The Flower Girls (13 page)

Perhaps I should get a dog,
she mused—and how come I’m living in the country with a man who doesn’t own a dog or any cats. But she knew why that was. Seth had explained that he would have loved a dog but he’d been away a lot and he didn’t think the responsibility should be laid at the foot of Mrs. Carrington’s door. Now he was home more and things seemed settled he was thinking about it.

It was a beautiful morning. Warm and sunny. The birds sang in the trees, everything was perfect. Her day off stretched before her. After leaving bed and showering she went into the kitchen. As she ate breakfast she mulled over what she would do. A walk, sitting out on the terrace, catching up with some of her reading. All these things were possible. She had to be positive and
do
something positive instead of brooding on things she could not do anything about.

“What did Jasmine do when Mr. Sanderson went away?” The question popped out of her mouth before she had time to consider what she was saying. Mrs. Carrington whirled around from the stove. Mr. Carrington shuffled on his chair and after clearing his throat, reached for a piece of toast from the mound his wife had put on the table.

“Well, what would you say Mrs. Sanderson would do, love?” she asked her husband, then her lips firmly closed against words that had come to her.

“Off to the bright lights. Leeds or Manchester. Somewhere where there were a bit o’ life like.” He spoke as if the words were being dragged out of him by pincers.

“Yes,” Poppy said. “I can see that. It’d be much too quiet for her here.”

No one spoke but the silence was filled with comment. Mainly, Poppy surmised, the Carringtons would be thinking,
Then why come here?
She knew what it was like. He wouldn’t change for her, it would be up to her to change or get out. Oh yes, Poppy could see how they would say and think that—she thought it herself. She knew her sister had married the wrong man, but had she realized that at the time? Poppy knew she slotted perfectly into his life, she didn’t beg him to take her to the city, or ask to go with him when he had to go away on some business. Jasmine would make demands but perhaps that wasn’t wrong of her. After all if Jasmine had imagined she would be on his arm wherever he went, the reality would have made her angry and resentful.

Poppy knew she needed to know more than she did. It was hardly going to be useful to speak to the Carringtons about her sister but she couldn’t help herself.

“She might not have known that she would be left at home on her own, she might have expected to go with Mr. Sanderson on all of his trips.”

Something slammed down. It was a fish slice that Mrs. Carrington was using to turn over some bacon she was frying. “He asked her, she never wanted to go. Isn’t that right?”

Mr. Carrington mumbled something. “I heard her with my own ears,” Mrs. Carrington went on. “Come with me, Jasmine, you might enjoy it…her answer, like a spoilt child’s, ‘I don’t want to,’ that’s what she said. Isn’t that right, love? No she didn’t want to be with Mr. Sanderson, she wanted to be off…” She thrust back her head. “Probably with ’im up the road. It’s not my place, don’t ask me no more, Poppy. She was your sister, you think what you like, but don’t go blaming Mr. Sanderson.”

Him up the road?

Well Poppy guessed that she meant the newly married Edward Donnington. Yet Edward wasn’t seen with her at the Presidents. Perhaps Edward had come on the scene before then. Had she tired of him as she’d tired of Seth? She shook her head. There was no disputing what Mrs. Carrington said. Poppy knew the woman wasn’t a liar or a fantasist. If she said she’d heard Seth invite Jasmine to join him it would be true.

How cruel, Jasmine,
Poppy thought,
to be like that with a man you pursued and won. But did Jasmine pursue him or was she pursued?

After a respectable fifteen minutes, Poppy left the table, galloped upstairs and went into her suitcase that was stored in the walk-in closet.

Inside there was a bundle of letters from Jasmine. Half a dozen at least, all tied up with plain string. She carefully undid the letters. They were in date order. She opened the first one.

Dear Sister, Guess what? I got married to a most scrumptious man. He is everything I have ever dreamed, tall dark and fairly handsome…we had so much fun.

Are you surprised that I married; well it was a sort of run away kind of thing. You know the song, just one of those things; ring a ding ding, isn’t that how the song goes? Or is that just Frank Sinatra’s version? Ha ha.

I am sorry I couldn’t invite you or anything. It was not that kind of marriage, and you don’t have to buy me anything. Seth has all we need…

There was nothing much else, it was all about an apartment in London, something about a farmhouse in Yorkshire, nothing about the South of France or Seth’s profession. In fact the rest of the letter was typically Jasmine,
me, me me.
There was nothing either, Poppy sadly noted, about love and being in love…

Sliding the letter into its envelope, she opened more. Sitting on the carpet, she read all her sister’s letters. They began with small moans about her life, about her husband, her feelings of frustration. That life had not panned out as she’d hoped. Then there were the last three when she all but begged Poppy to come and rescue her.
“I need you, Poppy,
I have never needed you so much in the whole of my life.”

It looked like Jasmine had married Seth without being in love with him but rather because she was in love with what she thought he would bring to her life. She’d been disappointed, disillusioned, lost in a mess of her own making. It was
so
Jasmine. But whatever she’d done, or whomever she’d hurt, Jasmine hadn’t been deserving of her death. Someone hated the woman, hated her enough to batter her to death, fill her with drugs… Or was that it? A bad drugs deal? Yet Poppy couldn’t see Jasmine involved with drugs or anyone connected with drugs. Jasmine was too vain, too proud of her beauty; she would never take anything that would destroy that beauty. The only wild thing she’d done as a teenager was smoke once or twice but she soon was sick of the smell of tobacco and gave it up.

Poppy, sighing, put the envelopes back together, tied them with string and chucked them back in the suitcase. Leaning back on her heels, she concentrated hard on Jasmine.

“Tell me, give me a clue,” she whispered, hoping that somehow Jasmine’s spirit would hear her and help.

It’s an act of sheer stupidity,
her reasonable side said,
Jasmine’s gone, she can’t give you a clue about anything.

Even from up in the bedroom she heard the bell shrilly ringing out. She struggled to her feet. Who could it be? Whatever—Mrs. Carrington would deal with it. She had just decided to go back downstairs when Mrs. Carrington came to her room—the woman hadn’t knocked but slipped in. “Poppy, there’s someone to see you—Mr. Seth’s Uncle, will you see him?”

Chapter 17

Poppy hated it. It was like spying. She opened drawers in the library, those of a cabinet and those in the desk. She merely tugged the drawer open and flicked her hand through. She looked for a photo album. Anything else she didn’t lift from the drawer or flick through. Everyone, she was certain, had a photo album. There was nothing. Seth’s computer winked at her. He trusted her implicitly. Guilt overwhelmed her. She pushed the feeling aside, went to the computer, clicked on and typed in his password. Opening “Start” she glanced over the menu. Finding photos, she opened it. A veritable wall of pictures opened up for her. Her body jerked as she saw Jasmine. There were nine photos of Jasmine, not many at all. Obviously these were taken in London. Jasmine in casual gear, a couple of Jasmine looking splendid in evening wear. She was alone in all but one of the photos. Here she hung on the arm of Seth. He wore a navy blue lounge suit, white shirt and club tie. She was wearing a white, knee-length dress of silk. On her head she wore a red rose-like hat. She carried a small bunch of freesia. They were outside a formal building. It was obviously taken at their wedding. Poppy’s heart swelled. They both looked happy, he handsome and smiling, she gloriously beautiful, almost triumphant. Poppy wanted to cry.

There were so many things to invade her mind, memories, regrets, each emotion more painful than the one before.

I shouldn’t be doing this,
she said silently.
This is so wrong.

Yet her gaze was drawn inexplicably to the other photos on the computer. There was a folder. “Family,” it stated. She clicked on it. Five photos opened up. She saw Caroline right away, made it large. Caroline, Robert and Edward. Pulling open drawers in the desk, she found some photographic paper, sprinted to the printer, slid the paper in and then returned to the computer to click on “Print.” The machine cranked into action. Wearily she sank onto the computer chair, closed the picture and logged out of the computer. Silence descended on the room. She thought she could hear her own heart throbbing.

“Poppy!”

Her whole body seemed to go into a convulsive spasm; she almost toppled from the chair. Seth was standing in the doorway. Guilt made the hot blood rush up her neck and into her face.

“You’re back,” she said weakly.

The photo was lying face down on the printer. Dare she pick it up, would he ask?

“Are you all right? You look startled.”

“Fine.” She tried a smile, it wouldn’t work, her mouth went into rictus. There was nothing pleasant about the grin.

She couldn’t lie, when he wasn’t there it was difficult to do these things, but when he was standing there, smelling of the great outdoors, his thick dark hair buffeted by the wind, it was impossible.

“I…look we have to talk; do you want to settle in?”

“No, of course not. What’s wrong?” He came into the room, shrugging out of his short overcoat and tossing it over a chair. He wore a navy blue suit and a bright white shirt, no tie, but the outfit put her in mind of the photo of Jasmine and him on their wedding day. Her stomach turned.

“I…”

“I?” he asked, but he tried to smile and look encouraging.

“I’m sorry.”

Now he looked concerned—he straightened his body, tense as if waiting for a blow.

Goodness,
she thought instinctively,
he thinks I’m going to leave him. That I’m going to tell him it’s over.

“I can’t lie to you, Seth, but it’s about Robert. He came to see me, he knew Jasmine—”

“Well yes, of course he did. They all knew her to a more or lesser degree.”

She bit her lip. Uncomfortable with what she had to say but knowing it had to be said.

“When I went to Manchester, to that club to ask about Jasmine, the barmaid knew her. Right off she recognized the photograph; I told you that, that she was with an older man; what I didn’t tell you was what she called him. She said he was a silver fox.”

“Really? Jasmine had an older boyfriend, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes. I didn’t want to go on about it but then…Seth, I don’t know how to say this but from his description—”

“You’ve got to be joking!” He interrupted her. “You are going to tell me it’s Robert Donnington. No way!”

Ah, the journalist in him.
He was used to discerning what people were going to say before they said it. Her cheeks were throbbing; she knew her color would be high.

“I think he might be. I want to go and see the girl again…I want to show her a photograph of Robert.”

It seemed ages that he just stared at her, his look incredulous. “No.” The word slammed out of him. “Robert Donnington is…” He shook his head. “No, he isn’t the kind of man that plays around. Believe me.”

“I would have done had I not evidence to the contrary.”

“What do you mean?”

“I met him before. He came to the hotel; he gave me the glad eye. I know that sounds a bit silly but really the way he looked at me…”

“Well, who wouldn’t? You’re a good-looking woman, but it’s just playful.”

Ignoring the obvious compliment, she bowled on. “No it’s not. When he came today—allegedly to see you, only I suspected it was to see me, the charm oozed out of him…”

“Well yes, it does. But he was a diplomat. He’s used to schmoozing people. It’s what he does best. No, Jasmine wasn’t his type. Trust me.”

“I can’t let it go.” She made her voice strong but her insides were turning to jelly. Perhaps Seth was right, he was far more astute than her and yet she couldn’t let it go.

Seth shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, frowning down at her, looking stern, not liking the way this was going.

“What are you going to do?”

“I want to go to the Presidents Club and show his photo to the girl behind the bar. I’m sorry, Seth, I have to do this.”

“And suppose in the unlikely event that she says it’s him, what then?”

“I have to go to the police.”

“God,” he said and put his hand up to his forehead, massaging it as if he had a headache. “You’re going to wreck this man’s life for a hunch.”

“I can’t help it. Don’t you want this sorted out? Don’t you want to know who killed Jasmine? I thought you did.”

“Yes I do. But not accuse someone who’s undoubtedly innocent. Robert Donnington of all people, he couldn’t do something like that. Believe me I know him. He’s neither a murderer nor a philanderer. I’m sorry, Poppy, but in this I am absolutely certain.”

“But you told the police about his son.”

“Oh well, yes but I wasn’t accusing Edward of murdering Jasmine. I just thought he might know something.”

“Perhaps that’s what all this is. Perhaps Robert Donnington might
know
something,” she persisted, not completely won over by his argument.

“Poppy, if you do this and it’s a big
if,
that it’s Robert she was seen with, and then you have to tell the police, and they come down here, what do you think this will do to his life, his life with my aunt? Do you imagine she’ll ever let him get away with an affair? If you think that you have to be mad. Caroline will grind him into the ground.”