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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Southwold Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
Rosy Gilchrist has been asked to accompany Lady Fawcett to visit Delia Dovedale, an old school friend in Suffolk and whom she hasn't seen for years. Rather reluctantly Rosy agrees to be her companion on this reunion jaunt. But on arrival at their hostess's house the two guests discover that things are far from normal, and find themselves plunged into a series of bizarre and sinister events.
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Seitenzahl: 358
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
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A Southwold Mystery
SUZETTE A. HILL
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
‘But it will probably be an awful affair,’ Professor Cedric Dillworthy protested. ‘I mean does one really want to spend a whole fortnight being charming to florists and old ladies on the east coast? Not exactly my idea of fun. Besides I am rather busy preparing notes for my new book Runes and Reminiscences; the publishers are hounding me already.’
Felix Smythe, proprietor and creator of Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms in Knightsbridge, sniffed and replied tartly that while he fully realised that his friend had the utmost difficulty with florists he rather thought old ladies might be just up his street. ‘Such instinctive empathy,’ he beamed.
Cedric scowled but ignored the jibe. ‘So what do they want you to do exactly – talk to the plants?’
‘I have told you: judge the bouquets and displays, award prizes and give two talks entitled “My Days amid the Daisies”.’
‘But you hate daisies.’
‘That’s neither here nor there; it needn’t stop one rambling on about them. The point is that now I have my royal warrant I must expect to be approached for this sort of event and where necessary pander to the public’s foibles … It’s the regal association: people like being addressed by one who has the ear of the Queen Mother.’ Felix flashed a modest smile, and picking up his embroidery inserted a few neat stitches. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘their fee is quite decent. Such little emoluments are always welcome.’
‘Even if it means going to Southend?’
Felix gave a pained sigh. ‘I do not envisage myself in Southend. The invitation comes from Southwold, an understated but rather more distinguished resort if I may say so. Its Plant and Garden Fiesta is renowned throughout East Anglia; I am surprised you don’t know that. In any case my time there will be a useful rehearsal for next year.’
‘Really? What happens next year?’
Felix shrugged. ‘Well Chelsea of course, they are bound to ask me before long.’
‘Hmm. Perhaps. But in the meanwhile I take it we are to brave the bath chairs, the hard pebbles and that cutting east wind. I was stationed there temporarily in the war and remember it vividly – especially the barbed wire entanglement on the seafront.’
‘Since we are now in 1955 it is just conceivable that the municipal authorities will have had both the time and wit to remove such impedimenta. As to the pebbles: it is customary to use a deck chair – or it is for those of a certain age, dear boy.’ Felix gave a broad wink.
‘Which leaves the wind.’
‘Well naturally you will take that superb Crombie coat which I so generously produced for your birthday. High time it had an outing, so now’s your chance to slay ’em on the promenade!’
Cedric replied that he was beginning to feel a trifle slain himself and that unless he was offered a reviving dry martini the idea of accompanying his friend anywhere was out of the question.
Felix mixed a treble, with copious gin and a single olive but no ice; after which the professor seemed curiously malleable.
Elsewhere in London Lady Fawcett, widow of Sir Gregory, was also exerting pressure.
‘You see, Rosy, it is all very tiresome. I was specifically relying on Amy to accompany me on my visit to Suffolk. After all, except for a brief sighting across a crowded room, I haven’t seen Delia Dovedale for over thirty years. I may not like her any more – not that I ever did really – so should I suddenly feel the need to escape at least Amy could have given me moral support … well, in a roundabout way I suppose.’
Lady Fawcett frowned, while Rosy Gilchrist considered Amy’s qualities as a potential aide-de-camp. Roundabout or direct, she suspected that the girl’s supportive role in her mother’s problem would be minimal – hearty zeal being no substitute for usefulness. Rosy had been drawn into the older woman’s orbit two years previously, when, burdened by the scandal of her aunt’s murder, she had found the Fawcett family’s blend of worldly nous and airy indifference perversely reassuring.1 The Fawcetts had been a mild diversion from darker matters. However, did she now really want to be Lady Fawcett’s companion on her jaunt to visit the questionable Delia in her rambling Edwardian villa on the outskirts of a sedate seaside town? No, not especially.
Playing for time she cleared her throat and asked if her hostess was sure that Amy couldn’t be persuaded.
‘Oh I’ve tried incessantly but she is hell-bent on this camping nonsense. Admittedly the campsite is near Deauville, but even so I hardly think that bivouacking in the corner of some foreign field is going to improve her marriage chances. She ought to be here in London going to concerts and summer parties – or at least be with me at Delia Dovedale’s.’
‘But would East Anglia provide such entertainment?’
‘Probably not; but there’s bound to be something going on however modest. And besides, there’s a son: not much brain I suspect but plenty of money. An ideal match for Amy I should say.’
‘But perhaps she will marry one of her camping chums.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ Lady Fawcett replied grimly.
With a little more cajoling, appeals to Rosy’s nobler nature, delicate bribes and flattery – ‘my dear you are so good at dealing with people!’ – Rosy finally succumbed to the Fawcett charm and found herself accepting the proposal.
‘Wonderful,’ the arm-twister cried. ‘You won’t regret it – we’ll have so much fun!’
Rosy gave an uncertain smile.
The principal problem was Dr Stanley, Rosy’s boss at the British Museum. After her recent mission in Venice to procure the coveted Horace volume she was unsure whether he would be prepared to grant her long leave to go gadding off to Suffolk with Angela Fawcett. It rather depended on his current mood. Buoyed up with plaudits for his latest lecture and still mildly grateful for the Horace acquisition, he might prove magnanimously agreeable; but enraged by criticism from a rival academic he would swear she was indispensable and refuse point blank. The betting was even-stevens.
Thus picking Friday evening as a good time and with diffident calculation, Rosy made her approach. She caught him under the portico en route to the Museum Tavern opposite. What would he be: benign at the prospect of a beer and a whisky chaser, or irritable to be waylaid? She would find out.
‘You don’t mean you will be staying with that Dovedale woman do you?’ he had exclaimed.
‘Er, well yes so I gather. Do you know her?’
Dr Stanley’s features contorted into a grimace of startling intensity. ‘Once was enough,’ was the acid response.
There was a silence as Rosy waited for him to enlarge, and as he didn’t she asked curiously whether the acquaintance had been a long time ago.
‘Not long enough,’ he said curtly. ‘We had a little walkout just before the war. She behaved abominably.’ He fixed Rosy with a baleful eye: ‘Do you know, among other things she had the nerve to call me a desiccated museum piece. Me for God’s sake. Scourge of the Bloomsbury maidens I was in those days, and then some! Huh! I can tell you she was quite frightful.’ He scowled into the distance.
‘Must have been,’ Rosy earnestly agreed. ‘But, uhm, does that mean that you don’t want me to go?’
‘What? Oh yes, you can go all right. We’ve nothing lined up immediately – or at least nothing that I can’t off-load onto young Rawlings.’ He paused and then leered. ‘Besides you can act as my emissary – tell her what a superlative boss you have: a model of manly charm, sharp intellect and fine sensibility. Lay it on thick and stress how lucky you are to be working for such a decent fellow. Make sure you do that, now.’ He seemed about to sweep on resolute for the Tavern; but then checked his stride and said sternly, ‘But there is one condition, Rosy, a condition which I insist you respect: I shall require my full quota of Southwold Rock; at least two sticks. Do not return without it.’
En route to her flat off Baker Street and thinking further of the coming trip, Rosy was not sure whether she had triumphed or blundered. Some victories were decidedly pyrrhic.
1. See A Little Murder
CHAPTER TWO
Lady Fawcett did not drive – something which in Rosy’s view was no bad thing. Given the woman’s vagueness and at times startling caprice, her presence on the open road would surely have presented an even greater hazard than it already did within the cloistered drawing rooms of Mayfair. Thus to be designated chauffeur on their Suffolk expedition suited Rosy well. However, she had rather assumed that her passenger might have some modest capacity for map-reading. She did not.
‘I don’t know what all these numbers are,’ Angela Fawcett grumbled, ‘I mean why can’t they just print the names of the roads as they do in London such as Curzon Street, St James’s Street, Sloane Avenue? All these letters and figures are so confusing. It would be so much clearer if they just put “The Southwold Road” or “Woodbridge Junction” for example. As it is the whole thing seems to be in code. And why are some lines coloured red and others green? Rather bad luck if one were colour-blind I should think!’
There were a number of answers Rosy could have given but it was simpler to say patiently, ‘Yes I agree; it is all a bit tricky. But don’t worry: just sit back and enjoy the scenery. We’re bound to get there all right.’ Of course she knew that they would, but thought ruefully that progress could have been considerably eased had her companion possessed the modicum of navigation skills.
The suggestion to enjoy the scenery was taken to heart. Once out of London and moving into the unchartered territory of the Essex–Suffolk borders Lady Fawcett was clearly captivated by the rural vista and set up a running commentary on the delights of the newfound landscape, eagerly prompting Rosy to look to right and left to admire the groups of ruminating cattle and po-faced sheep. Failure to react would stimulate more insistent gesturing. After a while Rosy’s responses of ‘Uhm’ and ‘Ah’ and ‘Charming’ began to flag and she wondered if she could divert her companion’s attention to something less likely to bring the car off the road.
‘It will be fascinating to meet your friend after all these years,’ she said. ‘What with all the water under the bridge you will have masses to talk about.’
‘Possibly,’ was the slightly doubtful reply. ‘From what I can recall of Delia she was one of the heartier girls. You know the sort – always leaping over wooden horses and spraining her wrist slamming tennis balls. Perfectly pleasant of course but a trifle loud. For one term I had to share a dormitory with her – rather a harrowing experience I seem to remember.’ From the corner of her eye Rosy noted her passenger wince, presumably in recollection.
‘Well I expect she has quietened down by now. Who knows, you may find her the essence of seemly reserve.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Lady Fawcett. She didn’t sound entirely convinced. There was a pause, and then she added, ‘I did meet the husband once … well it was at their wedding actually. He was loud too. He had a penchant for playing the trumpet.’
‘But did he do that at the wedding?’ Rosy asked.
Lady Fawcett sighed. ‘Incessantly.’
There was a further silence as the passenger seemed to be brooding, though whether about the deafening notes of the trumpet or on other matters Rosy couldn’t be sure. However, she quickly learnt.
‘As a matter of fact, Rosy dear, I find it rather odd that she should have wanted to get in touch with me at all. Admittedly both our husbands were in the diplomatic service but our paths had long since diverged – she with her husband to Switzerland – he was an attaché there – and me to embassy life with Gregory in Paris and London. Although now I come to think of it, we did overlap for a brief period. He was assigned some temporary post in Paris but I think I only saw her once there and that was in the distance … she had grown rather stout I recall. Anyway we returned to England and I think they stayed on for a time. Of course we are now both widowed but that hardly constitutes a common bond. I can think of several widows who are daggers drawn … In fact,’ and she giggled, ‘Elsie Granchester’s last cocktail party was virtually torn apart by the row between her and the widowed cousin. Simply torn apart!’ She lapsed into merry mirth while Rosy took the chance to grab the map and swiftly check the route. So far so good: they were still on course.
With both eyes returned the road, she said, ‘But didn’t she give any indication? Perhaps she is just lonely and wants to renew old acquaintances.’
‘I very much doubt that Delia Dovedale would ever be lonely whatever her circumstances. She certainly wasn’t at school – always involved in things and bossing the pants off everyone. And from what I hear via the grapevine she is still at it. I gather the latest project is the big flower festival in that area – queen bee apparently. It is going on at the moment so I daresay we shall be dragged there to admire the exhibits, applaud the water gardens and wilt in airless tents.’
Angela Fawcett sounded quite fatigued at the prospect and it was Rosy’s turn to giggle. ‘Oh I am sure you will love it once you are there. After all you always attend Chelsea.’
‘Of course, but that’s only once a year: attending two displays in the same season is excessive I consider. And I gather this lasts considerably longer.’ She paused, and then added ‘But you are right about Delia giving an indication. In her letter she said that she was very eager to show me something, something she was rather proud of and which was really very exciting but that I wasn’t to say a word. How I could say any word before learning of the topic, I have no idea. Still, if she wants to show whatever it is to me I shall naturally be the soul of discretion.’ Rosy very much doubted this, Lady Fawcett being known neither for her tact nor her silence.
By this stage the landscape was flattening out and the wide Suffolk skies beginning to swirl above them. ‘All very beautiful but not much shelter,’ Lady Fawcett observed. ‘Just as well Amy didn’t come after all. She prefers the challenge of mountains; gets skittish like horses on the South Downs. Still,’ she added grimly, ‘I daresay she is enduring quite sufficient challenges on that awful campsite in France.’ She sniffed disdainfully. ‘Well she would insist …’
Another hour passed. And after a couple of false turns in the vicinity of Blythburgh, they eventually arrived at Laurel Lodge, Delia’s residence, a mile or so out of the town, and, as described, a sprawling Edwardian house of mansion proportions secluded by trees and dense shrubs.
As they alighted Lady Fawcett said, ‘Oh yes I remember: Delia says there is some sort of manservant called Hawkins who is old with a black patch over one eye. She insists he is not a pirate and that apart from the afflictions of patch and age he is perfectly all right.’ Armed with this information Rosy hauled the suitcases up the steps and rang the bell.
They were indeed greeted by the elderly Hawkins, mildly dashing in a black eyepatch and magenta bow tie. With a formal bow he relieved them of their luggage and ushered them into an empty drawing room. Evidently expecting to be faced by her hostess Lady Fawcett looked disappointed.
‘Oh,’ she said vaguely, ‘I suppose Mrs Dovedale is still powdering her nose. She was always one for taking her time.’ She gave a light laugh.
Hawkins hesitated and cleared his throat. ‘Er, well,’ he muttered, and then paused, scanning the room as if seeking another voice or inspiration; but then returning his good eye to Lady Fawcett said firmly, ‘you see, madam, as a matter of fact she is not at home.’
‘Really? How strange. She was most insistent that she would be here to greet us.’
‘Ye – es I am sure she was; but she can’t do that now I am afraid. She’s, uhm … elsewhere.’ He looked uncomfortable.
‘Evidently. But where exactly?’
‘The mortuary.’
Lady Fawcett looked mildly surprised. ‘Goodness gracious, whatever is she doing there? Some kind of charity work, I suppose, although I don’t quite know what sort of … still I remember from school, she always did have a morbid cast of mind …’ Her voice trailed off and she gasped. ‘Oh my God, you don’t mean that she is—’
‘Yes,’ he said gravely, ‘I am afraid she is.’
At that moment there was a commotion from the hall and in rushed a couple of bouncing pugs followed by a youngish man in glasses and sports jacket.
Seeing the visitors he stopped and exclaimed, ‘Oh lor, you’re here already! Thought I would just have time to give Peep and Bo their exercise before you arrived. But these creatures are so pernickety about where they squat that it slows everything down.’ He put out his hand to the older woman. ‘I am Hugh Dovedale and you must be Lady Fawcett. Mother was talking about you only the other day; she had been so looking forward to your visit.’ And looking at Rosy he added, ‘and of course to yours too Miss Gilchrist. I am just so sorry that circumstances are not of the best – it’s all been rather sudden you might say. Still I expect you would like some tea after your journey.’ He signalled to Hawkins.
His words had been delivered at speed and volume; and what with that and the cavorting of the dogs both women felt distinctly dazed. Mechanically they removed their hats, and muttering vague condolences sat on the sofa and awaited the tea. They gazed quizzically at their host who was busy with the pugs and intent on retrieving a recessed marrowbone from the fireplace. His efforts were cut short by the rattle of cups, and as Hawkins re-entered he straightened up and said, ‘Yes, rather a frightful business I’m afraid; all very unfortunate – particularly just now of course.’ Dismissing the tray-bearer he seized the teapot and started to splash the contents into their cups.
Why particularly ‘now of course’ rather than at any other time, Rosy wondered. Death was death wasn’t it? She glanced at the tea which was pale grey and decided against it.
Lady Fawcett ventured a sip, winced slightly and sighed heavily. ‘But it’s so difficult to take in,’ she said, ‘I mean the idea of Delia being dead is just extraordinary. After all she was always so healthy on the hockey field; it used to make me worn out just watching …’ She put a hand over her eyes, and Rosy was not quite sure whether this was to blot out the thought of her friend’s death or the image of her being healthy with a hockey stick. She rather suspected the latter.
‘Had she been ill?’ she ventured.
‘No, certainly not, fit as a fiddle,’ Hugh replied. He stopped and frowned. ‘Hasn’t Hawkins explained?’
‘Explained what?’ asked Lady Fawcett lowering her hand.
‘Mother has been murdered,’ he said briskly, ‘poisoned actually.’
Rosy gasped, and then whispered, ‘Oh my God how dreadful!’ She stared at Hugh in horror.
Lady Fawcett also stared; but at her teacup not Hugh. And then in a faint voice she said, ‘I don’t think I really want this tea. On the whole I would prefer to lie down.’ She turned to Hawkins who was hovering by the door. ‘Could you show me to my room please – and then perhaps you would be so kind as to bring me a large brandy? You needn’t bother with ice.’ So saying she rose, and collecting her gloves and handbag walked from the room.
Left alone with the man whose mother had been murdered, Rosy felt awkward to say the least. She studied the bereaved son with a mixture of pity and baffled curiosity. It must be ghastly for him – but what the hell was it all about! Her mind whirled with questions which she was hesitant to raise. Having only just been introduced this hardly seemed the moment. Nevertheless it was the method of dispatch that had most shocked her, chilled her really: it was suggestive of careful premeditation. What on earth had Delia Dovedale done to cause such stealthy disposal? From Lady Fawcett’s remarks in the car the woman had sounded perfectly innocuous. Tiresomely loud perhaps but hardly murder material. Thus blending sympathy with tactful enquiry, she said, ‘I am so terribly sorry, it must be agony for you – especially since, as you say, she has been poisoned.’
‘I daresay there are worse ways of being dealt with,’ he replied carelessly. ‘I gather it was pretty quick, or so the quack says.’ He gave a lopsided grimace and added, ‘My apologies, it must be rather a shock learning like this, especially for your friend. We had tried to contact her to say not to come but the telephone line was temporarily down and then what with one thing and another …’
‘Oh please don’t apologise,’ Rosy said hastily, ‘you must have so much to deal with. Besides we’ll be gone tomorrow. I am sure Angela would hate to intrude.’
‘Oh you are not intruding – could be very useful in fact. Peep adores being surrounded by crowds, and having one less in the house is beginning to make her shirty. Bound to adapt, but for the time being you will fill a void in her life. Stay as long as you like, you will be most welcome.’ He paused, took off his glasses, and polishing them on his tie added earnestly, ‘Bo is much more robust and doesn’t care a damn. Funny little creatures, aren’t they?’
Rosy nodded but was somewhat nettled to think that she was being marked down as a handy hole-filler for a dog – or plug for a pug one might say. She also rather wondered if Bo and Hugh didn’t share a similar temperament. Glancing at the two of them she saw the same amiable but slightly empty expressions, the only difference being that one set of eyes was bulging, the other a startling blue.
After an awkward silence Rosy cleared her throat and asked boldly. ‘So when did you last see your mother?’
He shrugged. ‘About a couple of days ago. As I told the police chap, she was being busy at the flower festival down the road and last seen was enjoying a cup of tea with a fellow judge. I was in a hurry to catch the train to London so wasn’t really listening but I think she introduced him as Frederick somebody … oh no perhaps it was Felix. Yes I remember now: Felix Bountiful, that was the name. Sounds a bit strange if you ask me – probably slipped her a Mickey Finn.’ Hugh emitted a spluttering guffaw, and even as Rosy digested the news it passed through her mind that Lady Fawcett hadn’t been far out in seeing him as a potential match for Amy.
‘I think you may possibly mean Felix Smythe,’ she said slowly. ‘He has a flower shop called Bountiful Blooms in Knightsbridge but I’ve no idea what he is doing here.’
‘Obvious,’ replied Hugh, ‘if he is indeed your floral friend then presumably he is here to judge the bloomingflowers – just like mother. One trusts he doesn’t meet the same fate,’ he added darkly, and snorted again.
Rosy winced and wondered how one so crass could handle such wealth; paid a good advisor presumably. However, she was less concerned with Hugh than with the news that Felix was in the area. And where there was Felix there was also likely to be Cedric. She sighed inwardly. It was odd that she seemed fated to confront violent death whenever she encountered that pair. Perhaps she was being dogged by a malevolent jinx that had a penchant for ill-assorted trios …
CHAPTER THREE
A few days earlier Cedric and Felix were also en route from London to Suffolk. With Cedric at the wheel their journey had been fast and largely silent; his companion, unlike Lady Fawcett, being less concerned with the changing scenery and ruminating cattle than with visualising his next encounter with the Queen Mother and his current appearance at the Southwold festival.
For both occasions Felix was considering his sartorial options. For the latter event he had taken the precaution of bringing two suitcases (ready for any eventuality, as he had insisted to Cedric); and in the case of the former he was firmly persuading himself that another visit to Savile Row was more than justified. Yes, he would see to that the very moment they returned to London. He smiled in anticipation. And then having decided that his aubergine smoking jacket would be eminently suitable for the hotel that evening – subtly raffish for the old ladies – he settled back, and closing his eyes slipped into a contented doze.
When he awoke they were on the outskirts of Aldeburgh; and as the evening sun began to wane they drove with ease, and for Cedric nostalgic pleasure, into the sleepy little town.
‘Charming though Southwold is,’ Cedric observed, ‘in my view it is wise to be slightly detached from the hurly-burly; that way one is not being constantly approached or inveigled into things not entirely of one’s choosing. Wouldn’t you agree?’
Felix had replied that on principle he did agree although it rather depended on who was doing the approaching. He winked. ‘But yes, you are right; I am sure Aldeburgh will be a most suitable bolthole, somewhere safe to collect one’s breath after the rigours of the day.’
‘You mean after intemperate questions about compost and how to parry the garden slug?’
‘No. I mean their insatiable questions regarding my illustrious patron and her floral preferences, not to mention the endless cups of well-meant tea that one will be required to imbibe. And frankly having twice spoken with one of the major-domos on the telephone – a Delia Dovedale I think – a little distance might well be expedient. She sounded rather loud.’
Cedric nodded, pleased that his friend had been so cooperative. It was not always so. ‘And of course,’ he had added, ‘we shall have the benefit of the sea immediately on our doorstep. The hotel stands only a few yards back from the beach and I have made sure that both our rooms overlook the front: thus we shall be woken by the sun and braced by the swirling of the waves. What could be more congenial?’
‘I think I would rather be braced by a dry martini,’ Felix had replied. ‘I assume the hotel does have a bar.’
‘But of course. This is The Sandworth not some rustic hostelry! We shall be most comfortable.’
And thus with peace and comfort in prospect the two friends drove into the hotel car park, hauled out the luggage – most of it Felix’s – and prepared themselves to enjoy a restful evening before confronting the forthcoming busy events. That one of the busier events would be murder was not something they had envisaged.
The following day was bright but blowy, a condition not unknown in Suffolk, and after breakfast Cedric and Felix battled their way to the shelter of their car and set off for Southwold and the scent of flowers.
Here they were met by Delia Dovedale and other committee members and hustled into the organisers’ tent for coffee and briefings about the day’s programme.
‘Such a pleasure to meet you, Mr Smythe,’ cried Delia, gripping his arm firmly and steering him through the throng. ‘Your articles in the Tatler give constant delight and thus to meet you in the flesh is a real bonus!’ She squeezed the flesh of his arm tightly and he winced. Then addressing Cedric she said, ‘And you must be the renowned Professor Dillworthy; how fortunate we are to have two such worthies in our midst!’
Cedric returned the toothy smile but felt a little peeved to be so called. A ‘notable’ yes, but the term worthy was not one he associated with himself – least of all with Felix. It suited neither the Cambridge cloister nor the drawing rooms of Mayfair. However, he murmured something suitably self-deprecating.
‘So what exactly is your line?’ enquired an earnest looking woman at his side.
‘Er – well at its simplest, rocks I suppose.’
He was about to explain that he was basically a geologist but with an extended interest in Cappadocian landscape and its monastic caves, but wasn’t given the chance as at the next moment the woman gasped, ‘What an extraordinary coincidence! A rockery expert, such luck! I’ve been meaning to talk to someone like you for ages. You see I am having the greatest problems in choosing the right kind of rocks for my front garden. I intend on growing alpines but cannot decide whether I should order slabs or the rounder rough-hewn variety. The latter might be the more attractive but slabs the more striking, more modern. What do you think, professor?’ Without waiting for an answer she beckoned her companion: ‘Eileen dear, this nice gentleman is going to give me expert advice on designing my rockery. Isn’t that wonderful!’ She turned back to Cedric. ‘And then you see there is the whole question of drainage …’
Cedric thought about the afternoon and wondered if he could retreat to Minsmere. Wasn’t it supposed to be a bird sanctuary? Any sort would do.
In fact escaping to Minsmere was not an option, Cedric’s idea being met with strong disapproval from his friend.
‘But they have reserved you a seat at the front,’ Felix protested. ‘There is to be some sort of prize-giving followed immediately by my lecture. I shall be there on the platform among the judges all poised to give my inaugural address the moment the last recipient has returned to the audience. Since it’s my opening appearance I think at least you might be present to lend moral support and to lead the applause.’ He twitched his nose and ran agitated fingers through his spikey hair. The effect was that of a disgruntled rabbit.
‘My dear chap,’ Cedric said quickly, ‘I shall be only too pleased to take my place at your feet. I merely thought that you might feel hampered by my presence. Some speakers are sensitive that way.’
Felix sniffed. ‘Not this one.’
And thus by three o’clock that afternoon Cedric had taken his allotted seat and Felix was ensconced on the platform with Delia Dovedale, Councillor Ruskin chairman of the judging panel, some man in a bow tie called Floyd de Lisle and two other festival VIPs. There was polite clapping as prize-winners for some of the kitchen–garden events trooped up to receive their accolades and brandish examples of their exhibits. One or two were asked to reveal the secrets of their success, which they did with varying degrees of lacklustre animation.
The leading contestant – or chef de la classe as Delia Dovedale insisted on bellowing – was a small woman cradling a gigantic parsnip. Apart from success in growing these vegetables she was evidently renowned locally as an expert soup maker, her speciality being iced parsnip consommé. Asked if she could offer any tips for its making she replied earnestly that the great thing was to use plenty of salt and margarine and a good sufficiency of the root itself. ‘One cannot afford to be parsimonious with a parsnip,’ she announced gaily – or at least that is what Cedric thought she had said. But since she spoke with a pronounced lisp he couldn’t be sure; nor presumably could anyone else as her advice was received in puzzled silence.
However, that was not the end of the matter, for in gratitude for her prize she had brought along libations of the soup for the panel to sample. This had obviously been something prearranged, for at a signal from the chairman a pinafored lackey stepped forward bearing a tray of china cups which were then distributed to those on the platform. Cedric knew that Felix hated parsnips; and he also knew that by now his friend would be itching to take the floor himself and embark on his own carefully prepared topic. Thus it was with wry amusement that he observed Felix’s stony face and fidgeting left foot. At the point when cups were raised he diplomatically dropped his pen and ducked under the table to retrieve it. As he emerged others were already sipping and dutifully nodding their approval … including Delia Dovedale whose lips seemed already forming the compliment of ‘delicious!’
However, the plaudit got lost in a sudden grimace of horror, a grimace which in turn became a rictus of agonised contortion. Mrs Dovedale’s eyes rolled wildly, her hands clawed at her throat from which came the most awful gasps of animal gagging. She half turned to her right: ‘Felix!’ she choked apoplectically. She tried to rise to her feet, but puce in the face keeled over and crashed to the floor where for a few dreadful seconds she writhed about beneath the pall of crumpled cloth and parsnip soup. And then all sounds ceased, and the creature she had become was stilled.
The audience too was stilled, frozen in stunned disbelief at what they had just witnessed. The first reaction came from the soup-maker. ‘It has never had that effect before,’ she said in a pained voice, and promptly passed out.
‘I know nothing about vegetable marrows,’ said Felix testily to the police officer, ‘or begonias for that matter. I just happened to be on the platform prior to giving my talk on the structural complexities of floral pillars – something particularly close to the Queen Mother’s heart. We were required to raise our glasses to the vegetable and begonia winners and the next moment the lady had turned scarlet in the face, cried “Oh Felix”, choked and disappeared beneath the table. Why she should have called my name like that I cannot think; we barely knew each other and it was all very embarrassing.’
‘Hmm,’ said the inspector, ‘and doubtless distressing too, sir.’
‘What? Oh well yes, yes of course … very distressing. I mean it’s not what you expect is it?’ Felix fiddled with his left cufflink, a sure sign of his agitation and Cedric felt sorry for him. It was hard for Felix to be put through this sort of thing when he had been so looking forward to instructing a rapt audience in the niceties of floral architecture and narrating his more piquant anecdotes about the royal patron. To be upstaged by a case of spectacular poisoning was really rather bad luck. The anecdotes could of course be slotted in elsewhere but meanwhile he had to suffer the tiresome attentions of the local constabulary. The professor flashed his friend a sympathetic smile.
‘You find it funny, sir?’ asked the inspector politely.
‘Certainly not,’ Cedric replied stiffly, ‘I was merely giving Mr Smythe my support. Being of a creative nature he is naturally sensitive and unused to such interrogations, especially in these sorry circumstances.’
‘Oh this isn’t an interrogation,’ cut in the young constable cheerfully. ‘These are just a few general enquiries. I mean if you want an interrogation you would have to come down to the station and—’
‘Be quiet, Jennings,’ snapped his superior, ‘I’ve told you before.’ He turned back to Cedric. ‘And I gather you were among the audience sir, in the front row I believe; a good vantage point from which to observe anything unusual. Did anything strike you?’
Cedric informed him that, alas, he had not been struck since at that moment he had been busy perusing his programme and had only looked up when he heard the victim utter his friend’s name. ‘And there she was choking and spluttering and clawing at the table cloth … oh, and then her hat fell off and she slumped to the floor. I remember that vividly because the hat was rather attractive, wasn’t it Felix?’
‘One has seen far worse,’ the other agreed doubtfully.
The inspector cleared his throat. ‘But hats apart, there is nothing else that you recall? For instance, in what tone did the lady call out “Oh Felix”?’
As the witnesses frowned and considered, Jennings again gave tongue. ‘What the inspector is asking,’ he explained eagerly, ‘is whether it was a tone of enquiry or of shock, of appeal, incredulity, fear … or,’ he added darkly, ‘accusation.’
‘Well it certainly wasn’t the last,’ Felix retorted indignantly. ‘I trust you are not suggesting—’
‘No, no Mr Smythe,’ the inspector interrupted, ‘DC Jennings wasn’t suggesting anything, just seeking information. It’s his way: gets overcome by zeal sometimes.’ He smiled indulgently at the youth. Felix did not.
‘I should say it was definitely a tone of appeal,’ announced Cedric firmly, ‘an instinctive cry for help to a kindly colleague. Alas it was too late and no such help could be given.’
The inspector nodded and shut his notebook. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all for now. But I should be grateful if you do not return to London just yet as there could be some further questions we may need to put.’
‘Further questions?’ Felix exclaimed. ‘I can’t see that—’
‘Oh we have no intention of returning to London,’ Cedric said smoothly. ‘We have barely arrived and the area is so lovely with much to explore. And in any case naturally we want to do all we can to assist the police in this ghastly business … Call us whenever you wish.’ He added magnanimously.
After they had gone the two friends regarded each other in some dismay. ‘That’s all we need,’ Felix lamented, ‘an appalling killing literally under our noses, both of my talks rescheduled and the police hovering in the wings busily devising fresh questions. It’s too bad!’
‘Most unsettling,’ Cedric agreed, ‘but I suppose they might have cancelled the whole festival; and at least you will still be judging the lilies and giving your talk on Sir William Walton’s Ischian estate … Oh and by the way, there is something I was going to tell you, something Delia Dovedale mentioned just before her unfortunate event. It may brighten your day.’ He gave a sly smile.
‘I doubt it; but go on.’
‘A bit of a coincidence really. Considerable in fact.’ Cedric smiled again.
‘Well hurry up!’
‘I am told she had been expecting two house guests; she was going to introduce them to the delights of Southwold and immerse them in the pleasures of the fragrant marquees on the Common. It just so happens that we know them.’
‘You don’t mean the Mercoli brothers? I thought they were visiting the mad sister in Norfolk.’
‘Still are presumably. No, these are Angela Fawcett and Rosy Gilchrist. They are supposed to be arriving on Sunday I believe – though of course the current situation may have deterred them. Still, worth an enquiry perhaps. You may recall that Angela owes us a luncheon. I am told that The Swan in Southwold is very good.’
Felix was startled and wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or annoyed. As with most people his view of Lady Fawcett was mixed: she could both charm and infuriate; enrage and disarm – frequently at the same time. Undoubtedly possessed of a worldly shrewdness, she would nevertheless display a vagueness bordering on the miraculous. Most people walk through life; some plod and others amble. Lady Fawcett wafted. It was a motion which Felix found both endearing and perplexing; and given the current perplexity he was not sure that he could manage any more. And as for Rosy Gilchrist – well, pleasant enough of course but a bit too sharp for his taste, overly alert. Their relations were cordial but not what you would call close. Besides, did he really want to be reminded quite so soon of that troublesome Venetian experience? Only a few months ago the three of them had been caught up in a most unsavoury debacle – largely of her making he considered – and from which he had barely recovered.
‘Ah well, I’m not sure—’ he began.
‘Good,’ said Cedric briskly. ‘If those two do appear at the Dovedale place then possibly they may learn something of what’s going on. They could be a source of useful information and hear something we haven’t. It’s as well to be ahead of the field.’
What blithering field? Felix thought morosely. All one wants is to do the judging, deliver the lectures, collect the fee and get the hell out back to the safety of London … What had that wretched police youth said – accusation? The cheek of it! He gasped as a thought suddenly struck him: ‘My God,’ he exclaimed, ‘you don’t think they were intending to poison me do you – not Delia at all, and somehow she got the wrong cup!’ He stared at Cedric in wide-eyed consternation.
‘Oh I shouldn’t think anyone would want to do that to you,’ his friend reassured him, ‘or at least only on very rare occasions.’
