Pushing Up Daisies (14 page)

“I feel we're wasting time,” said Toni sharply.

“If you want to talk to Cassandra, you'll have to wait a bit.”

Mary came in carrying a decanter and glasses. “Bit chilly in here,” she said. She bent over the fireplace and struck a match to a pile of kindling. When the fire was blazing, she threw on some logs. “Now,” she said, pouring out three glasses, “that's the taste of summer.”

“It's delicious,” said Jake after an appreciative sip, and even Toni said with surprise, “You could market this.”

“Too lazy. I don't do much once the autumn's here and there's not much to do on the allotments. Now, old Mrs. Clutter, she made Cassandra's life hell. Used her as a sort of cross between a maid and a companion. Big house, they do have. Called Admiral's Lodge, though none of them Clutters was ever in the navy. Yes, we thought old Ma Clutter would live forever.”

“How did she die?” asked Toni.

“Fell down the stairs.”

“Pushed?”

“Never say that, my chuck. Cassandra never had a bit o' courage.”

Somehow, they found themselves accepting a second glass. The day darkened outside, and Mary lit an old-fashioned oil lamp on a table by the window. The fire crackled. A large black cat slouched in and curled up on the hearth.

Jake had a half smile on his face and his eyes were closing. I think she's hypnotising us, thought Toni. She stood up abruptly and said sharply, “Jake! We must go!”

“Oh, dear, must we?” Jake stood up. “Thanks for the wine, Mary.”

“Call any time,” she said.

The doorbell rang. They followed Mary as she went to answer it. Charles Fraith stood on the step. “What are you doing here?” demanded Toni.

“Minding my own business,” said Charles. “Don't let me keep you.”

“Doesn't Agatha trust us to do the job?” grumbled Toni.

“He's not detecting. He's on a date,” said Jake. “Can't say I blame him.”

So much for “Will you marry me,” thought Toni. Men were a faithless lot.

“Let's try the Clutter woman,” said Jake. “Isn't it amazing how people hang on to their odd names? Like being called Smellie. You would think they might change for the sake of the children.”

When they approached the hall, they found only a few stragglers and were directed to the house behind the trees that Jake had spotted earlier. Two stone gateposts flanked the entrance to a short drive bordered by laurels, rhododendrons and two large monkey puzzle trees. The house was a large grey stone building, built, Jake guessed, in the Edwardian reign. The only oddity was that above the upper windows on the front of the house were stone human faces: ugly, frightening, scowling horrors. Jake pointed to them. “Isn't that awful? Didn't the builders get enough money? Or, it could be, there's madness in the family.”

“Well, the heiress seemed sane enough.” Toni rang the bell, an enormous white china round clearly marked
BELL
in black letters and set on a disc of brass. A small round bad-tempered woman answered the door. “What?” she demanded.

Toni knew that if she said they were detectives, this woman would slam the door on them, so she said instead, “Miss Clutter wanted a word with us after the funeral.”

“What about?”

Jake stepped forward, “Look,” he said haughtily, “just do your job and run and get her. Stop standing there with your mouth open. Hop to it!”

“No need to get cheeky with me, young man,” she said, but she retired into the darkness of the hall behind her, leaving the door open.

“You were awfully rude,” said Toni.

“I know. She's a bully and the only thing bullies understand is other bullies.”

Cassandra appeared and said, “Oh, the glamorous detectives. Do come in. Mrs. Terry! Tea, please, and some of those leftover cakes from the funeral.”

“You should be resting, that's what,” said Mrs. Terry. “Tea, indeed, and your poor ma not cold in her grave.”

“On the contrary, as my mother died last week, I am sure she is very cold indeed. Tea!

“Awful woman,” said Cassandra. She pushed open a door on the left. “Have a seat. I'll light the fire. Do you know there isn't any central heating? Mother wouldn't have it.”

“You will be able to get it now,” said Toni sympathetically.

“Wouldn't waste a penny on this place. I'm selling up and going to—oh, I don't know—the south of France or somewhere I can sit in the sun and eat croissants.”

Cassandra had a long, mediaeval type of face with thick curved white lids over pale grey eyes. Toni guessed her to be in her late fifties. A rumbling outside and clattering of dishes heralded the arrival of tea. Mrs. Terry entered pushing a huge mahogany trolley laden with tea canisters, hot water, milk, sugar and cakes.

“Thank you. Go away,” said Cassandra. “Now, Indian or China?”

“Indian,” said Jake. “Me, too,” said Toni quickly, because tea was stuff that came in bags, according to her experience.

“Would you, young Jake, light the fire? I would have asked that tiresome woman to do it, but she would moan on about how we never had fires lit until the middle of November.”

While Jake went over to the fireplace, Toni watched, fascinated, as Cassandra measured out tea leaves into a silver pot and added hot water. Then she selected another canister and went through the ritual again, selecting a different silver pot. “I prefer China tea,” she said to Toni.

“In your situation, lady of the manor,” said Toni cautiously, “we thought that might make you a good observer.”

“Oh, say it,” said Cassandra waspishly. “Old maid. Spinster of the parish.”

“I simply got the idea that you were above normal intelligence,” said Toni, who hadn't thought anything of the kind but was anxious to repair any damage.

“That was once the case,” said Cassandra. “I won a scholarship to Oxford, but my father died and mother became a permanent invalid. I adored my father and was shattered by his death, and so I became a blasted companion.”

She strained a cup of tea into an eggshell-thin cup. “Milk and sugar?”

“A little milk and one lump,” said Toni.

“What about you, young man?”

“No milk and four lumps,” said Jake, sitting back on his heels and admiring the blaze. He got to his feet and sat on a sofa next to Toni. Family portraits hung on the walls. The furniture was solid and Victorian, apart from a handsome grand piano.

“Are these your ancestors?” asked Toni.

“Oh, no, they came with the house. Grandfather made his money up in Yorkshire. He owned several mills. When he died, Father sold the lot and invested the money. He didn't really do anything. He said he wanted to be really posh, and that is why he bought this house along with the ancestors and married Mother, who is related to the Earl of Ampweather, be it a mere twig on the family tree and to a family who showed absolutely no signs of ever wanting to know her. Of course, you want to know about this village and who could have attacked Mrs. Bull. The trouble is that she is such an awful woman, it could have been anyone. Now, Mrs. Ryan is your best bet.”

“We tried there, but there was no reply,” said Jake.

“I believe she sleeps in the afternoon. She is a very sharp observer of character. Do have some cake.”

“May I use your bathroom?” asked Toni.

“Yes. It's at the top of the stairs.”

Toni went up the oaken staircase. An unhappy house, she thought. The stairs were uncarpeted and polished to a high shine. As she neared the top, the dim light winking on something caught her eye. She bent down. A nail had been hammered into the side, and a knot of cord was still tied round out. Is that how her mother fell down the stairs, thought Toni. Do I report this? Do I cause this woman, who has escaped from her horrible parent, to suffer a police investigation?

But as she descended the stairs again, she knew she could not do it.

Cassandra was laughing at something Jake had just said as Toni entered the room. “It's getting late,” said Toni. “We should go. Thank you so much for the tea.”

“Call again, although I might not be here. I'm getting away as soon as I sell this place.”

As Jake got into the car, Toni said, “I've left something. Back in a minute.”

She sprinted back to the door and rang the bell. Cassandra answered it. Toni whispered urgently, “There is a nasty nail sticking out at the top of the stairs. Get pliers and get it out before Mrs. Terry sees it.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Cassandra calmly. “How odd I never noticed that before.”

 

Chapter Eight

Although Toni and Jake were eventually able to speak to Mrs. Ryan, they could not elicit any more than Agatha had already had from her, although as far as Cassandra was concerned, she did confirm that old Mrs. Clutter had led her the hell of a life. Jake was puzzled because Toni looked worried and barely seemed to be listening.

Still, after Mrs. Ryan, they called on various villagers. It always seemed to be the same. Mrs. Bull was a nasty woman who liked finding out secrets about people. Was she a blackmailer? No, said everybody. She wasn't blackmailing
me.

“Of course,” said Jake, “not one of them is going to admit to having something in their own lives that was worth blackmailing them over. Toni! Toni, where are you?”

“Sorry, I'm a bit tired. Let's go home and type up the little we've got in the morning.”

But after Toni dropped Jake off in Mircester, she began to think her guilty conscience would never let her sleep again, and so instead of going to her flat, she headed for Carsely.

Agatha answered the door, her face lit up like a ghoul with a green light at the end of an appendage sticking from her mouth. “Bloody e-cigarette,” she said. “I'm beginning to think nothing will work. Come in. Have you anything exciting?”

“Yes,” mumbled Toni, edging past her and making for the kitchen, where she crouched down on the floor and petted the cats. “You're not going to like it.”

“Like a drink?”

“I'd love one, but I'm driving and I've already had cider and dandelion wine. Coffee would be great. What are you doing?” For Agatha was beginning to scrape the foil tops off little plastic tubs.

“I bought this lot by mistake. I've got that old-fashioned percolator, and these thingies are for that type of machine that George Clooney advertises. But I've got a cafetière. So if I scrape the gubbins into the cafetière, it makes a brilliant cup of coffee. Soon be with you. Just wait for the kettle to boil.”

At last, the coffee was ready. Toni sat down at the table.

“Out with it,” urged Agatha. “Nothing will shock me. I'm old enough to be your mo—…, elder sister.”

“I think I've helped a murderer cover up a crime.”

“Not Bellington! That's the only one earning me some money.”

“No. Let me tell you about it.” Agatha listened carefully to the story of Cassandra Clutter.

When Toni had finished, Agatha began to pace up and down. She was wearing a silk nightdress under a brightly coloured kimono, and the material made a swishing sound.

“Let me think,” said Agatha. “Charles is here. I'll get him. I think he's fallen asleep in front of the television.”

Another complication, thought Toni wretchedly.

But when Charles followed Agatha into the kitchen, he said, “What's all the fuss about, Agatha? If it's about me calling on Mary Feathers, then I'd like to point out that it's none of your business.”

“It isn't that. What? Why?”

“Drop it, Aggie. I am allowed a personal life. What's this about Toni?”

Toni told her story again. “Oh, shite,” said Charles. “Now you feel that Mrs. Bull might have found out about her pushing mum downstairs, and so Cassandra shoved her down the well.”

“I didn't get as far as that,” wailed Toni. “I only had this bad feeling I had helped her to cover up the murder of her mother. I was so sorry for her. I mean her mother seems to have made her life hell.”

“Agatha and I will simply go down there tomorrow,” said Charles soothingly, “and we'll tell her what's upset you, and then we'll both judge whether we think her guilty or not. But the police do investigate all sudden deaths. Don't worry. Let your elders and betters take care of you.”

“You didn't tell Jake any of this?” demanded Agatha.

“No. Not a word.”

“Good. Off you go. Try to get some sleep. Take over my work in the morning and allocate the jobs. Team Jake up with Phil.”

The next morning, Agatha was unusually quiet on the road to Harby. Yet she would not admit to herself that she had come to regard Charles as her property. After all, he had gone off before and had actually become engaged. He had even been married. But for quite a time, he appeared to be fancy free. Autumn leaves danced and swirled in front of the car as if their twists and arabesques were mocking one middle-aged woman, reminding her that in the end, everything dies.

They arrived in Harby, and Agatha followed instructions to the house. Cassandra herself answered the door. After the introductions, Agatha said that they wished to speak to her about a really serious matter.

They were ushered into the drawing room. “I feel I am back at school and waiting outside the headmistress's study,” said Cassandra. “You both look so grim.”

Agatha gave Charles an appealing look.

So Charles told her of Toni's suspicions and how she was tormented by the fact that she had helped to cover up a murder.

“Oh, that!” exclaimed Cassandra. “Oh, that's nothing. That was Mrs. Terry. I told her right on the day mother died that she was sacked. Nasty, bullying woman. So she rigged up that nail and told people how I had put a cord across the stairs. It was after the police investigation. I told Mrs. Terry that her fingerprints were on that nail just to see her sweat.”