The Flower Girls (9 page)

Mrs. Carrington muttered something beneath her breath—like sister like sister—was that what it was? But the woman merely nodded her head before leaving the room.

I’m not like Jasmine. I have no ties. I can do what I like.

But Poppy merely thought the words without believing them.

Chapter 11

She booked into a small hotel, cheap and cheerful. In France they often stayed at hotels like this. She remembered happy holidays, the two sisters and their aunt, driving down tree-lined roads, she enjoying the ambience of rural France, although Jasmine hadn’t really felt at home there. She preferred the lively Costas of Spain. In the end their aunt relented and they took package holidays. Poppy missed France dreadfully. But as usual Jasmine got her own way. She had the ability to wind people around her little finger.

I might go to France,
she thought,
just drive until I came to a place I liked.

It would be fun—or would it? Truth to tell she was miserable. This little jaunt seemed ludicrous now and lonely too, without Seth. Damn her pride and her stubbornness. She should have told him everything, invited him along.

An enquiry at the desk told her where the club was. She gleaned it was up-market, rather dressy. They were a bit sniffy about whom they let in, the girl said, glancing at Poppy’s jeans and sweater. Aah, but she had a nice dress in her bag. Bought in a New York second-time around store, it was top designer. The dress had opened many doors for her.

It was quite early so she went into the city. Found a hairdresser who could take her, and then took a leisurely stroll around.

She remembered coming to the city once or twice on business. It was quite cosmopolitan and sophisticated in parts. There was no northern drabness here. Times had changed and the city had changed with it.

The Presidents was in a dark narrow street off a main drag. She guessed that was all part of its exclusivity. There wasn’t a queue of hopefuls hoping to get inside when she arrived, she guessed it wasn’t that kind of place, or more likely too early. After a cursory glance at her, the doorman opened the door. There was no smoky atmosphere that she was used to in some of the clubs she’d been in. The air reeked a little of expensive perfume and alcohol. The décor veered towards the belle epoch and immediately she recognized it as the kind of place Jasmine would like. It was smaller than she’d imagined. A bar took over one wall, it was all glass at the back, reminding her a little of the painting by Manet of the Bar at the Folies-Bergère, all glass and wonderful colorful bottles; it should have been out of place with the slow beat of the music but oddly it wasn’t.

People were dancing, or lounging on comfortable sofas, their drinks on glass-topped tables. She thought that the Health and Safety Officials must have had an off day, there was so much glass it was practically a hazard. If a fight broke out…and yet the cliental didn’t look like the fighting kind. Ultra-sophisticated, wealthy. A couple of guys she guessed were football players, glamorous girls draped around them.

Hoping not to bring too much attention to herself, she edged her way to the bar. There was an empty stool and she carefully slid herself onto it. Four bar staff, three men, one woman. She dismissed asking the woman; it would be a man who remembered Jasmine. She was that kind of girl.

The barman—young and much too good-looking if that were possible—came to serve her. She ordered a white wine, waiting until it was poured and paid for before sliding the picture of Jasmine across to him.

He looked at it—full marks to him for that—and then let out a long, low whistle. “No, but I would like to,” he said, pushing the picture back at her.

“You’re sure?” Poppy tried to smile rather than frown. It was hard.

“I’ve only been here three months; you need to ask Sara, she’s been here
forever
.” He emphasized the word, gave her a wink and sauntered off to serve another customer.

The barmaid was small and petite but not in the first flush of youth. Poppy took a sip of her drink and waited. There was a lull and she called out, “Sara.” The woman turned, looked at her with a raised brow and then made her way up the bar. Her black silk skirt was really short; her legs were covered in fishnet tights, and stupendous high heels gave her a kind of rolling gait. Tanned shoulders bare above a black top, around her neck a rather prim white collar with a red velvet bow.

Classy,
Poppy thought, but meant the opposite. This girl was nothing like the lovely barmaid of the Manet painting.

“Do I know you?”

“No, but I think you might know my sister.” Again, heart hammering, Poppy pushed the photo back across the bar.

Sara glanced at it. She had the color of red hair that only came out of a bottle. There was toughness about her, but on close inspection Poppy saw she was attractive in a hard-edged kind of way.

“Perhaps.” Sara slid the photo back. “I’m on a ciggy break in five minutes, I’ll meet you outside, back entrance.” The girl nodded to a far exit. “You’ll have to walk around but best not let the bouncers see us talking.”

Leaving her drink, Poppy made her way to the cloakroom, dug out her ticket and left the club.

“Leaving early,” one of the big bruisers said.

“Yes, have some other place to go.”

“Good luck,” he said.

Impudent sod,
Poppy thought. She knew he was hinting she was on the make. Judging by the male clientele, it looked that kind of place. When she got to the corner leading to the back of the club she glanced back. The bruiser had gone to stand in the doorway, talking to one of his co-workers. Hurriedly she swung around the corner.

There was a long wait. She started to think that Sara had pulled a ruse, that she wasn’t going to come and was about to move off when the door opened. The small woman slid through.

She lighted a cigarette and took a deep drag before clicking her fingers for the photo. She put it under the light and studied it really carefully. “Why’d you want to know if she came here?”

No point lying,
Poppy thought.

“She’s my sister, Jasmine, and she was found murdered.”

“Blimey, the cops haven’t been around.”

“They wouldn’t. They don’t know she came here. I’ve been trying to find out things about her.”

“The owners don’t like cops coming around—”

“I promise not to tell them. I just need to know if she came here and with anyone.”

The girl took another pull on her cigarette. “Well she did, a lot, but she hasn’t been here for a couple of months. Came with an older guy. Gray hair, distinguished. Bit of a silver fox. She was flirty, you know, don’t want to speak ill of the dead but she was a bit of a prick-tease, if you know what I mean.”

Poppy bit her lip against a reply.

“But no one deserves to be murdered,” the woman hastily added. “I don’t know any more than that. She came in with this bloke most of the time. Now and again she came alone but she never left with anyone. She liked to flirt but she never got involved. I guess she was happy with the older bloke. He didn’t seem the type to be messing around but you never know…” Sara shrugged. “Sorry I can’t help more than that.”

“Thank you, it’s something. You never saw her with a young bloke?” Poppy gave a quick description of Philip and then, thinking about it for a second, a description of Seth.

Sara was adamant. “No, never. Always the silver fox, or on her own. I think she was into older blokes. She got chatted up by one of the football studs but he got the brush-off big time. Look, I got to go now.” Sara dropped the cigarette end onto the street, shredding it with her shoe.

“Thank you, Sara.”

“I hope they get the bastard,” Sara said, before shunting in the building, pulling the door fast behind her.

After slipping the photo into her bag Poppy made for the main street. Peering around the corner, she saw the bouncers were still standing in the doorway. She swung into the street and hurried to where there was a main road and bright lights. A black cab was passing—she held out her hand and he stopped a couple of feet from her.

* * * *

Back at the hotel she sat on the bed. Older man, gray hair. He didn’t fit the description of anyone she knew. Her trip had been a waste of time, she knew little more than before she set off. They would never find the older man; how could they? She doubted Seth would know who he was. A kind of relief flooded over her. Sara hadn’t seen Jasmine with Seth. It shouldn’t have made her feel better but it did.

Chapter 12

It was sunny when she arrived at the station. She’d had the presence of mind to call Seth, who said he’d come to meet her. The old jalopy with the miserable Donald at the wheel had its engine running. A plume of blue smoke eased out of the exhaust. No one else left the train—if he expected her to hire him he was quickly disappointed. Seth’s Range Rover swung onto the car park and she galloped thankfully towards it. She’d never been so glad to see anyone in her life. It was like coming home from a long trip, yet she’d been gone only two days.

He asked how she was and not what she’d found out, if anything. Poppy was glad about that; she was still digesting what she’d learned about her sister.

“Can we talk later?” she said.

“Of course.”

The countryside was glorious. The gray stone cottages they passed were festooned now with spring flowers, the hills were vivid green. There was a still beauty in the air. Daffodils nodded at the side of the road. It was a different place altogether from the one she’d arrived at.

“We’ve had lovely weather,” Seth murmured.

“It’s beautiful now,” she said.

It was lunchtime when they arrived. Seth told her there was soup and sandwiches in the kitchen, inviting her to join him there.

“Fine, I’ll just take my bag up—will be down in two ticks.”

Her bag could have waited but she needed to check her appearance. The mirror showed her that her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks faintly flushed. Guilt overwhelmed her. Jasmine had been murdered and she was happy. It was all wrong.

Feeling a little glum, she went downstairs. The soup was still on the stove. Mrs. Carrington was standing over the stove stirring the pot. She nodded and twitched her mouth in what Poppy presumed was a smile. Poppy greeted the woman pleasantly.

The homemade minestrone was delicious, the cheese sandwiches tasty. The kitchen was as ever, warm and cozy. As if she sensed something in the atmosphere, Mrs. Carrington swept out, saying she had to go over to the cottage.

Poppy mulled over in her mind what to say. Should she reveal everything about what she’d learned? It wasn’t a good deal. Would it upset Seth to know about Jasmine and this mystery older man? Would he be hurt? The question flooded her mind, making her speechless for a long time.

Seth left the table and brought the coffee pot and two mugs. He’d said nothing as if he knew she had to put her thoughts together.

“Did you think Jasmine was unfaithful to you?”

He jerked as if she’d shocked him, and he spilt some coffee onto his hand. He put the hand up to his mouth and sucked at the burn to cool it. “I’d be surprised if she wasn’t.”

“Didn’t you care?”

“I told you it was over between us. We were two people who’d married because of some foolishness. Ridiculous. A sense of duty from me and a…what? I don’t know why she was so desperate to marry me.”

I do,
Poppy thought,
you’re everything she wanted. Handsome, not short of money, and successful in an artistic profession. You’d been a foreign correspondent; she would see that as exciting. Probably she thought it would bring her a life in media circles; she didn’t realize you’d want to hide away up here.

But she said none of this to Seth. It seemed cruel and heartless. Even if it was over between them it made it seem like Jasmine had merely used him.

And she probably had,
Poppy thought.
Jasmine hadn’t been averse to using anyone to suit her own ends, which is how come I am sitting at this kitchen table with her widower.

“Is that what you found out, that she had a boyfriend?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly.” He took a slow sip of coffee after speaking. His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “Not a girlfriend?” he said.

Poppy laughed in spite of the seriousness of the situation. “No, but an older man was often with her. That’s all I found out, that she gave the brush-off to a young stud, flirted a lot but was always with the same bloke.”

Silence grew between them. She could hear the clock ticking; it sounded deafening for a few long empty moments.

“Look, do you want to go for a walk?” she asked, breaking into the silence.

“Aren’t you tired?”

“I’ve travelled from Manchester, not Timbuktu, I’m fine.”

“Great. If you’ve finished your coffee we’ll go, plenty of time before dusk.”

She could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, this other man in her sister’s life. That she had another man he probably knew, yet she’d always thought he’d suspected Edward Donnington. There were so many things she wanted to say but something held her back.

Later,
she thought,
…now is too soon for a long discussion.

He took a different way, around the back of the house, and after about a quarter of a mile they hit a footpath, where there was a stile and a fingerpost. The words on the post were faded but she didn’t bother to ask where they were headed.

The path led down to a wood. As the path narrowed she saw there were carpets of bluebells and she gave a gasp of pleasure. “I love bluebells!”

“I thought you might, that’s why I brought you this way. These are strictly English bluebells. The Spanish vandals haven’t invaded here.”

“Good, nothing against the other kind, just so long as they know their place!”

“Are they your favorites?”

“No, my favorite flower of the spring is the snowdrop. They’re such brave, delicate little things, I adore them. My aunt always tried to grow them but they didn’t like her soil or location. She managed lots of crocuses but the little snowdrop’s very picky.”