing aisles for the biscuit section, which occasionally sat next to the teabags—but not always. Finally her eyes rested on what she wanted—thankfully this time conveniently placed together—before she picked them up and reluctantly approached the shop counter.
“I’m actually quite interested in signing up for a plot at the allotment for myself . . .” She trailed off, hearing her own lack of conviction as she started to perspire under the unflinching gaze of Nancy Warburton.
“I see,” the older lady said with obvious skepticism. “You have about three quarters of an acre over there at Pudding Corner, haven’t you—no space for a veg patch of your own then?”
She started to package up the biscuits—McVitie’s Fruit Shortcake—and teabags that Daphne had brought over from one of the aisles, all the while staring directly into Daphne’s eyes.
“Er—yes, you’re quite right—I didn’t realize that you knew the house?”
“I know lots of things,” she responded without any visible emotion.
Daphne felt unnerved. She had been caught out in her lie, but she wasn’t quite sure whether it mattered, or whether Nancy cared in the slightest. She had the same expression and tone regardless of the situation.
There was a long silence as Nancy slowly totted up the total—writing the prices down on a small paper bag and adding them up using long arithmetic before entering the figures into the till. With only two items, it was an unnecessarily drawn-out transaction, and Daphne couldn’t help but feel that Nancy was purposefully trying to make her feel on edge.
Daphne suddenly felt desperate to fill the silent space, eventually mumbling something about heading over to Marianne Forbes’s house for tea. Too much information, she groaned internally—she knew better than most that not everyone liked Marianne Forbes.
On hearing Marianne’s name, Nancy Warburton’s eyes sharpened their glare. “Marianne Forbes, you say?”
For the first time, Nancy looked down as she spoke, taking the ten-pound note that Daphne had proffered. She went on with a clearly contrived casualness, “I do hope that she has recovered from getting caught in the storm?”
“The storm?” repeated Daphne, confused.
Despite the troubled nature of the news in the area, the past week’s weather had been idyllic, filled with clear blue skies and sunshine. They were deep into beautiful British summer season. In fact, the last time it had rained was the weekend that Charles had died—and that was over a week ago . . .
Daphne looked up to see Nancy peering intensely back at her once more.
“Yes, the storm a week ago, on the Friday. I saw her driving up towards the allotment. Quite late it was. I was putting the bins out when I saw her get out of the car. Funny little thing she is. Looks like butter wouldn’t melt—but my, does she have a good pair of lungs when she wants to use them. I thought that she was going to burst a vessel the way she was screaming at him. What a temper! Anyway. I hope that she didn’t get too wet. She could have caught her death prowling around the village at night like that . . . although I imagine that the brandy or whatever it was she’d been drinking was keeping her warm . . .”
Daphne stood paralyzed and wide eyed at Nancy . . . but Nancy had handed over the change—what there was of it—and was now silent again. The conversation was over.
“Good day, Mrs. Brewster. Enjoy your tea.”
Daphne thanked the shopkeeper and walked slowly out of the store—slightly reeling from what to make of such an unexpected conversation. Nancy had clearly wanted to tell Daphne that Marianne Forbes had been arguing with Charles on the night that he had died, but why had she not told the police? Was the implication that she had murdered him? Surely not . . . Marianne was many things, but a murderer? It was all getting far more complicated than Daphne could have imagined.
Outside, under the bright blue of the sky and suddenly feeling reinvigorated, she opened Aggie’s driver’s door and threw the paper bag with the tea and biscuits onto the passenger seat. She was on her way to pay Marianne a surprise visit, and hopefully she’d find out more about the events of that night. If nothing else, she could gather a timeline of events that might help Minerva.
