The potting shed murder, p.19
The Potting Shed Murder, page 19
Daphne went back into the ring; she hesitated, not knowing what to do. Should she try to pull Augusta and Minerva apart? Should she ask for help to separate the two women? She looked around to see if there were any likely helpers. The captivated “audience” had not budged an inch and all eyes were on the entertainment in the middle of the ring.
“WHAT DID YOU SAY? ARE YOU DENYING IT? ARE YOU DENYING THAT YOU WERE HAVING AN AFFAIR? I FOUND THE PAPERS. HE SIGNED EVERYTHING OVER TO YOU. I SAW YOU. I SAW YOU WITH HIM. I HEARD YOU ON THE PHONE. DID YOU THINK I WOULDN’T FIND OUT? YOU KILLED HIM. YOU WERE BLACKMAILING HIM. YOU ARE A DIRTY LITTLE SCHEMING WHOR—”
Augusta stopped abruptly as a slap from Minerva resonated against her cheekbone, but despite the split-second pause in shock, Augusta continued to rage and scream.
“AUGUSTA! AUGUSTA—PLEASE!” Minerva pleaded for the older woman to calm down.
“MURDERER! MURDERER! WHORE! MISTRESS!” Augusta continued to repeat manically.
“AUGUSTA—I WASN’T HIS MISTRESS! I AM HIS DAUGHTER!”
For the first time in almost fifteen minutes there was silence. Augusta Papplewick’s jaw swung open in shock and remained hanging, mirroring Daphne’s incredulous expression as she stood just behind the woman.
The equally stunned village residents didn’t know whether to remain silent or whether to clap and cheer. One woman later claimed to have heard Biddy Merriman—the oldest member of the Women’s Institute—inform her friend that it was the best amateur dramatic performance that she’d seen in years.
CHAPTER 15
There were many reasons for the crowd still hovering on Pepperbridge Green to believe that the drama which had just unfolded so dramatically in front of their eyes had reached its climax. However, no one seemed to be ready to relinquish the prime ringside “seats” and miss out on a potentially exciting curtain call . . .
The crowds that had moments earlier been watching, quietly enthralled, were now awkwardly hovering with one eye still on the trio of ladies standing at the center. They were slowly exiting shocked mode and becoming a bubbling hotbed of gossip and wild intrigue, with accusations of torrid affairs and spousal grudges thrown about carelessly like confetti. Despite the fact that the two women were within hearing distance, decorum was forgotten, voices were raised in exhilarated faux whispers, and a dozen varying opinions and theories were being traded. “But who is her mother?” “How old is she—when did it happen?” “The old dog!” “I knew he was too good to be true!” “But I thought that she was the mistress?” It was the most fun many of them had had all year—better than previous village carnivals, that much was certain.
* * *
At the center of the chattering crowds stood a silent Augusta, immobilized by shock and staring directly at Minerva. Minerva had hardly moved either, unwilling to be the first to back down after the public name-calling, and staring defiantly back at Augusta. Like her father, she was a person of few words. Quiet, stoic and contemplative—and under normal circumstances as nonconfrontational as anyone could possibly be. Yet she could not be the first to retreat. She had done nothing wrong but admit to the secret that Charles Papplewick had intended to tell his wife on the night of his death. It wasn’t her fault that Charles had kept such a huge secret from his wife—although to be honest, she had begged him not to tell Augusta earlier that same evening. Anyway, she had no reason to be ashamed and wasn’t it more suspicious that her father had died on the same night as revealing who his daughter was?
Minerva could sense Daphne standing behind her and for that she was incredibly grateful. She was relieved when Daphne had taken Silvanus out of earshot of the ensuing havoc and she had seen her son disappear along with James and the Brewster children to what she imagined was the safety of Cranberry Farmhouse. She was sure that Daphne had returned to make sure that the two women didn’t actually start to fight and wrestle each other to the ground, and although her own inclination was to turn, run and hide again, her pride made her stand fast. Now that her secret was out, she wasn’t a hundred percent sure that Augusta wouldn’t choose the wrestling route, but she’d have to take that risk.
Daphne slowly edged herself towards where the two women stood facing each other.
“Perhaps we ought to go somewhere a bit more private?” she asked tentatively as she nodded towards the gawping crowds that were still dawdling unsubtly around the perimeter of the ring.
For the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, Augusta seemed to become aware of where she was and rather belatedly registered that her every action was being surveyed. She was under a microscope of ill-concealed village interest. They—she—had just made a spectacle of herself in front of the entire village and now the village was hanging around to see more.
Minerva turned to look at Daphne with an expression of slight bewilderment, registering that she had just said something about going somewhere more private while simultaneously nodding her head vigorously towards Augusta’s chest. Augusta looked down to see the microphone still clipped to her blouse.
“OH SHI—” she said instinctively—almost letting a final cherry-topped expletive slip out before Daphne lunged towards her and ripped the mic off.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the unlikely trio of flustered women were sitting in Daphne’s shop on the high street. The walls had been recently limewashed and the beams had been scrubbed and stripped to create a modern, rustic setting filled with both polished and painted furniture, all surrounded by vintage treasures and decorative antiques. It provided a welcome neutral backdrop to the continuation of the “discussion” that had started on the school field, and was of course, far more discreet—“rather like Switzerland” Daphne had offered up with zero humor intended. Augusta had refused to allow Minerva anywhere near her house, and Minerva had refused to invite Augusta anywhere near the cozy enclave of Cringlewic . . . but they both knew that they had to talk. There were too many unanswered questions and untied loose ends for them to retreat into silence again.
Daphne had disappeared for a few minutes to make everyone a cup of tea that none of them had requested or felt like drinking. However, there was something faintly comforting for Daphne in the mere action of making the tea, and something equally as grounding in the ladies accepting the mugs and having something to hold in their hands as they considered who was going to speak first.
Augusta bit the bullet, her expression still strained, but far less aggressive than it had been less than half an hour ago. Daphne could see that the older woman was exhausted by the emotional toll that her public outburst and the shocking revelation had taken.
“So, Charles is—was—your father?”
“Yes,” Minerva replied, and took a sip of the scorching hot tea.
“. . . and you’ve known that for all of your life? Have you both been laughing at me the entire time?” Augusta’s eyes had grown large and round and were filling with angry tears that she steadfastly refused to let overflow.
“No. I only found out from a letter that my mother had written to me before she died. It had been kept by one of the women at the commune. She’d been told not to give it to me unless there was an emergency.”
From the close sidelines atop a small chest of French-gray-painted drawers, Daphne tried not to shift around too much. It had been a poor choice of perch, due to its diminutive scale and her far more ample bottom, but it would be a distraction to move now, and she wanted the conversation to continue. For the sake of both women. She was also keenly aware of her own conflicting emotions at being here. She felt a combination of discomfort at being party to such intimate personal information, but also enthralled to be finally hearing the answers to so many of her unanswered questions.
“Emergency?” Augusta asked pointedly. “What sort of emergency?”
“Well, as it happened, she felt that being pregnant with Silvanus was that emergency. She felt that my mother would have wanted me to know once my child was born.”
They sat in silence for a few more minutes, quietly sipping at their tea and lost in their own thoughts.
“And did Charles already know? Did he know about you?” Augusta asked calmly.
“No. He didn’t. My mother hadn’t told him about . . . me,” Minerva replied quietly. “To be honest, I hadn’t intended on telling him myself. In fact, I had no intention of enrolling Silv at the school in Pepperbridge at all. I was furious when I found out. I went to school at Pepperbridge Primary myself. All those years of feeling awkward and lost and not knowing that the man I called my headmaster was actually my father.
I have so many awful memories of being ridiculed for being the child of a single mother and not knowing who my dad was—and yet there he was all along. Teaching me, even reprimanding me at times and watching me grow up without saying a word to help or to comfort me.” The words were tumbling out of Minerva’s mouth now. “For the first few years I was furious. I didn’t want to know him. I didn’t want him to know Silvanus—his grandchild!” Her breath was quickening, and she too was beginning to fight back tears.
“So why didn’t you just leave? Why did you stay and put Silvanus in his school?”
“Because I’ve lived here all my life. It’s my home. My mother died here. Why should I have been pushed out of my home just because my father didn’t want to know me?”
“He didn’t want to know you?” Augusta looked up sharply.
“That’s what I thought at first . . . but then I came to realize that he had no idea about me. I realized that he hadn’t even been aware that I’d been born . . . I don’t know what’s worse. Having a father who rejects you and doesn’t acknowledge you—as I had initially thought—or having a father in such close proximity who has no idea of your existence at all,” she finished sadly.
“Both cruel.” Daphne couldn’t help interjecting. She had tried to remain out of it, but she felt such compassion for Minerva, who still sounded as lost and sad as a little child.
Minerva looked over to Daphne and gave her a sad but grateful smile.
“What changed?” Augusta clearly didn’t have time for compassion. At least, not for anyone but herself.
“He took notice of Silvanus. Purely by coincidence at first. It was like he saw something in him somehow. Something familiar. He always seemed so sad—I mean Charles. He had this expression that always seemed as though he was lost in a well of despair.” Minerva looked up suddenly, realizing that her description was probably not the most diplomatic thing to be saying to his wife.
Augusta raised her chin defiantly. Her eyes were still shiny with unshed tears but determined in their focus to hear the full story. She evidently wouldn’t let emotion hinder her need to know what had happened. “Go on.”
“I only say so because Silvanus often has a similar look. Old before his years—too sad and too knowing. I’ve often worried that it was because he didn’t know his father either. That made me feel that it was unfair to deny them a relationship.”
All three sat thinking about the similarity between the late Charles Papplewick and his grandchild, Silvanus. The same narrow face. The same large and serious brown eyes. The same willowy frame with a rarely seen but charmingly crooked smile that only took up half of their face. Now that Augusta and Daphne knew what they did, it seemed obvious. Silvanus was just a younger, identikit version of Charles. What was even more ridiculous was that now that they thought about it, they saw the same features in Minerva’s face too. If it wasn’t for the hooded cloaks and long hair that almost always covered her face, then perhaps they would have seen it long before now.
“So, when did Charles find out?” Augusta asked eventually.
“Two years ago,” Minerva replied. “Silv had been at the primary school for a year and a half, and I’d seen how patient and gentle Charles was with him. Without even knowing who he was. I . . . I saw how kind he was, and I suddenly missed him, if that makes any sense? I missed having him in my life—even though he’d never really been in my life—apart from as my headmaster. I wanted him to know that I was his daughter. I wanted him to know Silvanus. I wanted us to have some sort of relationship, like . . . a . . . a real family.” She looked down at her hands in embarrassment as she gave this last admission. “I know that it might sound juvenile, but I’d envied all the children who’d known their father when I was at school. It’s such a small village that even the ones who had split up or divorced still knew who and where their fathers were. Some even lived with them or stayed with them for half of the time. I’d never had that. I thought that my father had abandoned my mother—just like I was abandoned when I got pregnant. I didn’t want my boy to think that everyone had abandoned him, and so I made the decision to confront Charles and tell him about his grandchild.” She’d barely paused, but both Augusta and Daphne sat listening, their expressions urging her to continue.
“It was one evening during the week—after school. I knew that he went to his allotment most evenings, and so I knew that I would catch him there. He was surprised to see me when I knocked on the potting-shed door that day, but he welcomed me in without question and allowed me to speak. I don’t think that he’d believed me at first, but then he began to cry—and then he gave me a hug. It felt like coming home.” She looked up, obviously saddened by the memory. “I remember that he had been present at my mother’s funeral.” She began to blink rapidly as she spoke, fighting back tears that were apparently very close to the surface. Daphne leaned over and offered her a tissue from her pocket.
“It’s all right—I’m fine. I still miss her, but it was over a decade ago now . . . Anyway, it was just a small pagan forest funeral, nothing grand or in a church, and so it was weird to see him there. It was before I knew who he was—or at least what he was to me. I remember thinking that he was just being courteous—with me being an ex-pupil and all. I hadn’t realized that there had been a, a . . . connection between them.” She trailed off, allowing the others to lose themselves in their own thoughts as they digested her words.
“Ten years ago?” Augusta was clearly desperately trying to remember what had been happening in their lives at that point. “Who was your mother?” she asked flatly. “What was her name? Would I have known her?” She looked directly across to Minerva for the first time in minutes, the pain and humiliation of finally realizing why her husband had never really loved her evident in her eyes.
“She kept herself to herself,” Minerva replied, choosing defiantly not to say her mother’s name. “She rarely came into the village—if at all, and we traveled to Somerset a lot when I was young. She had family there. A brother—my uncle. He has a campsite. It’s where we’ve been since . . . since Charles died.” The words were proving difficult to get out. This time the tears began to slowly fall, and she looked down at her hands.
“So, he’d known about you for two whole years before he died,” Augusta finally acknowledged, allowing Minerva a few moments to grieve before restarting the conversation from where they had left off.
“Yes, but he was always going to tell you. He’d said so from the beginning. He just didn’t know how to, and then after a while, I didn’t want him to tell you and I made him promise not to. After all, you knowing made no difference to me.” Minerva looked Augusta directly in the eyes. “I didn’t ask for anything, you know. I didn’t want anything from him apart from an acknowledgment that Silvanus was his grandchild in private. I didn’t want him to leave you. I knew nothing about the will.”
“And yet he wanted to give you all of it.” Augusta looked back at Minerva without any empathy at all. She wasn’t going to give her blessing. “We wanted children of our own. But it didn’t happen.” Augusta’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “How old are you? Thirty? Thirty-five? When were you born?”
“No, no!” Minerva exclaimed vehemently. “I was conceived before you came to the village. He didn’t have an affair. He was faithful to you throughout your marriage!”
“How do you know?” Augusta spat out bitterly.
“He told me.”
“How sweet,” Augusta replied, her voice dripping in sarcasm. “The problem is, Minerva, that my husband is dead, and his will was changed without my knowledge. Now I have no doubt that you are indeed Charles’s daughter—until now I’d obviously chosen not to see it, but the truth is that any fool can see the resemblance between you all. But Charles is no longer here, there’s a gaping hole in his bank account, and the police are currently investigating the cause of his death . . . and so my question is this, Minerva. Did you murder my husband that night for his money?”
Form the corner, Daphne let out an uncontrolled “No!”
The other two women stared at her.
“It wasn’t Minerva in the potting shed the night that Charles died.” Daphne was speaking to Augusta.
“There was someone with Charles in the potting shed the night that he died?” Minerva exclaimed incredulously, turning back to Augusta. “Who was it?”
Augusta squinted at Minerva. “I’d assumed it was you.”
“Me? Why would I have been there? The last time I saw Charles was at my house that afternoon—towards the end of Silv’s party.” Daphne nodded in agreement, remembering seeing them together when she was looking to cut the birthday cake. “He explained that he was going to tell you about me once and for all. He said that he was fed up with keeping a secret and living a lie and that you deserved to know. I begged him not to say anything. It was fine just the way it was.”
Augusta seemed nonplussed; she had been so sure that it was Minerva whom she had seen through the potting shed window that night. “You were wearing a dark-colored mackintosh with a bright yellow lining—I saw you!”
“But, Augusta, I promise you—I wasn’t there. The last time that I saw my fath—Charles, was at my home in Cringlewic during the party. It was the afternoon, and it had only just started to rain. Besides, I don’t own a raincoat with a yellow lining. I also loved my father very much. Yes, I used to feel angry, but by the . . . by the end we had a wonderful—if secret—relationship. He loved us too. It’s why he didn’t want us to be a secret anymore.”
