The potting shed murder, p.21
The Potting Shed Murder, page 21
Minerva had been led into a different interview room twenty minutes earlier and the women hadn’t seen each other since. Augusta, she assumed, was being held in custody somewhere in the same station. Despite the shoe now being on the other foot, Daphne still felt sorry for Augusta. The woman had just lost her husband of forty years and was now accused of being the cause of his death. True, there could be an element of karma coming to slap her in the face after her own accusations towards Minerva, but regardless, she must have been feeling pretty bleak at that moment.
Inspector Hargreaves entered the room, characteristically red and flustered.
“So . . .” he began.
“So . . . ?” Daphne repeated. She was met with silence as the inspector contorted his face into a series of expressions that ranged from confusion to annoyance. She decided to be the first to talk. “If you don’t mind, I have something here that may be of interest? I’m not sure what Augusta has told you, but on the night of Charles’s death, she went to look for him at the allotment. She saw somebody in the potting shed with him.”
“Yes . . . we already know that to be the case,” Inspector Hargreaves replied with a slightly irritated air, “and before you try to tell me, we already know that it wasn’t Ms. Leek as we have witnesses living in the area who are able to prove that she was at home all night. In fact, we now believe that Mrs. Papplewick was making the entire thing up. There was no one else at the potting shed that evening apart from herself and her husband,” he ended smugly. After leaning back in his chair with great aplomb, the inspector continued with what he clearly intended to be a flourish of rhetorical finality. “You see, Mrs. Brewster, we do know how to follow up allegations without resorting to the help of amateur sleuths poking around . . .”
“Oh,” replied Daphne, suddenly made uncertain by the exasperation in the inspector’s tone. “Well, then I suppose you already know that it might have been Nancy Warburton that Augusta saw with Charles in the potting shed that night . . .” she added, holding up the rain mac that had remained grasped in her hands ever since Patsy Warburton had handed it to her an hour earlier.
Inspector Hargreaves’s mouth dropped open for a millisecond and then snapped closed as he reached over and grabbed the rain mac. “Thank you, Mrs. Brewster. That will be evidence, and may I ask you not to concern yourself with the gathering of it in future, please.”
“But don’t you want to know why it might have been Nancy Warburton and how I got the rain mac?” Daphne asked quietly, torn between feeling rather proud of her powers of deduction and chastened by the police officer’s not-so-subtle reprimand.
“Go on,” the inspector continued with obvious reluctance.
Delighted that she had permission to elaborate on her theory, Daphne went on. “Well, it was after my daughter kept calling Nancy Warburton—not to her face of course—‘the Coraline Lady.’ ”
“Coraline?” Inspector Hargreaves queried. “What on earth is ‘Coraline’?”
“She’s a fictional character in a children’s animated film—but she wears a yellow mac with a yellow hood. In the film . . .” Daphne could see that Inspector Hargreaves was growing even more confused at the mention of cartoon characters. She tried to get to the point swiftly. “You see, during the bad weather a few weeks ago, when I was trying to get my shop ready for opening, I would sometimes bring the children along while I sorted things out. We’re only a few doors down from the Warburton sisters’ shop, and we would often see them outside clearing the pavement area in the rain—they had a blocked drain filled with leaves at the time . . .”
“Please, Mrs. Brewster, what is the point of this story?”
“It’s the rain mac. Nancy Warburton was always wearing a fisherman-style rain mac with a hood. A sou’wester I think it’s called. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time, after all, it’s just a coat, and you see children in them all the time, but it’s more unusual to see them on grown-ups I suppose—unless they are fishermen maybe? Anyway, it was my daughter mentioning Coraline that made me remember it. Although at first, I didn’t think about it—it’s just one of those things that children say, isn’t it? But then Augusta mentioned that she had seen someone in a mac that night, and after Nancy mentioned that she had been out in the rain that same evening and had seen Marianne screaming at Mr. Papplewick . . .” She stopped, realizing that she was babbling.
“Marianne screaming at Charles Papplewick? Is that Mrs. Marianne Forbes?” Inspector Hargreaves looked up sharply. Evidently, rather frustratingly, Daphne Brewster had just given him more information in five minutes than he had managed to collect himself in a fortnight.
“Yes, they’d had a few arguments in the build-up to his death—but I don’t think that it was her,” Daphne said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, do you not indeed?” Inspector Hargreaves replied with a raised eyebrow. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Brewster, you’ve given us a lot to think on.” The inspector rose from his seat, motioning towards the door with his head to indicate that the interview was over.
Daphne stood up reluctantly. She was rather enjoying the chance to discuss the possibilities with someone other than James, although she was begrudgingly aware of being met with a similar vibe from both men that she was sticking her nose into places where it was not needed.
“May I ask you something before I leave?” she asked, before she was ushered out.
“It depends on what it is, Mrs. Brewster.”
“How did Charles Papplewick actually die—and why do you think that it was his wife who was responsible? Which I don’t believe is correct by the way,” she couldn’t help adding.
“Well, Mrs. Brewster. That is of course police business, but what I can tell you is that Charles Papplewick died from a heart attack brought upon by the ingestion of a poisonous substance in large quantities.” With that he shuffled the papers on his desk and gave a parting shot. “No more meddling, Mrs. Brewster. We are more than capable of concluding this case ourselves, thank you.”
As Daphne was escorted through to the front desk towards the exit, she was met by Minerva. The two women instinctively embraced each other with relief before leaving to walk to Minerva’s car. The sun was lower in the sky, and the wispy pink beginnings of a perfect Norfolk sunset were just beginning to form, although the main event wouldn’t be visible for a few more hours yet.
“They believe that he was poisoned,” Minerva said with tears in her eyes, as she turned the key in the ignition. “They think that it was a plant-based poisoning—cardiac glycoside plant poisoning they called it. It’s why they were looking for me initially.” Minerva looked over at Daphne in the passenger seat beside her. “We make all sorts of herbal remedies and plant-based healing tinctures up at the commune. We’ve done it for generations, in fact there have been healers on the site for several centuries. We make face creams and beauty products too. It’s how most of the ladies earn a living. Some read tarot cards or do psychic readings too—that sort of thing.”
“I did wonder,” Daphne said quietly.
“Anyway, we know our stuff too well to make mistakes. We are all taught which plants are safe from a young age, and we don’t dabble with poisons or anything dangerous, although we do know how to make them,” she admitted. “It’s no secret. It comes with the territory—having to learn what to avoid for our own safety as well as for the safety of others.”
Daphne nodded her head slowly. She groaned inwardly, remembering the history of the area. How sad yet predictable that after so many centuries had passed, the small community still blamed the “Cringlewic Witches,” who knew as much about poisons as they knew about herbal remedies and cures. Surely, like Daphne, they knew that the local area was prevalent with all sorts of plants filled with toxins that could kill if one didn’t know how to identify them. Dianthus barbatus—commonly called sweet William, angel’s trumpet, digitalis, or foxglove, deadly nightshade, and even lily of the valley, oleander and yew—they were all filled with natural chemicals that could affect the heart’s rhythm, and lead to a heart attack if ingested in large enough quantities. The children had been taught about it in their country-safety classes at school—to stay away from certain wild plants and certainly never to touch them or put them in their mouths. Daphne shuddered in her seat at the thought of anyone accidentally coming into direct contact with a “killer” plant.
“But why do they think he was poisoned by someone else? Couldn’t it have been accidental? Wasn’t there that thing on the news a few years ago about a gardener who came into contact with—what was it—monkshood, mullswood or something?” asked Daphne.
“Monkshood—also known as wolfsbane and devil’s helmet,” Minerva corrected her.
“That’s it—monkshood flowers. That wasn’t a case of murder, was it?” Daphne asked, genuinely not wanting to believe that anyone could have wanted to end Charles Papplewick’s life on purpose. “And Charles was already upset. Anxious even—perhaps his heart was already weak?”
“The thing with these plants is that a little will make you feel unwell. Cause a rash, usually, or if you’re really unlucky you’ll have vomiting and diarrhea—but you have to eat a lot or have it in concentrated form to cause an instant heart attack. That’s why they’ve held Augusta. I suppose they want to know what she fed him that night—especially after he told her that he was leaving her. I suppose they feel that it was a bit too much of a coincidence.”
Minerva looked over to Daphne, who was deep in thought, thinking about Augusta’s shepherd’s pie—which she had privately questioned at the time—and the two women drove along in silence for a while.
“She had mentioned cooking his favorite meal that night, which seemed unlikely considering their mood even before everything unfolded.” She looked at Minerva from the corner of her eyes, trying to read her expression before continuing. “Do you really think that Augusta killed him?” Daphne finally asked.
“No. No I don’t. She’s a dreadful woman, a snob and a bully, but I don’t believe that she’s a murderer.”
They continued the rest of the journey in contemplative silence against a backdrop of puffy clouds and hazy pink skies before eventually turning in to Daphne’s drive at Cranberry Farmhouse, just in time to see Nancy Warburton wobbling up to the front door on her ancient black bicycle.
“We need to talk,” Nancy said menacingly through the passenger side window.
CHAPTER 17
The evening was warm and quiet, with only the faint sound of the odd car driving in the distance breaking the serenade of evening birdsong. The air was thick with the heady scent of the sweetly fragranced jasmine that climbed up and over the front door of Cranberry Farmhouse. It was the most beautiful backdrop to what was likely to be a rather uncomfortable conversation, Daphne mused to herself, as she shuffled slowly from one foot to the next, wondering whether Nancy could tell that she was nervous. Nancy Warburton was most likely the person who’d been arguing with Charles Papplewick in the potting shed the night that he died. She was therefore likely the last person to see him alive. Was Nancy Warburton the unlikely murderer, and if so, what had been her motive?
As a result of her recent interview at the police station, Daphne assumed that it would only be a matter of time before Nancy was “invited” in for questioning herself. The question was, if Nancy was indeed responsible for the murder of Charles Papplewick—then what was she doing here? Daphne sighed to herself, waiting to see what Nancy would do next. She was still holding on to both handlebars of her ancient Pashley bicycle, which at least meant that her hands were currently occupied. Having nodded with feigned reassurance to Minerva that she should continue into the house without her, she had to admit to a slight feeling of nervous tension now that she was alone with the older woman.
“You took my raincoat. Why?” The sound of Nancy’s voice interjected Daphne’s erratic train of thought.
“I . . . err . . . well, you see . . .” Daphne began, trying to consider whether she ought to tell the truth, or whether telling Nancy the truth would give the woman time to make up an alibi.
“You know that I was there, don’t you!”
It was more of a statement than a question, and Daphne felt rather relieved. Nancy knew that Daphne had pieced together who had been in the potting shed with Charles Papplewick just before he died—there was nothing more to hide. With that relief brought a wave of tiredness, and on impulse, Daphne dropped her legs and sat down on the front doorstep. It seemed to catch Nancy off guard for a moment, before she flicked the bicycle stand on, and joined Daphne on the step.
The view from the doorstep was as pretty as it was looking towards the farmhouse. Underneath the increasingly deep pink sky was a wide expanse of neatly clipped lawn, bordered by box hedging and large round box balls acting as sentinels framing the graveled drive. Beyond the lawn were all manner of colorful shrubs and flowers, with magnificent hydrangea bushes with their white, blue and pink heads bobbing lightly in the breeze like giant pompoms, while above them stood a host of impressively tall and voluminous trees, many planted at the same time as the house was being built three hundred years ago. Daphne often wondered what mysteries these trees had seen in their time. The different families meandering in and out. What did they make of the current mistress of the house being a Black woman from south London? She doubted that it would even warrant a stirring of their leaves. After all, these trees had witnessed far more interesting cultural changes over the decades than an influx of different skin colors. She imagined their thoughts on the two women sitting on the flagstone steps this evening. One a possible murderess, the other a woman who didn’t know when to stop asking questions.
Tiredness caused Daphne’s caution to melt away. “I knew that you had been there as soon as Augusta mentioned the raincoat. It was niggling in the back of my mind for ages, but eventually I remembered—I think that I’d always realized, but I had to make sure.”
“It was me, but I didn’t mean to cause him a heart attack. I was just so angry. I’ve been so angry about it for years!” Nancy’s voice had gone up a few octaves until it somehow now matched her diminutive frame. It seemed that despite her anxiety, the evening’s air had melted away her own usual reticence too.
“What were you angry about, Nancy?” Daphne asked cautiously, not wanting to seem too eager and frighten any forthcoming answers away.
“It’s Patsy. Patsy has been in love with Charles for as long as I can remember.”
Perhaps spooked by her own surge of anger, Nancy kept her face expressionless as she stared out into the distance, eventually focusing intently on the trees at the far end of the garden. She was obviously attempting to keep her emotions in check, but Daphne could tell from the softening of her voice as it turned from shrill anger to a gentler, thicker tone that she was very emotional.
“We all grew up together in the village. Same school, same church, same socials. Our parents all knew each other. Patsy and Charles were inseparable as children. There was a trio of them all the same age. The Three Musketeers, we used to call them. Always up to no good and escaping down to Cringlewic Woods to play with the commune children. No matter what our parents said about not hanging around the “witches’ coven” and their good-for-nothing children, those three would always be down there getting up to mischief. I think she’d always been in love with Charles, even as a young girl. When they grew up and became teenagers, I suspect the hormones started raging. I noticed that Patsy was withdrawing more and more into herself. She only lit up when she was around Charles. They would disappear into the woods, and she’d come out laughing and happy. It was obvious that they were courting, but whenever she was at home, she would become secretive and looked desperately unhappy. She’d never been particularly academic, so when it came to university she didn’t get in anywhere—to be honest, I don’t think that she actually tried. Art was her thing—and she’s incredibly good at drawing. There was talk of art school, but our parents weren’t having any of it. There was a shop to run, and after our father died it was left up to us girls . . .” She paused, clearly realizing that she had gone off track.
Daphne smiled. It was good to hear the backstory. She didn’t mind how long it took for Nancy to tell her. “Go on . . .” she encouraged gently.
The older woman sighed, tilting her head back and looking up to the sky, which was only now starting to get dark. She closed her eyes and remembered. “It was the year that Charles was supposed to go up to university in Cambridge. He was all set when he suddenly decided to defer it by a year. His parents were furious, but Patsy, who wasn’t going anywhere, was absolutely overjoyed. Charles’s parents were so ambitious for him. His father was the headmaster but wanted so much more for his son. Charles was incredibly bright, and they felt that the world could have been his oyster—especially after Cambridge. I think he stayed for Patsy. I believe that they were in love . . . but then that love waned. He must have grown bored realizing what he was giving up and decided to end things. There was one particular night when Patsy had stayed out very late. My mother had sent me out in the car to look for her as her tea had been sitting getting cold for over an hour. There’d been a dreadful storm and it was still raining, and we were beginning to worry. I tried to see if she was at Charles’s parents’ house and they said that he wasn’t home yet either, so we knew that they were together. I was intending to return home in the hope that she was there, when something told me to drive towards Cringlewic Woods. That’s when I saw that she was sobbing—howling in Charles’s arms. I don’t know what had happened exactly, but she was absolutely distraught. He looked pretty grim too.”
“Did she say what had happened? Had he broken up with her?” Daphne asked.
“She refused to say. I don’t know whether he tried to take advantage of her, or whether it was just the fact that he broke up with her, but she’s not spoken about it since. When we got back to the shop that night, she went up to her bedroom without eating anything and locked her door. She remained inside her room for about ten days, only coming out to use the loo and then scuttling back in. She changed after that. When she eventually came out, she’d hacked all of her beautiful long hair off. She refused to wear dresses or makeup or anything that would make her look attractive. He ruined her, you see. If she couldn’t have him, then she didn’t want any man to look at her. She gave up all of her artistic ambitions too. Threw herself into the running of the shop and refused to look at another man. He broke her heart, and then he broke it again when he came back after Cambridge and brought a stuck-up wife back with him. His parents were terribly disappointed, they’d hoped for so much more, but he joined the staff at the village school and worked his way up until he was headmaster and remained there for the rest of his life.”
