The potting shed murder, p.15
The Potting Shed Murder, page 15
As Daphne started her car, she looked back at the grocery store through her rear-view mirror just in time to see Nancy Warburton turning the “Open” sign to “Closed.”
CHAPTER 12
How many times could one knock on a front door knowing that the person inside was pretending not to be in, without seeming crazy or desperate? The tall and narrow town house was extremely handsome in an elegant and prim way. A smart and shiny carriage-black front door with a large swan-necked carriage lamp above a shallow portico that sat almost flush to the outer walls, it was an impressive frontage for a house that was in reality quite modestly sized inside. It was a perfect example of how much the Georgians valued curb appeal, accentuated by a twisting, turning wisteria vine which covered the front and was a thing of pure beauty for the short few weeks that the wisteria’s lilac blooms flourished in the spring. Daphne’s arms were growing tired from cradling the biscuits and box of tea, while banging on the dolphin-shaped brass knocker. She had literally just seen Marianne—or someone she assumed was Marianne—dash away from the curtain of her drawing room window as she’d walked up to the Forbes’s front door. Marianne’s car was even conspicuously parked in front of her house. If she was trying to pretend that she hadn’t returned straight home from the morning school drop off, then she wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding it. Daphne was almost certain that if she stood very still and listened carefully, she’d be able to hear Marianne’s frantic breathing through the front door. What was she hiding from, and what had spooked her? Rather than clearing anything up, the visit had simply provided another layer to the growing mystery of Marianne’s involvement—if any—in Charles Papplewick’s untimely death. Marianne was obviously scared about something. That much was clear, but after a few more minutes of knocking, it seemed that now was not the time to find out what exactly she was scared about.
It was only a few minutes journey back to Cranberry Farmhouse, and as Daphne pulled into the sweeping gravel drive, Doctor Oates was pulling his recycling bin onto the roadside. He gave her a friendly wave and waited for her to wind down her window as she turned towards the garages.
“Good morning, Daphne!” he called out in his reliably cheerful manner.
If there was one thing that felt reassuring about life at Pudding Corner at the moment, it was the constant upbeat presence of Doctor Ptolemy Oates—possibly the jolliest neighbor that Daphne had ever encountered.
Doctor Oates was an unexpected benefit of their move to the countryside. On countless occasions prior to the move, Daphne had wondered what the villagers would think of their multicultural family moving into the area. It was 2023 of course, and it was hardly groundbreaking for a Black person to take up residence in any part of the United Kingdom that they chose to. However, Daphne, and anyone else who had cared to take note of the Black Lives Matter movement that had grown with increasing momentum over the past few years, was aware of the lack of racial diversity in many areas of the British countryside. It had even been the topic of a Countryfile documentary on the BBC, and if there was anything that the population of Pepperbridge and Pudding Corner could agree on, it was that Countryfile was one of the last bastions of safe viewing and common sense on the television these days.
As it was, all fears were assuaged the moment she met the welcoming doctor, and she was more than happy to give him some of her time.
“Good morning, Doctor Oates,” Daphne replied. “I have an apparently unwanted packet of biscuits and some fancy tea—care to join me in a quick cup? I need to ask your opinion on my rhubarb if you have a spare moment.”
She had seen him eyeing up the biscuits with distinct interest as he’d leaned down to proffer his good morning through the car window. She hadn’t seen him at the gate that morning before dropping the children off at school. In fact, she now realized that their morning chats had been slightly erratic over the past few weeks, due to her preoccupation with chasing down errant friends and exploring crazy notions. She owed nothing to her new neighbor of course, but he was a kindly gentleman of a certain age, who lived alone, and she felt slightly guilty that she had so unceremoniously discarded their friendly rapport in the two weeks since Charles Papplewick’s death.
The older man instantly perked up—if that was possible with his already buoyant nature. It seemed that tea and biscuits were the secret to most people’s hearts after all, she smiled wryly to herself—or perhaps that was only when said people had nothing to hide. Her mind went fleetingly back to Marianne, before she decided to concentrate fully on the good doctor and his encyclopedic knowledge of plant-to-soil compatibility.
* * *
Inside Cranberry Farmhouse, the kettle was whistling gently along on the range and the biscuits were plated. Doctor Ptolemy Oates, uncompromising in his tweeds, waistcoat and bow tie—despite the warm summer sunshine—was seated quite happily at Daphne’s kitchen table with the dog by his feet waiting patiently for any dropped crumbs. It brought a moment of calm to a mind otherwise filled with chaos and intrigue for Daphne. She really didn’t know why she was so invested in Minerva, Marianne and Charles, but what she did know is that it wasn’t bringing her the relaxation she had hoped for after the family’s move to the countryside. She couldn’t even claim that she was bored—now with the shop and painting and sourcing furniture in between running after the children and maintaining a far larger house and garden than she was used to, she had a lot more to get on with besides playing amateur sleuth.
She brought her attention back to her neighbor, who had been patiently explaining how her rhubarb needed to be in a sunny, open site with moist but free-draining soil—hence why positioning it under her overrun apple trees had caused the young plants to fail to thrive, let alone produce any fruit.
“You see, rhubarb prefers a slightly acidic to neutral soil, and a soil that’s consistent with its moisture and high in organic matter,” he explained. “Moreover, you mustn’t overwater as the crowns can rot in wet soil. A good rule of thumb is to water when the top inch of soil dries out, you see . . .” he continued as he munched enthusiastically on his fifth Fruit Shortcake in as many minutes.
Much of what he told her was obvious, really, and could be found in the numerous gardening books that she had collected over the past few months, but as a relative novice to gardening, she delighted in listening to Doctor Oates, and Doctor Oates clearly delighted in being listened to in turn. He had the voice of a stage actor, the face of a grown-up Billy Bunter, and his capacity for knowledge seemed boundless. Having an abundance of fruit and vegetables in the field that lay beyond his cottage, Doctor Oates had no need of an allotment in the neighboring village, unlike many of the residents in the older part of Pepperbridge where the original houses were several hundred years old. There, the outbuildings, barns and stables had long since been converted into other homes, resulting in the larger gardens being carved up into more modest patches to go with each new dwelling.
She sighed contentedly as he spoke on, switching topics every so often, but always remaining on pleasantly neutral and wholesome territory. With a rare break in the gardening conversation, both she and Doctor Oates sipped on their cups of tea in companionable silence, lost in their own thoughts.
“Well . . .” Doctor Oates took a final sip of his tea to wash down his sixth biscuit—not that Daphne had been counting—and then stood up, brushing a regrettably meager number of crumbs from his trousers in the direction of the eagerly awaiting Byron. “This won’t get the baby bathed!”
Daphne grinned at the old adage—Doctor Oates enjoyed peppering his conversation with aphorisms which often left the children in fits of giggles and always caused Daphne to smile.
A cup of tea with her neighbor was “just what the doctor ordered.” It had been a welcome treat to sit in a world that wasn’t concerned with death or postmortems or disappearing friends. The doctor had proclaimed, from the beginning of their acquaintance, that village politics and local gossip was not “his thing”—a fact that she had been very pleased about.
* * *
James called shortly after Doctor Oates had left. He had spotted what he believed to be an ornately carved mahogany Arts & Crafts chair with a seat that needed to be reupholstered discarded in a skip, and wanted to discuss whether it was worth the inconvenience of bringing it home on the train.
“I can’t be sure that it’s an original, but it looks a lot like the one that you pointed out to me at the auction in Tottenhill, and it’s FREE,” he exclaimed, hardly believing his luck in spotting it.
“Well, if they’re willing to part with it, and you’re sure that you can manage it on the train, then yes please!”
Daphne was delighted that they had moved past the topic of her “almost arrest,” but she was also thrilled that James was so on board with the idea of her workshop. It was a passion project, to say the least, but if she could keep getting commissions and a few sales, things would tick over nicely and she’d hopefully make a successful business of it eventually. She had set aside a small portion of her rainy-day savings to secure the lease of the small shop, but thankfully, the rent on Pepperidge High Street was a fraction of what a similar unit would have cost in London—and it was much prettier, with its crooked little Victorian façade and nineteenth-century bull’s-eye windows. Although at this point it was mainly a workshop, she was grateful to have a dedicated space that made her feel like her initial nugget of an idea was now a fully-fledged business. She was a vintage hunter, not a homicide hunter—or at least that’s what she told herself . . .
* * *
It was 2:15 p.m. before Daphne thought about attempting to visit Marianne again. By her calculations, Marianne would be thinking about leaving the house to collect the children soon, and Daphne wanted to catch her before she did—at a point when she couldn’t possibly avoid her.
Daphne pulled Aggie out of the drive for the second time that day and made the short journey across Pudding Corner to Marianne’s house. This time she was in luck. Parking a little way down the road, so that her car would not be visible enough to spoil the element of surprise, Daphne walked to the Forbes’s house just in time to catch Marianne signing for a FedEx delivery.
Daphne could tell from the panic in Marianne’s eyes that she felt trapped. Her body language had turned unmistakably stiff and from the sudden gasp of breath that Daphne heard before she’d even reached the gate, her mere presence seemed to have propelled her “friend” into fight-or-flight mode. Unfortunately for Marianne, the delivery man had taken his sweet time and now there was nowhere for her to run.
“Marianne!” Daphne called out, waving cheerfully.
“Daphne . . . ?” Marianne responded—a slight question in the tone of her voice.
Daphne could sense the chink appearing in Marianne’s armor, and pressed on. If she could bamboozle her with words, then she’d have to let her come in.
“I was just passing and realized how early I was for pick-up, so I thought I’d pop in for a cup of tea . . . we haven’t done that in such a long time, have we? In fact, I did try calling in on you earlier, but you must have been in the garden . . . ?”
Marianne hesitated for a fraction longer than was entirely comfortable before taking a quick glance at her watch and realizing she was cornered. Sighing under her breath, she allowed Daphne to follow her through the front door.
The two women walked towards the kitchen at the back of the house. The route was familiar to Daphne, who had delivered Marianne children’s home on more occasions than she cared to remember. The hallway was narrow and long but extremely tall. The stairs to the right were equally as narrow and incredibly steep, ascending the entire four stories and seemingly even tighter the higher you got. The house was elegant, yes, but certainly not a practical abode for anyone with even the mildest of mobility issues.
The kitchen was the largest room in the house, but even then it was on a more modest and cozy scale than one would have imagined from the grandeur of the exterior. Marianne walked resignedly towards the kettle and flicked the switch on. She turned around to face Daphne, who by now was sitting at the farmhouse table in the center of the room.
The two women eyed each other—one looking apprehensive and suspicious, the other feigning cheerful innocence as she watched the other squirm.
“I’ll be honest with you, Marianne . . .” Daphne eventually began, “I’m here because I wanted to know how you are. You seemed rather out of sorts this morning. Jumpy even. Is everything OK?”
She could see Marianne’s chest begin to rise and fall that little bit faster and harder. She was clearly nervous . . . but why?
Marianne’s mouth simply opened and closed noiselessly for a few seconds, resembling a goldfish that had unexpectedly found itself out of water. Daphne stared at her with what she hoped was a concerned rather than just inquisitive face. She could practically see the mechanisms of Marianne’s brain whirring for a suitable explanation.
“I . . . I . . .“ she began promisingly.
Daphne realized that she was quite literally sitting on the edge of her seat. She subtly composed herself, sliding her bottom back. Marianne’s eyes were flickering towards the open kitchen door, as though she was hoping to be rescued by someone.
“Yes . . . ?” Daphne tried to stop her voice from showing any signs of impatience. She was meant to be here under the guise of being Marianne’s “friend,” not as her interrogator. Perhaps a nudge in the right direction was needed?
“Is it about the circumstances surrounding Mr. Papplewick’s death . . . ?” Daphne probed gently. She glanced at the clock above the Aga—time was ticking by. “I remember that you were rather upset that morning . . . in the school office . . . ?” Daphne let the sentence hang in the air.
Marianne’s head snapped up at the mere mention of Charles Papplewick. She had exited the school hastily that morning, still shaking with anger after her terse exchange of words. Despite her rage, she had assumed that no one had seen her enter or leave.
Her shoulders sloped down in defeat. She had been seen after all. There was no point pretending that the altercation hadn’t happened. Daphne had obviously witnessed—or heard—it all.
“It was just words!” she finally cried out—almost wailing, her voice cracking as the words spilled out in abject despair. “They were just idle threats—they meant nothing and what else could I do? What would you have done? He refused to help me, he refused to help my children. He refused to help with anything! It was nothing more than that.”
By now Marianne was crying: big ugly, gulping sobs with her nose streaming and her arms flailing, narrowly missing scalding her arm as it waved perilously close to the still steaming hob kettle.
“Nancy Warburton said that she saw you with Charles again later that evening?” said Daphne. “Outside in the rain . . . she said that you were screaming at him . . . she said that you seemed slightly . . . er—out of control?”
Pain seared through Marianne. “Oh god! Oh my god—she saw me? Oh my god—please—I didn’t know what I was doing, it wasn’t me, I mean, it wasn’t who I am—I’d, I’d been drinking!” she finally blurted out and sobbed again. “I don’t remember—I was drun—”
“MARIANNE!” Timothy’s voice came out of nowhere and cut through the air like a knife.
Marianne’s wailing had been abruptly and obediently stopped in its tracks.
“STOP TALKING. Stop. It. Right. Now!”
Daphne had never seen the slightly gormless Timothy look so angry before. His face was contorted with fury and for the first time since she had known the couple, the tables of power seemed to have turned. It was usually Marianne who took control, with Timothy resignedly falling into line. Something had obviously changed in the dynamic of the relationship over the past few weeks. Marianne meekly lowered her eyes at the sound of her husband’s command, did as she was told and didn’t utter another word.
Timothy turned to face Daphne with a face like thunder. He no longer looked like the overgrown public schoolboy that she was familiar with—all floppy hair, toothy smile and self-deprecating charm. His demeanor was far more menacing, and his darkened, furious eyes stared at her with suspicion.
“She’s talking rot. Ignore it.” It was more of an order than a request, denoting the end of the conversation. Daphne—not wanting to challenge him in this mood—sensed that it was time to go. She stood up with forced brightness, smiled at Marianne, thanked her for the chat, and walked towards the open kitchen door as though nothing untoward had happened.
“I’ll see you at the school gates!” she called out as she casually passed Timothy, and calmly headed out. Once out of sight, she practically ran towards her car like a bat out of hell, her heart pounding so rapidly she felt as if it would burst through her rib cage.
So, Marianne had been drunk that night. Drunk and driving no less! How awful, although it explained why she’d felt it appropriate to be screaming at Charles in the darkened streets of Pepperbridge on a Friday night. Was that all that had happened though? Had Marianne followed him into his potting shed and killed him? It didn’t seem likely . . . From the sound of it, he didn’t have any physical trauma about his body that would imply a scuffle or a fight. There were no stab or gunshot wounds. No evidence of blunt objects whacking him about the head, and yet despite all roads leading to a probable heart attack, there was still the faint prospect of foul play.
* * *
It was ten past three when Daphne parked her car near the school gates. She had five minutes before the bell rang to announce the end of the school day at three fifteen. The children would then routinely take at least a few minutes more to find their bags and get themselves organized into class lines, which gave Daphne a few minutes more to contemplate whether Marianne may have unwittingly caused Charles’s death by screaming at him only a short while after an argument with his own wife. It was enough to have given anyone a heart attack, Daphne mused wryly, absent-mindedly chewing on her bottom lip as she tried to figure everything out.
