The potting shed murder, p.17
The Potting Shed Murder, page 17
“No, I mean, how close did you get to the potting shed that night? You said that it was dark, and presumably muddy in the rain, and you needed to call out? How close did you get if you needed to as you say, ‘call out’?”
Augusta raised an eyebrow, clearly calculating her response. “Close enough,” she replied curtly.
“Yes, of course . . . but had you reached the window, or were you a distance away? You said that he was facing you the entire time, did you actually see Minerva’s face? If you were at a distance, how did you know it was . . .”
“ENOUGH,” Augusta boomed and stood up, violently capsizing her mug. “This entire experience has been traumatic enough as it is without having to relive it over and over again!”
They both looked down at the mug that had crashed down onto the wooden floorboards and smashed into several pieces, its clear liquid contents spilling out onto the edge of an antique rug.
“I’m so sorry,” Daphne cried out as she instinctively stood from her seat and bent down to help pick up the mess.
“LEAVE IT!” Augusta practically screamed, but it was too late.
As both women crouched down, it was quite obvious to Daphne that the clear contents had been neat vodka. She hesitated before standing up, a fragment of the mug still attached to the handle in her hand.
“I’m sorry, Augusta. I really didn’t mean to upset you,” she offered gently. “It must all be so awful, regardless of what they were doing, you’ve been married for such a long time. It must be hard.”
Daphne thought of her brief glimpse of Charles’s will, leaving the house that Augusta had shared with her husband throughout their married life to Minerva and Silvanus. She was being completely genuine when she’d described it as “hard,” as she wondered whether Augusta was yet aware of that particular detail.
Augusta remained crouched on the floor, dabbing at the liquid with an embroidered handkerchief that she’d pulled from her pocket with one hand, while holding several pieces of broken china in the other. She was mumbling to herself as she dabbed the floor aggressively—staring down rather than at Daphne.
“All this time! All these years. I sacrificed everything. I gave up EVERYTHING—and for what? That little BITCH.”
Daphne was frozen, aghast and mesmerized at the jumble of words pouring from the incoherently babbling Augusta.
“She poisoned his mind. She POISONED him! Poisoned him against me. We were fine. He was about to retire. We were going to travel. To DO things. We were supposed to leave this godforsaken prison and DO things. She killed him. She killed US!” She was crying now, her shoulders jerking with each sob.
Daphne kneeled down and put her arms around Augusta as she rocked in despair. The older woman seemed suddenly small and broken. It was all very sad. This was obviously what Augusta had meant by Minerva “poisoning” Charles. She hadn’t meant that she had murdered him—she had meant that the younger woman had poisoned his mind. It sort of made sense now. Almost. It still didn’t explain why Charles had been found dead the next morning.
Augusta’s sobbing had stopped, but she was still quietly rocking in Daphne’s arms.
“I think that we should get you to lie down for a nap, Augusta,” Daphne said. “Is that OK?”
Augusta nodded her head almost imperceptibly, and then looked down at the broken shards that were still left on the floor.
“Don’t worry about the mess, Augusta. I’ll clear up and then let myself out.”
She helped raise Augusta to her feet, and they made their way to the stairs and walked up, Augusta leaning on Daphne’s side and held up by her arms the entire way.
“Which bedroom is yours?” Daphne asked, before guiding Augusta in the direction that her finger had limply indicated.
It was a very neat and tidy bedroom, tastefully decorated with an antique half tester bed and a window seat in a bay window that overlooked the rear garden. Daphne sat Augusta on the bed, helped to remove her shoes and swung her feet up so that she was reclining with her head on the pillow. It was a warm day, but still Daphne pulled up a blanket that was folded neatly across the end of the bed, and gently covered Augusta with it. Whatever her thoughts on Augusta, the woman appeared to have no one to comfort her.
Daphne’s eyes flickered across to the nearby dressing table. As well as the expected brush and comb and various bits of makeup and bottled perfume, it was also home to a wedding photograph in a heavy silver frame. It showed a much younger and serious-looking Charles Papplewick dressed in a morning suit, standing next to a very youthful and deliriously happy-looking Augusta. They appeared to be leaving the village church in Papplewick—Daphne recognized the tiled lychgate that marked the entrance to the attractive church that was now presided over by Reverend Gerald Duncan.
Even in his twenties, there seemed to be a hint of sadness to Charles’s eyes. It should have been the happiest day of his life, but it was evident—even through this millisecond snapshot of their wedding day—that he wasn’t a happy man.
Daphne was just about to turn back to Augusta when she saw another picture almost hidden out of sight behind the first frame. It showed a smiling Augusta on her graduation day, in a robe and mortar board. It hadn’t occurred to Daphne that Augusta had attended university. She hadn’t appeared to have pursued a career beyond being the wife of a headmaster. Augusta looked happy in the photograph. She had someone’s arm around her, but the person’s torso was cut off by the frame, leaving Augusta alone in the image with a floating arm about her shoulder. Daphne peered a little closer. The hand around her shoulder was square and large and had a signet ring on its little finger. A boy. You rarely saw rings like that on men these days. She glanced back at Augusta in the photograph. She looked like someone who was filled with joy and promise and the excitement of life to come. What had happened to turn her into the spiky and uptight bully that she was today?
“Will you be OK?” Daphne asked, her attention now back to her dozing companion.
Augusta was drifting in and out of sleep, but she seemed settled at least.
Daphne knew that it would be cruel to interrogate Augusta any further in her current state, but she wanted to ask one final question before she left.
“Augusta?”
“Mmmmm?” Augusta’s eyes were open and vaguely focused on Daphne as her head rested against the pillow.
“Did you actually see Minerva’s face that night—in the potting shed?”
“No,” Augusta murmured sleepily. “I saw the back of her head, but it must have been her. He said that we should never have married—because of her . . .” and then she was asleep.
CHAPTER 14
The Pepperbridge village fete was held annually on the first Saturday of July. It was one of the highlights of the parish calendar and was kept to the same reliably quaint format every year. Despite the recent sad events, this year was set to go ahead as planned. The stall holders, the fairground rides and the entertainment had been organized several months in advance, and it was expected to run like clockwork, held in the late headmaster’s honor. Most of the school staff, residents and parents agreed that Mr. Papplewick would have wanted it that way and, being the selfless headmaster that he was, would have been aghast at the thought of his passing causing a disruption to such a stalwart Pepperbridge tradition. Augusta had even agreed to hand out the prizes again this year, despite her loss being so recent that the headmaster’s body had yet to be laid to rest. It was all settled. No one was in any doubt that the village was in dire need of something uplifting, and a village fete, with its bunting, maypole dancing and cream teas, was just the ticket.
Naturally, the children of Pepperbridge Primary were in a frenzied state of excitement that would rival even the most toxically intense sugar rush, and every long-suffering parent— whether willingly or not—had been pulled in to prove their creative acumen by designing costumes or building and decorating the increasingly more elaborate floats. No one wanted to be accused of the harshest criticism known to Pepperbridge parenthood: the horror of buying a costume.
The PTA authenticity police made it their annual mission to weed out and publicly shame any parish resident who dared to circumvent the unspoken rules of “friendly competitiveness.” Those who were not interested in children’s activities were preparing themselves for the battle of the best home-grown flowers, the largest organic vegetables, or the fluffiest Victoria sponge cake. Even the all-ages prize for the bonniest bonnet, which the women of the WI took incredibly seriously, and which often ended in vicious accusations of stolen intellectual property and angst-ridden tears, was being eagerly prepared for among the more senior residents. The collective excitement was palpable—and despite Daphne’s preoccupation with Charles Papplewick’s death, even she was beginning to get caught up in it.
It had been quite a few days since Daphne had left Augusta sleeping off her afternoon “tea” in bed. She had called in to check on her that same evening, wanting to set her mind at rest that Augusta hadn’t fallen off the bed or choked in her sleep. When a composed and unruffled Augusta had opened the front door, Daphne had seen that the grand dame of Pepperbridge had returned to her habitual haughty self, making no reference to the earlier events. Over Augusta’s shoulder, just down the entrance hall, Daphne spotted two of Augusta’s village henchwomen waiting at the kitchen table. With relief, she had gladly left the older woman to her entourage, made her excuses, and departed in the knowledge that her questions had caused no lasting damage.
Much to Daphne’s disappointment, there had been no more revelatory inroads into the night Charles Papplewick had died. She feared that without confirmation from Minerva herself as to whether it had been her (kissing? arguing?) with Charles in the potting shed, any further speculation was a moot point, but Minerva was still missing, and even Daphne felt that trying to send her more than the occasional text might constitute harassment at this point. What was reassuring was that all of her messages had been read—the twin blue ticks confirmed that—and once she had even noticed the pulsating dots of a reply about to be typed back. Minerva then obviously thought the better of it, and didn’t commit to pressing “send.” Regardless of any confirmation, Daphne felt in her bones that Minerva was not the type to go around kissing married men in darkened sheds at night, although perhaps she was naively and conveniently failing to count the tryst that she saw in the woods as proof otherwise. Yet there was something off about the whole situation. Daphne knew that Minerva would not have willingly left her sleeping child alone in order to meet up with a lover—and surely, Silvanus hadn’t been there with her? Minerva was fiercely protective of her son and would not have abandoned him for even half an hour in favor of an illicit meeting—of that, Daphne was certain. Perhaps Augusta had seen a still tipsy Marianne in the potting shed, confronting Charles for the third time that night?
There had been a brief conversation, due to the light drizzle threatening to turn into proper rain, with Patsy Warburton in the street outside of Daphne’s little shop, where Patsy had seemed far more composed than the time Daphne had caught her uncharacteristically off-guard when questioned about Charles Papplewick’s death. They had even managed to laugh about the atrocious weather that day considering Norfolk was supposed to be the driest county in England. It had taken a while for the feeling to be reciprocated, but Daphne had warmed to Patsy Warburton and her tongue-in-cheek humor hidden just below the surface.
As harbingers of local gossip, the sisters had been accused of being the perpetrators of the Village Pump’s rogue issues. It was common knowledge that neither sister could stand Augusta Papplewick, who was consistently being hinted at as the person most likely responsible for her own husband’s death. The underlying tone that an “unlikely love interest” may be involved only added to the sense that whoever was behind the unsolicited issues was more concerned with causing mischief for Augusta than helping her to mourn her loss. However, although the sisters claimed to have a good idea of who the true culprit might be, they vehemently denied all responsibility, claiming quite reasonably that if they had an accusation, they would gladly say it to the suspect’s face.
Patsy had been restocking the Victorian jardinière that they used as stock display in the front of their grocery shop when Daphne had shouted a cheerful “hello” after parking in front of her own shop a few doors down. Patsy had paused to check who had called out before her stern features softened, returning the wave in good-natured acknowledgment.
Unlike her smaller, bespectacled older sister, Patsy had an almost formidable presence to her height. Almost always dressed in battered overalls with a striped T-shirt underneath, she was the outwardly intimidating yin to Nancy’s unassumingly granny-like yang. However, woe betide anyone who imagined that Nancy, with her Mrs. Pepperpot looks, was the more affable half of the pair. Nancy Warburton definitely had the deadlier sting in her tail.
On the other hand, Patsy might look as though she could take you out with one right hook, but she preferred to stealthily build up to the knockout rather than waste her punches. That morning she had been surprisingly talkative, choosing to walk the few short yards towards Daphne’s store and inquire how everything was coming along. After exchanging a few pleasantries about footfall, the conversation had turned unexpectedly to the topic of Minerva.
“How is your friend, Minerva, from the commune?” Patsy had inquired politely.
“Oh gosh—Minerva, well . . .” Daphne had stumbled on her words, unsure how much to admit to Patsy, who was obviously well known for gathering information.
“I do hope that she’s all right. All this nonsense that bully Augusta and the village are spouting!”
Patsy had sounded far more impassioned than Daphne would have expected, and she believed that Patsy was speaking with sincerity, rather than fishing for gossip.
“To be honest, I’m rather worried as I haven’t heard from her for a while,” Daphne reluctantly admitted, unable to keep up a pretense about her friend who had seemingly disappeared into thin air.
Patsy looked Daphne directly in the eye with sudden compassion. “Look after her, please. They’re a nice bunch up at Cringlewic. They’ve been unfairly treated over the years.”
Daphne had looked back in surprise. Of all the people whom she had expected to defend the “Witches of Cringlewic,” one of the Warburton sisters had not been one of them.
“Do you know them up there? I’ve hardly seen any of the others—apart from Minerva. I did rather hope that she had a good support network, but it always seems so quiet—and empty.”
“Mmmm. That’s a shame.” Patsy was looking past Daphne into the distance, as if recalling a long-forgotten memory. “There used to be a lot more of them. It’s historically been the site of a Wiccan coven, although it was just a women’s commune when I knew them. Lots of yoga and chanting and emotional support. One or two were trained midwives turned doulas. I think there were a few who had run out on abusive marriages or something, and some brought their children to live with them. It was all harmless really, although everyone thought it was scandalous back in the day and they’ve always had a hard time fitting in.” Patsy had sounded rather sad at this point. “Nonsense, really. They’re no different to you or me. Probably better than most in Pepperbridge, in fact,” she ended knowingly.
Daphne could have sworn there was a tinge of sadness to her voice—and something else too—was it regret? It was the most that Patsy had ever said to Daphne in one sitting, and it confirmed what Daphne had thought: Patsy was a good sort after all.
The conversation had ended abruptly there at the sound of Nancy calling her sister’s name. Patsy had looked at Daphne with a smile and rolled her eyes before walking off.
* * *
The Saturday morning of the carnival had come quickly, and Cranberry Farmhouse was a hive of frantic activity, with all three children calling out for help in finding additional bits of costume and discarded paraphernalia. Immy had been asked to be a “princess” on the carnival king and queen’s float, and was taking her role as handmaiden to the eleven-year-old queen extremely seriously by repeatedly applying thick swathes of pink shimmery lipstick on her lips every time Daphne had wiped the last vetoed application off. Fynn was dressed as a playing-card soldier from Alice in Wonderland, complete with painted cardboard diamonds balanced sandwich-board style over his body, and a pair of Daphne’s favorite black Wolford tights covering his beanpole legs. Archie was dressed as Willy Wonka—happily resplendent in a vintage purple smoking jacket that Daphne had found in a local charity shop, with hastily pinned up sleeves and an antique top hat that kept falling over his eyes. Byron was joining in with the excitement by gleefully getting tangled up in discarded clothes and attempting to grab hold of Archie’s top hat with his mouth.
For the first time in weeks, Daphne felt carefree, her mind on things other than solving crimes that weren’t officially crimes. Throwing herself into the joyful atmosphere of her deliriously happy children as they prepared for their first village fete and carnival parade was a pleasure after the previous weeks. It was a defining moment that they were so involved with the Pepperbridge parish institution. Even James had been called upon to man the coconut shy stand for half an hour, and he was also down for the Pudding Corner tug of war. It was a rite of passage.
They would need to leave the house within the next twenty minutes in order to get the children to the carnival floats at the north end of the village on time. Then the parents would follow along slowly behind the parade through the village, led by a local marching band, the more mobile members of the WI in their bonnets and sashes, a procession of vintage steam tractors and members of the Girl Guides and Boy Scouts. All the while, the children and teachers would be high up on their decorated floats, waving at the onlookers who lined the narrow, winding cobbled streets.
“Is that the doorbell?” Daphne vaguely heard James call out from Archie’s room in the attic.
“What?”
