Peter Lovesey - Murder on the Short List

She was twenty minutes late collecting Rosemary. It was such a relief to see her.

“I’m so sorry.”

“My dear, you look drained. Whatever has happened?”

Rosemary insisted on taking the wheel and Laura told her story as they headed out of the city.

“So couldn’t they revive him?” Rosemary said.

“What’s the phrase? Dead on arrival. They worked on him, but it was no use.”

“What was it — heart?”

“No one would say. They’ll do an autopsy, I suppose. I told them all I could. It seemed to happen very suddenly. He said he felt dizzy and asked to sit down. I thought it was the mulled wine, but it turned out he hadn’t had a drop all evening. He’s TT. Then he fell asleep, a really deep sleep. I got him into the car — I don’t know how — he was pretty far gone — and his wife noticed the convulsions, which was when I knew he needed medical help.”

“Dizziness, anaesthesia and convulsions. Was he vomiting?”

“Trying to, anyway.”

“It sounds more like poisoning to me,” Rosemary said.

“Poisoning?”

“Did he eat anything?”

“One of the mince pies I handed out. That’s all.”

“That’s all right then,” Rosemary said. “No problem with that, if you were the cook.”

Laura clapped her hand to her mouth.

Rosemary said, “What’s wrong?”

“I did something dreadful. I may have killed him.”

“Hold on.” Rosemary pulled into a layby and turned off the engine. “Laura, get a grip and tell me just what you’re talking about.”

Laura’s voice shook as she explained what she had done with Gertrude Appleton’s pies. “If there was anything in them I’ll never forgive myself.”

From a distant field came the triple bark of a dog-fox, answered by a vixen sounding eerily like a woman screaming. Rosemary shivered. “We’ll face this together.”

It was close to midnight when they drove up the lane to The Withers. Christmas morning, almost.

In a effort to lighten the mood, Rosemary said, “If you look in that bag at your feet you’ll find I packed a bottle of bubbly. Let’s open it as soon as we get in, shall we?”

“You’re a star,” Laura said. “Some Christmas cheer in spite of everything.” But her voice trailed away.

A police car was on the drive.

“Is one of you ladies Mrs Laura Thyme?” the officer asked. “You’re about to see in Christmas at the police station.”

It was the day after Boxing Day, and still Laura was troubled by guilt.

“What upset me most was the way that detective put his hand on my head and pressed down when I got in their car, just like they do with murderers.”

“That didn’t mean a thing,” Rosemary said.

“Well, he didn’t do it to you.” Laura’s voice shook a little. “Is it possible those pies were poisoned?”

“Possible, I suppose.”

“Think of what goes into mincemeat — all those rich flavours, the fruits, the spice, the peel. You could add almost any poison and it wouldn’t be obvious.”

“If they were poisoned, we’ve still got eleven of them sitting in the fridge.”

“Ten. I handed the singers a plate with eleven and ten came back. The farmer took one and ate it. That’s certain.”

“There are eleven in the fridge. I counted,” Rosemary said in her precise way.

Laura snapped her fingers. “You’re right. I kept one back for Gertrude, the neighbour. She asked specially.”

“Gertrude,” said Rosemary. “She’s the one the police should be questioning. I wonder if she’d eat that pie if you offered it. She wouldn’t know it’s one of hers with a new lid.”

“I don’t want another death on my hands.”

“This is all supposition anyway,” Rosemary said. “We’ll probably find the poor man died of natural causes.”

“Listen, if Gertrude is a poisoner, those pies were meant for my friends Jane, Michael and Maeve. Was she in dispute with them? You know what neighbours can be like.”

“Neighbourly, in most cases.”

“What could she have used?”

“You said She’s a gardener. You and I know that a garden is full of plants capable of poisoning people.”

“Christmas roses!” Laura said. “We’ve got some in the front.”

“Let’s not leap to any conclusions,” Rosemary said, trying to remain calm. “Besides, your carol singers had been round most of the village eating mince pies and drinking wine before they got to you. If he was poisoned, it could have been someone else’s pie that did it.”

Laura refused to think of anyone else except Gertrude as responsible. “I’d dearly like to know if she was having a feud with Jane and family.”

“Why don’t we ask someone?”

“In a village? Who do you ask?”

“The vicar. He ought to be discreet.”

The vicarage was ten minutes away, at the end of a footpath across the frost-covered fields. If nothing else, they’d be exercising Wilbur the greyhound. With difficulty they got him into his coat.

They passed Gertrude’s garden on the way. Laura grabbed Rosemary’s arm. “Look, she’s got a patch of Christmas roses.”

“She’s also got white bryony in her hedge and a poinsettia in her window, both of them potential killers, but it doesn’t make her a murderer,” Rosemary said to curb Laura’s imagination. “She may have mistletoe inside the house. Death cap toadstools growing in her compost. I see she has a greenhouse. There could be an oleander in there.”

But Laura was unstoppable. “I didn’t tell you about the greenhouse. She told me she was fumigating it for pests, and I don’t know what she was using, but it sounded primitive and hazardous as well. Would you believe burning shreds of paper that she had to stamp on to produce the smoke?”

Rosemary winced. “Out of the ark, by the sound of it. Well, out of some dark shed. Old gardeners used flakes of nicotine. Highly dangerous, of course, and illegal now. What’s wrong with a spray?”

Laura tapped the side of her nose. “Chemicals.”

“Fumes are eco-friendly, are they? Isn’t that the vicarage ahead?”

They shouted to Wilbur, who must have scented fox or rabbit. He raced back, tail going like a mainspring, and got no reward for obedience. He was put on the lead and no doubt decided it’s a dog’s life.

The vicarage was surrounded by a ten-foot yew hedge that Rosemary mentioned was another source of deadly poison. Laura gave her a long look. “You wouldn’t be winding me up, would you?”

She smiled. “Encouraging a sense of proportion.”

The vicar, in a Bath Rugby Club sweatshirt, was relaxing after his Christmas duties. He sounded genuinely disturbed about the death of Melchior, and guilt-stricken, also. “If I’d had any idea he was so ill, I wouldn’t have asked you to take him in,” he said to Laura. “You acted splendidly, getting him to hospital.”

“I couldn’t tell the police much about him,” Laura said. “Didn’t even know his surname.”

“Boon. Douglas Boon. His family have farmed here for generations. Blackberry Farm is the last of the old farms. I suppose his wife inherits. There aren’t any children. She’ll have to sell up, I should think.”

“What do you mean by the last of the old farms?”

“Traditional. Cattle and sheep. Everyone’s switching to flowers and bulbs since that foot and mouth epidemic. We didn’t have an outbreak here, thank the Lord, but other farmers didn’t want the risk and sold up. Much of the land has been put under glass by Ben Black, known to you as Balthazar.”

“The tall man?” Laura said.

“A giant in the nursery garden business and a very astute businessman. Lay chairman of the Parochial Church Council as well, so I have to work closely with him. He’s from London originally. To the locals, he’s an incomer, but he gives them a living.”