The potting shed murder, p.22
The Potting Shed Murder, page 22
“But what has all of this got to do with the night that Charles died?” Daphne asked, puzzled.
Nancy looked down at her lap. “My life has never amounted to much. My romantic history, I mean. Oh, I had a few flings here and there, but it never bothered me too much. I can see how relationships can twist the knife in and bring out the worst in people. I’ve never wanted any of that. Patsy, however, Patsy is another thing all together. Patsy wanted—needed more. She lives a half-life—she always has done, and she didn’t deserve that. She tries to hide it, but she has a huge capacity for love—it’s plain to see—and were it not for Charles Papplewick breaking her heart at such a young age, she may have gone on to have a wonderful life, with a husband and children and all the trimmings. I’d have loved to have been an auntie. I can’t stand children myself, but I would have loved to have spoiled Patsy’s . . .”
Daphne understood. The softer and more playful side of Patsy that she herself had glimpsed had become more obvious the longer she had known her. She nodded her head in agreement. “I can imagine that.” She smiled in understanding, as a slightly surprised Nancy in turn gave a fleeting smile to show that she was grateful for that acknowledgment before continuing.
“Anyway, that night, the night Charles was killed, it was raining, a dreadful downpour, just like that night a long time ago when I found Patsy sobbing in the woods. It was a Friday evening, and we would normally have our supper in front of one of those gameshows, but Patsy was taking ages putting out the bins. It was still raining so I couldn’t work out what could be taking her so long. I went downstairs and saw that she had gone out further than the bin yard and it brought the hairs up on the back of my neck. It was strange, you see, for her to just disappear into the night like that, so I put my coat on and went to see where she was. That’s when I saw her . . .”
“What was she doing?”
“I didn’t notice at first, but she was almost in a trance, walking slowly towards the allotments. It was only as I rounded the corner that I saw what—or who—she had been following. Charles was a little further up the road. He clearly hadn’t noticed her, and I could just see the longing in her body language. She looked bereft. Tearful even . . .”
“You could see her crying?” Daphne asked, confused.
“Well, no—I was too far to see her crying exactly, but I could tell from her demeanor that she was. It brought that other night back to me. Patsy sobbing in Charles’s arms as he ripped her heart into shreds. It made me furious. I wanted to confront Charles and ask him if he knew how he’d ruined my sister’s life.”
“And so that’s what you did? You confronted Charles that night?” Daphne remained still and tried to ensure that the tone of her voice remained calm. Her expression was encouraging—was this some sort of confession?
“Yes—although not straight away. When I saw Patsy stop following him and begin to turn around, I ran back to the shop and pretended that I hadn’t left at all. I didn’t want her to know that I’d seen her being so pitiful. She would have been embarrassed, you see. She’s always tried to play down her relationship with Charles, but I’ve seen the sadness in her eyes when she doesn’t realize that I’m looking. She’s a woman with a face filled with secrets and regrets—I can see it clearly in her eyes.”
Daphne wondered whether Nancy was inadvertently describing herself as well as her sister, but instead she asked, “So, you went back to find Charles after Patsy had returned home?”
“Yes. I did. Once Patsy had returned home, she didn’t want to do anything other than go to her room to bed. She was crushed, and it broke my heart for her all over again. Her heart hasn’t healed in over forty years—isn’t that tragic?” Nancy looked over at Daphne, with teary eyes filled with sorrow.
Daphne simply nodded. “What happened next?”
“I crept back out into the pouring rain. Once we go to bed, we never disturb each other again until the next day. Sleep like logs, we do. I knew that Patsy wouldn’t check on me until Saturday morning, so once I heard her snoring, I doubled back out. I knew exactly where I’d find him. Moping about in his potting shed where he always escapes to. He was always moping about on his own when he thought that no one could see him—but I noticed. It serves him right, if you ask me. Augusta was never the woman for him. Any fool could see it. She hated living in the village from day one—she was always stuck-up and holier than thou. Thinking that she was better than the rest of the village—we’re too provincial, apparently. Too unsophisticated. I’ve never known what on earth he saw in her. They never seemed happy—even at the beginning. Patsy would have made him happy. Patsy would have made him laugh.”
Daphne could see that Nancy was getting riled up and she wanted her to remain calm and finish her story. “What happened when you found him?” she asked gently.
“Well, it was almost pitch black, but I know my way to the potting shed like the back of my hand. My father had a plot there for years. I could find it in my sleep. I walked along in the darkness—I wanted the element of surprise, you see. I walked along until I came to the potting shed. It had a little light on—a gas lamp. I could see him dimly lit as I peered through the window. He was sitting there on his chair at the table, just looking through some papers. He stood up when I entered. I’d startled him when I opened the door. I imagine that I was the last person he expected to see suddenly appear at that time of the evening.”
“Yes, I imagine so. What did you say to him?”
“It all came out. Years of frustration and anger. It all came out in an instant. I even tried to hit him—but luckily, he grabbed my hands before I got the chance to make contact with his face.” Nancy looked over to Daphne, her face filled with remorse and shame. “I’ve no idea why I was so het up about it all. It’s been so many years . . . but seeing her there standing in the rain—it brought it all back. It was just instinctive—you know?”
Daphne nodded, trying to understand, although she still didn’t quite know why Nancy had taken it upon herself to be so angry on Patsy’s behalf. What she did now know is that Charles holding Nancy’s hands to avoid him slapping her is probably what Augusta had seen through the potting shed window and interpreted as a lovers’ tiff.
“The truth is that it was all over and done with in a few minutes. There was a sound outside—an animal rustling or something—it startled us both and it brought me back to my senses. I realized that I was probably making a fool of myself. After all it wasn’t really my fight, was it? It’s not as if he was ever mine.”
She looked up sadly, and Daphne instantly understood. Nancy Warburton had been in love with Charles Papplewick all along. Not simply the same unrequited love as her sister, but a much sadder version. A secret, unrequited and lonely type of love that she had kept hidden from everyone. Even Patsy—or perhaps especially Patsy, who she believed had had more of a right to Charles’s love. What a sad and complicated situation that they’d all found themselves in. Is this what village life was all about? Falling in love with your neighbor’s sons and keeping the dating pool only puddle-deep? Daphne made a mental note to ensure that her children enjoyed a rich and varied life that included looking beyond the boundaries of Pepperbridge parish—regardless of how safe and wholesome the idea of keeping the modern world out might seem.
“I left him after that. I left him alive and well in the potting shed. A bit surprised, perhaps, but certainly not unwell or even hurt.” Nancy’s voice had turned from sadness to urgency. “I know that it doesn’t look good, but I honestly had nothing to do with Charles’s death. He was fine when I left—I swear!”
“I believe you, Nancy. Honestly, I do, but you’re going to have to tell Inspector Hargreaves exactly what you just told me. Unfortunately, he already knows that it was you in the potting shed that night, but now he needs to know why you were there, and exactly what happened. Is that OK?”
Daphne reached over and touched the older lady’s hand. She didn’t flinch or pull away but allowed Daphne to squeeze her hand reassuringly and suddenly Nancy Warburton didn’t seem so stubborn or confident anymore. It appeared that even the most formidable of Pepperbridge and Pudding Corner residents had a soft underbelly hidden just beneath the surface.
Despite her protestations, Daphne offered to drive Nancy home. It was dark now, and having eyed up the creaky old Pashley bicycle—which looked more like an antique befitting of a museum than a working bit of pedal-driven engineering—she didn’t fancy Nancy’s chances of arriving home with either the bicycle or herself in one piece. Talking to the police could wait until morning, although Daphne had a hunch that Inspector Hargreaves may come looking for her first.
“It’s a Pashley—they’re indestructible. I’ll have you know that I’ve been riding that bicycle since my teens!” grumbled Nancy, although she allowed Daphne to fold the bicycle into the back of the Morris Traveller and collapsed into the comfort of the passenger seat quite willingly.
“Since your teens? Now that I believe,” replied Daphne looking at the handsome and slightly battered bicycle with a smile.
* * *
When they arrived back in the village of Pepperbridge, Patsy was waiting anxiously outside the front of the shop. Daphne had called Patsy to alert her to her sister’s whereabouts half an hour earlier, but had not expanded on the reason for Nancy visiting her. That was Nancy business for now, although she imagined that she’d have to address the situation with Patsy before Inspector Hargreaves hauled her in for questioning.
The three women retrieved the bicycle from the back of Aggie and stood in the dim light of the pavement in front of the shop. The evening was still warm and balmy. A perfect summer’s night.
“Thank you for delivering my sister safely, Daphne, although lord knows what you were doing out on your bike when you knew it was getting dark!” Patsy looked pointedly at Nancy.
“I’m not a child, Patsy. You’re the baby of the family. I’m quite safe out and about on my own—unlike you!”
“Ha—baby my backside, you’re only as tall as my armpit . . .”
With that, Daphne chose to leave the two women to fall back into their familiar squabbling and retreated to her car. She’d already decided that she would call in on Nancy the following morning on her way into the vintage shop to ensure that everything was all right, and that Nancy had spoken to Inspector Hargreaves. There was no point trying to cover tracks in this situation—Nancy may have been the last person to see Charles alive . . . No one could deny that these were suspicious circumstances, and it was far better to face things head on. If, as Nancy claimed, she was innocent of any wrongdoing beyond having a few terse words with Charles Pepperbridge the night that he died, then she had nothing to worry about.
CHAPTER 18
Doctor Ptolemy Oates opened his front door on the second ring of the doorbell.
“Come in, come in!”
He ushered his neighbor through the oak-topped porch and into the narrow entrance hallway of the cottage. It was a handsome old house, quite dark inside but atmospheric and quaintly beautiful to those who appreciated the sort of period style that had lain almost untouched in aesthetically pleasing aspic for several generations.
Daphne hadn’t often received an invite into the hallowed interior of the doctor’s house, although she’d always wanted to explore the Tardis-like cottage which seemed to have a multitude of unexpected and multileveled rooms that ran on from each other through endless interconnecting doorways. His home, which had apparently belonged to his parents before him, was obviously his oasis of calm and comfort, and that is exactly how he wanted it to remain. Daphne respected his preference for privacy and orderliness; she knew that a boisterous house filled with noise and children didn’t appeal to everyone—goodness, at times it didn’t even appeal to her!
When she had visited on previous occasions, they would usually take their tea and conversations into the back garden. Today, however, the doctor pointed her in the direction of the kitchen and requested that she put the kettle on while she waited for him to locate his National Trust card so that she could gain entry to Oxburgh Hall as his plus one. He remembered last seeing it in a striped blazer—he was quite sure of it. He had an old-fashioned stove-top whistling kettle which was very much in keeping with the charm of the rest of the house. She turned the gas dial for the small back ring burner and pressed what she assumed was the ignite button. Nothing happened. She pressed again, but all she could hear was a slight clicking and the faint hiss of gas. Turning the dial back off, she returned to the front hallway to call upstairs.
“Doctor Oates? Doctor Oates—is there a special technique for turning on the stove? I can’t get the ignition button to catch.”
From upstairs, the doctor’s voice called down. “Oh yes—silly me, you’ll need to use the matches!”
“Matches? Where are they?” she called back, approaching the bottom of the staircase so that she could hear better.
“They’re in the flubbyy shollleer,” is all that she could decipher.
“I’m sorry—they’re in the what?”
“The flobbery schole!” His voice was muffled, as if communicating through a tunnel.
“The fluuby? The Study? The what?” she mumbled to herself. “Don’t worry—I’ll find them.” She gave up—whatever he was saying didn’t bear any resemblance to the name of any room she’d heard of before.
Daphne went back to the kitchen and started opening the drawers. Everything was obviously old yet still tidy and neat—cutlery, scissors, nails, batteries—but no matches. Perhaps the pantry, she thought to herself. All houses of this age had some sort of pantry or walk-in larder, she was sure of it. She walked towards another door opening from the kitchen and leading into an area that she hadn’t been to before. She hesitated for a minute just before she pushed the door open.
It led to a smaller corridor lined with a clay-tiled floor, with three more doors. Gosh, talk about original features. She knew that the house had once been the stable block and coach house to the farmhouse, and she could see quite clearly from the flooring that it had been well built with local materials. She opened one door which turned out to be a cupboard filled with shelves. Each shelf was filled to bursting with jars of preserves—everything from pickled cucumber to strawberry jam and onion relish. She looked at the dates—some of the jars dated back to 1997. She let out a faint gasp. Note to self, do not wolf down any gifts of home-bottled preserves from the good doctor!
Daphne closed the door and turned to the next. It was a larger room, filled with a deep ceramic sink—almost big enough to bathe a child in—a Sheila’s Maid hung from the ceiling, and more wooden hanging rails and an ancient-looking washing machine sat in the corner. There were a few pairs of what appeared to be long johns hanging along a line across the center of the room. Daphne quickly stepped back and closed the door. She would try the final door and if she still couldn’t find any matches, she’d just wait for the doctor to come back downstairs before boiling the kettle.
The final door was slightly ajar and stiff due to warping. It had a large old-fashioned key in its lock that didn’t look as though it had been used for years, and with a little bit of effort she pushed it open only far enough to poke her head around as it scraped along the flagstone floor. It seemed to be a study or an office—although there wasn’t a computer screen in sight. This was promising—she walked in. It had floor-to-ceiling shelves on either side of a large lawyer’s desk which was clearly an antique, although Daphne imagined that it probably hadn’t been an antique when it had first made its way to its current location as it fit the space perfectly.
On the shelves were row upon row of medical books, encyclopedias and files. Many of them were leather bound and most likely out of date. She imagined that a medical journal from 1986 probably wouldn’t have a huge amount of relevance today, but who was she to judge what people liked to keep—perhaps there were articles and cases that were interesting to read over. What little space that was left on the walls was filled with what appeared to be vintage anatomical posters. They were fascinating and she wondered whether the doctor possessed any vintage treasures that he would like her to sell on his behalf—old posters were all the rage for gallery walls these days. There were also carefully placed piles of medical pamphlets, newsletters and more journals laid out on the floor. It was like a medical museum. Doctor Oates was obviously a hoarder of medical literature, Daphne mused, still scanning the room for matches.
She turned round to look back at the door that she had just come through and noticed a bureau to the left of it with its front unlocked and open. On top of the gleaming writing ledge and the worn inlaid green leather, she spotted a small box of matches; however, it was something resting inside the bureau that caught her eye. In one of the cubby holes above the matches was a trio of old-fashioned glass syringes. Two were clear and empty of fluid and one had a small amount of dark liquid in the vial. All three rested unassumingly in the bureau, their glass glinting in the shafts of light that were filtering through the window. The syringes were things of peculiar beauty with their brass handles and large size. Gosh, they must have been painful to use, thought Daphne. Nothing like the small disposable syringes that were used today. She shuddered.
