The potting shed murder, p.16
The Potting Shed Murder, page 16
The sudden trill of the bell pulled her sharply out of her thoughts, and she jumped out of Aggie and walked towards the school gates just in time to see Timothy pulling up in his battered old Range Rover. It seemed that he no longer trusted his wife not to blab at the school gates. Was Timothy Forbes frightened that his wife would be in trouble for drunk driving, or was he frightened that his wife would be held responsible for the death of Charles Papplewick? Daphne had a flashback of his face filled with anger only fifteen minutes ago. Maybe he wasn’t worried about his wife at all. Perhaps the Timothy Forbes that she had witnessed a glimpse of was the unexpected villain in this scenario. His son had been refused help with the scholarship bursary, after all. But was that enough to murder someone?
A glowering Timothy walked through the gates and was now within a few feet of Daphne to her left. The knowledge that he was there, pretending, as she was, that they hadn’t just seen each other made her feel instantly and uncharacteristically nervous. Daphne gathered her emotions together, studiously avoided eye contact with anyone in the vicinity, and plastered on a fake smile as she looked for her children.
CHAPTER 13
According to James, there were only two reasons why someone would willingly involve themselves in a criminal investigation that had nothing whatsoever to do with them. The first was a result of friendly—but misguided—concern for a family member or friend, and the other was down to plain old-fashioned nosiness. Much to Daphne’s annoyance, James had rather unhelpfully declared that he was inclined to believe she fell into the latter camp.
“Don’t real friends reveal their deepest, darkest secrets to each other?” he had asked on more than one occasion.
“Not past the age of twelve,” she had replied curtly. “Besides, it’s only been eight months. We’re friends, but not lifelong soulmates—yet . . .”
Yet it had been two and a half weeks and Minerva had not returned any of her calls or text messages. Not even the ones that asked for no more than an indication that she was simply safe and well. If that was friendship, it was more than a little one sided.
Hello Minerva, It’s Daphne. I just wanted to make sure that you and Silvanus are OK? I haven’t heard from you in a while. Sending love. xx
Hi Minerva. Just checking in. I’m sure that you’re OK, but it would be nice to know that all is well. x
Hi Minerva. Please just send an emoji if everything’s OK. I’ll leave you alone now though. Hope all is well.
Every single message had been steadfastly ignored.
Inspector Hargreaves had called to ask about Minerva’s whereabouts twice over the past week, and Daphne had promised (with a metaphorical finger crossed behind her back) to let him know the minute she got in touch. Apparently, Minerva wasn’t a suspect as such, but thanks to the accusations being spread about by a certain member of the parish, they did want to have a chat with her.
Meanwhile, unlike the long defunct Pepperbridge flour factory, the village rumor mill had been working overtime, with more and more fantastical stories about why the police were unwilling to release Charles’s body so that he could have a proper burial. Naturally, the Village Pump was leading the way by providing a running commentary of what was quite obviously a plethora of exaggerated daily events. At least, it was claiming to be the Village Pump. The highly coveted newsletter was now being unofficially produced as a single-page supplement that was randomly circulated a few times per week, much to the chagrin of the official editor (and principal soloist of the church choir, she liked to remind everyone), Mrs. Freestone. Mrs. Freestone claimed to know nothing of these mini editions being hastily printed and distributed without her consent. Somebody was obviously having an immense amount of fun with their poisoned pen.
. . . Did anyone actually see a body? Could it be that the long-suffering husband has in fact done a John Darwin and is currently hightailing it as far away as possible on a canoe to South America?
Rumor has it that said headmaster had an insurance policy that was worth a six-figure sum to be left to his beneficiaries—of which there is one . . . Let us now take a moment to lament the “not so poor” or grieving widow for her loss . . . Why has a certain resident of Cringlewic gone mysteriously missing? Has she fled in haste on her Vroom Stick or is that just witchful thinking for a certain Pepperbridge resident?
Had it not been for the fact that Augusta had featured in most of the issues, then one would have assumed that she was behind the whole thing. She was, after all, the primary accuser when it came to the supposed involvement of Minerva in Charles Papplewick’s death.
Her narrative now implied that Minerva had been blackmailing the headmaster over a period of years and had ultimately chosen to murder him in an act of revenge.
Augusta had failed to comprehend that her version of events didn’t portray either her husband or her marriage in a good light, and the rumor mill had exploded into an abundance of scandalous theories about illicit affairs and deadly betrayals. Having already spoken to Marianne to gain some insight into the fateful night, Daphne planned to speak once more to Augusta regarding her accusations. It was ironic really, since, beyond the odd occasion when their eyes had met briefly at school, Daphne had avoided Augusta as much as possible since returning her home a few weeks ago. Daphne was a huge believer in innocent until proven guilty, and she would rather hear the truth straight from the horse’s mouth—or in this case the elusive Minerva’s. Even if James, upset that his wife’s new friend had inexplicably disappeared without any explanation, didn’t think she deserved her unquestioning support . . .
Daphne doubted that anyone else would have been brave or silly enough to confront Augusta—she’d even witnessed the police jump to attention at the sound of her clipped tones and dismissive attitude. Yet, here Daphne was, pulling up to the back entrance of the Papplewick house, with the sole aim of interrogating Augusta. Daphne was reminded of the other occasions of heightened emotion that she had walking up this very same path. Unlike today, those times had been filled with a lot of rain and a healthy dose of foreboding—if you believed in that sort of thing. Today it was thankfully bright and sunny, with another cloudless Norfolk sky. Surely Augusta’s “bite” would be less intense when the sun shone—or did that only apply to vampires . . . ?
As luck would have it, if one could call it that, Augusta was at home. She was apparently spending much of her time alone at home these days. It had been suggested that perhaps it was better if she didn’t spend so much time in the headmaster’s office at Pepperbridge Primary School, attempting to pick up where her husband had left off with no official jurisdiction given by the local authority to preside over school affairs. It had taken the deputy head almost a fortnight to gather the courage to politely evict the domineering matriarch from the office that she herself should have been occupying.
According to the rumor mill, Augusta sat at home most days with her vodka martinis, having graduated from delicately footed teacups and saucers to larger but equally pretty china mugs. There was little point in holding back now.
Augusta opened the door to Daphne with her usual sense of authority. She was evidently loath to play the broken widow for anyone’s benefit, and her anger remained intact. Hers was not a smoldering rage, but a freshly stoked firepit, and Daphne almost regretted her decision to be there.
Augusta held the door open before turning on her heel and allowing Daphne to enter with a commanding “Come in.”
Daphne did as she was told; after all, she reminded herself, this is what she had wanted—some time alone with Augusta.
“Sit. I don’t suppose that you’ll require a cup of tea,” Augusta said pointedly as she sat down on her chintzy sofa, having led Daphne through to the formal sitting room with its perfectly placed cushions, French-polished antiques and immaculately laid out silverware on a high mahogany sideboard at the end of the room—as if waiting for the perfect retro dinner party to begin. It was a statement and not a question, the tone of her voice ensured that much was crystal clear.
Augusta may have had no intention of making Daphne any tea, but as a stickler for the rules of polite society, she was forced to at least make a pretense at civility.
Daphne felt more bemused than uncomfortable. It was a miracle that Augusta was willing to have her within ten feet of her house, let alone be sitting opposite her.
“Well?” Augusta broke the silence.
Her petite hands were clasped in her lap, her knees together and legs slanted elegantly to one side in the manner of a debutante freshly out of finishing school. There was nothing accidental about how Augusta Papplewick presented herself. Each glance, each clipped enunciation, and even the way she sat down, projected the uncompromising vibe that she was superior to you.
“I’d like to ask you a question, if you don’t mind,” began Daphne with steady confidence as she looked straight back at Augusta without hesitation.
As much as she loved it in Pudding Corner, one of the best things about growing up in south London was that she had a self-assurance that couldn’t be diminished by the self-imposed hierarchy of the village’s born and bred residents. Daphne had never felt the need to vie for social dominance in the way that Augusta Papplewick and Marianne Forbes did. The combination of city street-smarts and the pride instilled in her from her immigrant parents was a hefty defense for a Black woman taught to be comfortable in her own skin from an early age.
“Go on,” Augusta responded, nodding her head.
Daphne paused for a moment before asking, “Do you really believe that Minerva Leek murdered your husband?”
“I do,” Augusta replied calmly.
“And . . . why is that? Do you have any evidence, did you see something?”
Daphne didn’t even know if the police were taking Augusta’s accusations seriously, but regardless, she wanted to know her reasoning behind them.
Augusta stood up abruptly and walked over to the door which led towards the kitchen.
“I think that I’ll make us some tea after all. Would you care for some?”
It was a few minutes before Augusta returned holding a tray carrying a teapot, one single Royal Doulton cup and saucer, a jug of milk and a sugar bowl filled with white cubes and a silver pair of tongs. At first, Daphne assumed that Augusta was really following through with her decision not to offer Daphne any tea, but after Augusta inquired as to whether her guest would prefer milk or lemon, Daphne realized that even the queen of the dismissive put-down wouldn’t be that rude. She exited again quickly but returned almost immediately with her own mug, and sat down once more opposite Daphne.
“Herbal,” she stated when she noticed Daphne look towards the cup inquiringly, wondering why she had not simply brought it in with the tray.
They sat in silence for a moment as both took a sip of their drinks. Daphne’s tea was hot to her lips and she pulled back, almost scalded—Augusta’s apparently not so much.
“We’d had a perfectly pleasant evening together . . .”Augusta suddenly resumed unprompted and out of nowhere, causing Daphne to jump inwardly. “I’d had a headache that afternoon at school—I feared that it would turn into a migraine, so I decided to return home early. It was raining quite heavily, I remember.” Augusta paused and took another sip out of her mug. “Charles arrived home rather later than usual—he’d had a meeting with a parent, I believe. I’d made him his supper—one of his favorites—a cottage pie with garden peas, swede and mashed potatoes—all from his allotment. It’s a winter meal of course, but the weather was so unseasonably cold and dreary that week that it seemed appropriate.”
Daphne kept very still and listened as she noted Augusta’s eyes looking into the distance beyond her shoulder, as if visualizing each detail in her mind.
“We were having such a lovely time. My headache had abated, and we were just about to settle down to the second course—a rhubarb crumble with crème anglaise—when Charles remembered that he’d left the door to his shed unlocked at the allotment. It was very out of character for him you see—he’s usually very careful with security . . .”
Daphne didn’t move. She knew full well that the picture Augusta was painting was a false one. She’d seen Augusta screaming furiously through the front window that evening with her own eyes.
“I remember he said that he’d only be a little while as he dashed out into the rain. He stored some personal items as well as his tools in the shed, and he didn’t want anything disturbed, or for the door to be blown open and everything inside drenched with rain. It was blowing quite a gale that evening.”
Daphne’s mind went to the documents she’d discovered tucked away behind the chitting potatoes on the desk.
“It was at least an hour later when I started to get worried. He hadn’t returned and he wasn’t picking up his phone. The crumble was drying to dust in the Aga—he prefers it with a bit of juice in, you see—so after another hour or so I thought that I’d go and see what was keeping him. Plus, I needed a bit of fresh air—after the headache and everything.”
“So you went out into the downpour?” Daphne asked. She was thinking about Augusta’s wet and muddy boots the morning she’d denied leaving her house since the previous afternoon.
“Yes.” Augusta was looking directly at Daphne now, as though examining her face to see her reaction. She knew full well that Daphne had questioned the wet state of the wellingtons.
“But why did you tell the police that you hadn’t left the house, Augusta? Why did you lie about that?”
Augusta took another sip from her mug. This time, she tilted it so far back that it was obvious she was draining the cup. It must be good herbal tea, Daphne thought to herself, as Augusta once more excused herself to, “Top up her cup . . .” leaving Daphne impatiently hanging on for the answer.
She returned to her seat and, as was becoming habit now, picked up directly where she had left off.
“. . . that’s just it. I didn’t tell them because I was still in shock. You see, that’s the reason I know it was Minerva.”
Daphne was on the edge of her seat again. What had Augusta seen that had made her so sure that Charles had been murdered by Minerva?
“I arrived at the allotment and it was almost pitch black—I could hardly see. The rain was still coming down, in fact the conditions were quite horrific. I could just make out the light coming from his potting shed—the only light on in the area. There’s no electricity there so he uses a gas light and a camping stove. I was about to call out when I saw her . . .”
Augusta paused for what Daphne was certain was a flourish of dramatic emphasis.
“Saw who?” Daphne felt compelled to ask the question even though she already knew what Augusta’s answer was going to be.
“Minerva Leek, of course.”
Daphne sighed and took a quick sip of her own only slightly cooling tea. In her eagerness to hear the story, she’d almost burnt her tongue twice without thinking. Augusta eyed Daphne’s curled lip as she attempted to drink the scalding liquid.
“Shall I put get you some cold wa—”
“No!” Daphne practically spat—she didn’t want any more gaps in the conversation. She wanted to know exactly what Augusta had seen that night. “No, thank you—it’s fine. Delicious even,” she lied, quickly composing herself as she continued to sip through a suppressed grimace. Boiling hot tea was a small price to pay . . . “What was . . . Minerva doing?” she asked.
“She was arguing with Charles. They were in the potting shed, and she was shouting at him.” Augusta sounded vaguely irritated, as though the answer ought to have been obvious.
Daphne thought about it for less than a minute. It didn’t make any sense.
“. . . But if Minerva was shouting at your husband, why didn’t you intervene? Why didn’t you go and find out what was wrong? Or try to stop it . . . or her . . . or something?”
“That’s exactly what I intended to do, but . . .” Augusta stopped and sighed, and took another long gulp of her “herbal tea.”
“But . . . ?” Daphne prompted her.
“. . . But—that was when they kissed.” It was the mic-drop moment and Augusta knew it.
Daphne looked on, eyes widening. “They, they . . . were actually kissing?” she stuttered out eventually.
“Yes indeed. Kissing. What I thought had been an argument, with her fists pounding on his chest, well, it all turned very quickly—before I could reach the shed—into a passionate embrace and, and a kiss . . .” Augusta looked down into her cup and for the first time Daphne felt a little sorry for her.
Unfortunately, her description of events confirmed what Daphne had seen in the woods. It was a cliché as old as time. The older married man and his much younger lover embracing in a few illicitly snatched moments. It was very disappointing. Daphne didn’t want to be a prude or cast moral judgment, but she had hoped that this wouldn’t be the conclusion . . .
“To be honest, I couldn’t believe that he hadn’t seen me—or heard me. He was facing my direction the entire time—they might have heard me stumbling about in the dark, but I suppose that they were otherwise . . . engaged.”
There seemed to be no stopping Augusta now. Whether recounting the story was proving to be cathartic or whether there was something in the “herbal tea” that had “relaxed” her, she seemed eager to continue.
Daphne sat puzzled for a few moments. Something wasn’t quite adding up.
“How close were you?” she asked.
“How close?” Augusta seemed confused. “How close was I to my husband? We had a very loving relationship, or so I thought . . .”
