The Potting Shed Murder, page 6
He was intrinsically a good man, wasn’t he? He’d never intentionally set out to hurt or deceive anyone, but his life had been a series of miscommunications and deceptions that had thrown things off course, and now it was time to make things right. The walk had cleared his head. He was beginning to feel a slow and subtle wave of optimism creep over him as he undid the padlock on his potting shed door and walked inside. It was larger than it would have seemed to the casual observer from outside. Basic and utilitarian, but functional and handsome with its silvered wood walls and hooks filled with small treasures and keepsakes. There were the usual tools for gardening hanging up of course, but alongside the spades and hoes and secateurs were pinned fading photographs and paraphernalia that reminded him of happier times. Tickets from a concert down in London. The key ring from his first ever car—a Mini—with a tiny, knitted penguin attached. There was a gardening almanac on the small desk, a transistor radio on a makeshift shelf and a camping stove (which wasn’t strictly allowed) on a metal stand next to the desk. The small windows were slightly dirty, but clear enough to see out into the darkness. It was rustic, but with a coziness to it that made it welcoming. A perfect retreat. He’d sat and contemplated life in here on many occasions.
Alone with his thoughts, he was remembering what real love felt like. That was what he had to focus on now. If he could remain focused on that, then everything would be OK. Outside, the rain had stopped for the moment. Perhaps the worst was over?
By sunrise, Charles Papplewick was dead.
CHAPTER 4
Nancy Warburton took her duties as the village oracle extremely seriously. There was little that she didn’t know about the residents of Pepperbridge parish. Contrary to the lilac-rinsed victory rolls and bespectacled grandmother-like appearance that she purposefully cultivated with the presence of a permanent floral pinafore, she was an extremely sharp-eyed and observant woman.
For instance, she knew exactly who was responsible for the salacious letters that were sent—supposedly anonymously—to be published in the Village Pump once a month. She had once spied a particularly fruity one atop a pile in the office of Mrs. Freestone, the esteemed editor of the eight-page parish newsletter. Of course, by spied, she meant read in full, examined the typed lettering, made a note of the paper, ink color, idiosyncratic spelling and colorful language in order to assess that it was one of three people in the village. Seeing a smudge of typewriter ribbon ink on Reverend Gerald Duncan’s thumb as he handed over payment for a loaf of McVitie’s Jamaica Ginger Cake (in the absence of his poorly housekeeper who usually ran the errands) was the final nail in the coffin confirming his guilt.
Nancy kept her secrets close to her chest, of course. Possibly to be used at a later date of her own convenience. Possibly not. The beauty was in the knowing. The hinting and watching faces react in shock and surprise. That was the beauty of getting older and seemingly more invisible. People tended to say and do things in front of you without thinking of the consequences, and she played up to her matronly role with gusto. It suited her to be seen as a harmless hypochondriac who spent most of her time arguing with her sister—until suddenly, with the speed of a scorpion with a sting in her tail, she would turn on her unsuspecting victim and leave them reeling.
She was a distinctly different type of bully than Augusta—but cut from a similar weft of cloth in their mutual enjoyment gained from watching people squirm. Nancy’s particular power, however, came from hidden truths and gathering knowledge brought about by quiet and stealthy observation, rather than Augusta’s more obvious method of intimidation and snobbery.
She knew Augusta’s secret. She knew that she and the headmaster were not in a happy marriage. In fact, she had predicted that forty years ago. She had seen the error of Augusta’s pride and pomposity as a young bride entering the village on Charles’s arm. She had noticed Augusta’s early attempts to ensure that her new husband’s attention stayed with her and could see the exact moment when Augusta had realized that she was fighting a losing battle. Four decades of observation later and she could tell from the way they sat silently together in church, heads turned away from each other and observing different areas of the congregation, that theirs was not a partnership built on romantic love. It wasn’t the sort of comfortable silence that some long-term couples grew used to. There was a lack of intimacy and a palpable air of crackling tension there. Not noticeable to the average person, she was sure. What the average person saw was a dignified reverence. A poised and solid couple at the helm of a village filled with people who didn’t expect public displays of affection from their headmaster.
But Nancy knew better. Living in the intense hothouse conditions of a small village for all of her sixty-five years, she had honed her observational skills to great effect. She had correctly (albeit privately) predicted eight divorces, six illnesses (two terminal), and more interestingly, at least a dozen affairs over the past half a century—often before the people involved or the partners affected had realized themselves. It was ironic that she hadn’t predicted her own short and swift marital demise. In fact, it had been over and done with so quickly that most people in the village had no idea that she had ever been married at all, and assumed that she and her sister were simply eccentric spinsters—but that was, of course, another story, and one that she didn’t often delve too far into.
Life had confirmed to her that most people ended up marrying the wrong people and lived to regret it. She certainly knew that the headmaster would have been far happier now with her younger sister Patsy had he succumbed to the will of the village matriarchs (including his own mother) over forty years ago. There were many things that she had enjoyed having a front-row view of over the past half a century or so, but seeing her younger sister fade into a lonely spinster alongside her—far before her time—had not been one of them, and for that she would never forgive Charles.
The truth was that she had allowed her own life to fester until the rank stench of disappointment had caused her to relish the power in poking away at the misery of others. In her mind, she had come to terms with her own failure to reach marital happiness a long time ago. Any feelings of resentment or anger towards Charles and his nasty wife, she blamed on the maternal love she had for her sister . . . her poor, cast-aside and rejected “little” Patsy.
* * *
Nancy’s “little” sister Patsy had a voice that could at best be described as “beefy” and at worst with menacing Kray-brother undertones. It made even the most innocuous comments sound terrifyingly confrontational, as though she were constantly poised on the cusp of an argument, a tightly coiled and rusty spring that could cause violent damage.
Yet despite her larger-than-life voice, at the age of sixty, she had resigned herself to the fate of always being known as the “little” Warburton sister, and had taken to standing quietly behind Nancy when the shop was open. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed about her vocal tones; she was naturally talkative and loved to laugh. But rather like her sister, she had come to realize that a quiet and watchful demeanor drew more information out of unsuspecting bystanders than engaging in arbitrary conversation—especially when one’s voice had the gravelly texture of an overflowing ashtray and was sure to startle if not accidentally intimidate.
The sisters made for quite the eccentric pair, standing quietly sentinel-like behind the shop counter on the days that they deigned it necessary to stick to the advertised hours and remain open. For the local villagers it was a very convenient place for a quick pantry-cupboard shop—despite the inflated prices and the occasionally out-of-date tin.
There were times when the sisters could be heard squabbling behind the doors, yet if one were to peer through the letterbox, as customers inevitably did when faced with a “Closed” sign on the door yet booming voices from within, they would sometimes glimpse them standing at the top of the stairs in sudden silence, looking for all intents and purposes like the elderly version of the Grady twins in The Shining.
The sisters were fiercely protective of each other, and even more so of their right to be the purveyors of local gossip rather than the source of it.
Nancy may have been the watchful one, but Patsy was prepared to take things a step further. She had learned from the best in her sister, but where Nancy was discreet, Patsy was far more willing to take risks to find out what she wanted to know.
* * *
On the night of Charles Papplewick’s death, Patsy had seen him pass the shop as he did every afternoon, but nearing 9 p.m. was much later than usual. She knew this because she had sneaked out for a quick cigarette just before Prime Suspect started, on the pretext of putting out the recycling bin. It was jet black outside on account of the rain clouds more than the time of night. The rain was coming down increasingly hard, but the temperature was actually quite balmy and mild—the sort of weather during which it would be hard to fall asleep, she imagined absent-mindedly. She was leaning against the side alley wall, sheltering under the corrugated iron lean-to, just about to enjoy a final deliciously deep draw of nicotine, when she jumped further back into the shadows, startled by the unmistakable sound of his heavily splashing footsteps rounding the corner through the deluge. His gait had seemed unusually purposeful and agitated, and she had felt it best to draw no attention to her presence. Not least because she probably smelled of cigarette smoke, but also because it was unusual to see him in any state other than calm acceptance. As he sped past, she could sense from the grim look on his face that he must have just left an argument.
Surely it was far too late for him to be heading to the allotment, she mused to herself, her interest piqued—and yet that was the direction that he was heading in. Despite the knowledge that her sister would soon be questioning her whereabouts—after all, Prime Suspect was about to start in a few minutes—she felt compelled to know where Charles could possibly be heading in such an agitated state, and why.
It took her only a few minutes to decide to follow him. Rain or not, this felt far too juicy an opportunity to ignore. Thankfully the rain muffled her own footsteps. Unlike Charles, who seemed in a world of his own, she was being careful to avoid the puddles, and had no desire to be seen.
Stealthily trailing behind him by a few hundred yards, and slipping in between houses and hedges when necessary, she soon noticed a vaguely familiar green Volvo screech up to the curb beside him, trailing along as the driver called out through an open window.
Due to the rain, she couldn’t quite hear the words being spoken from the person in the driving seat, but she edged as close as she could before stopping and straining to listen—echoing Charles’s own pause in the rain.
Whoever was in the car appeared to be raising their voice before the door was flung open and a lone figure walked determinedly towards Charles on the pavement. Patsy’s heart was in her mouth. Should she intervene? Did Charles need help? Was he in danger? She watched him stand his ground as what was now obviously a woman continued to shriek at him threateningly. She edged closer, mindful to remain in the shadows, and was just able to make out the tail end of a sentence before the mysterious figure returned to the car, leaning at one point on the bonnet before getting in. Charles remained still and silent, looking at the figure who had just been berating him incoherently through the rain. Then the accelerator was pressed hard, and with a slight skid, the car took off. The words she had heard sounded like “or else!” It was definitely a woman’s voice—and an angry woman at that.
She stared as Charles stood in the rain and watched the car depart. She saw his shoulders drop and then droop as the car sped out of sight—as if the burden of what had just been said was just too much. All at once she felt an intense urge to go to him, to comfort him and say that it would all be OK—after all, they had developed some semblance of a mutually respectful friendship in the ridiculous kerfuffle of their youth. A crack of thunder brought her to her senses and the sky lit up for a split second as a bolt of lightning spread across the clouds. For a fraction of time, every roof in Pepperbridge could be seen in stark and intricate detail. Every ancient chimney and every broken tile. It reminded her of another night, a long time ago . . .
How could she possibly explain being out here in the rain and watching him? Within a few minutes, a rather less determined-seeming Charles continued his route towards the allotment. Patsy hesitated, trying to decide whether this could be the moment she had been waiting for. The moment where she could acknowledge his role in her past.
Thinking the better of it, she turned back and retraced her steps towards the shop. Her sister would be waiting and wondering where she had gone. Charles Papplewick and that conversation could wait for another time. She had already waited forty years—another few wouldn’t hurt now.
* * *
A few hundred yards up the road, Nancy had watched the unusual events unfold from a distance. She had indeed wondered where her sister had disappeared to, although she was well aware that Patsy was still partial to a cigarette or two, despite her protestations. She’d assumed that Patsy would return reeking of Trebor mints and cheap cologne to mask the un-maskable. However, after a few minutes longer than normal, Nancy’s radar was on high alert. Patsy didn’t normally take this long to puff on her not-so-sneaky cigarette, and she would never intentionally miss the beginning of Prime Suspect . . .
Determined to creep up on her unawares, Nancy had grabbed her mackintosh and stepped out to spy on her sister, but she was nowhere to be found. Starting to get concerned, she was relieved to see Patsy scurrying into the distance in the wake of another shadowy figure further up the lane. She saw her sister dip and dive in between houses, attempting not to be seen by whoever was ahead of her. Well, two could play at that game, thought Nancy, as she pulled her collar up tightly around her ears and followed quietly. Patsy had learned from the best—and Nancy was the best, after all.
Nancy had seen the car pull up beside Charles, the muffled sound of shouting as Charles stood there, seemingly taking the abuse in the rain. She had then seen her sister’s hesitation, sensing her desire to go to Charles, and finally witnessed her about-turn and reluctant retreat.
So, Nancy deduced, Charles and Augusta had clearly finally had the long-overdue argument. But who was the mystery woman with the car? She had been too far away and it had been too dark to see, but she knew that Augusta didn’t—or at least wouldn’t—drive, so she doubted it had been her.
Speeding back into the house ahead of her sister, Nancy went straight to her bedroom, quicky grabbed her towel to dry herself off and turned off the light. Within a few moments she heard Patsy’s footsteps on the landing stairs, then approaching her bedroom door.
The handle turned and Patsy’s head poked into the room. “I thought you’d be watching Prime Suspect?” she asked with surprise.
“I’ve got a headache,” Nancy mumbled with feigned indifference.
“Mmmm—me too, in fact I feel awful! Do you want some cocoa?”
Patsy avoided her sister’s eyes, choosing instead to appear tired, and concentrated on heading towards the kitchen. It was obvious that she didn’t want Nancy to adopt big-sister mode and question her most recent whereabouts.
“No, thank you—good night. Leave the landing light on in case I need to get my pills from downstairs.”
“OK then, I’ll have an early night too in that case.” Patsy retreated, concealing a relieved expression as she closed the door.
It took about half an hour for Nancy to hear the loud snoring of her sister penetrating the silent house. Patsy was a heavy sleeper, and her snore was as deep and resonating as her voice. Nancy knew that once she was out for the night, there would be no waking her until morning.
Satisfied that all was safe, Nancy climbed out of bed. She was still fully dressed. She crept quietly onto the landing and down the stairs, careful to miss the squeaky seventh step on her way down. In the unlikely event that Patsy called out, she had already set the scene by mentioning her headache and need for pills.
She took her mackintosh back out of the understairs closet. It was a rare new purchase, as she normally wore her mother’s old clothes, or at least her own until they literally fell apart. This was a smart coat from the sale at Boden in Bury St. Edmund’s. She felt put together wearing it. In control. She grabbed her door keys and slipped quietly out through the back door and onto the dark alley. It had thankfully stopped raining, although the thunder was still rumbling in the distance. There were large puddles everywhere, which she needed to avoid for fear of slipping, and the moon drifted in and out from behind the clouds, which gave her enough light to see where she was going.
She didn’t know whether Charles would still be at the allotment, but she had a feeling that he wouldn’t be heading home any time soon. It wasn’t her intention to have it out with him that night, but she could tell that there may be some ammunition to be had if she found out what had happened between him and Augusta.
It must have been nearly 10 p.m. by now. As she finally approached the allotment through the spread of undergrowth cloaked in darkness, with only the occasional glimmer of moonlight to guide her way, she could see that one of the potting sheds had a light on. She knew that it would be Charles’s and she began to walk in the general direction, being careful not to slip on any mud or make any noise that would alert him to her presence. She wasn’t quite sure what she expected to see, say or do. She remembered Patsy’s hesitation to approach Charles earlier that evening, but even worse, she recalled a much younger Patsy’s distressed face staring horrified and panicked at Charles over forty years ago. She could never forget the fear in Patsy’s eyes. The fear of being taken advantage of and abandoned in favor of Augusta. The outrage she had felt for her sister would never, ever disappear. In fact, the outrage she felt for both Warburton sisters being rejected was as intense today as it ever was . . . and the incandescent anger that she had held within her for so many years began to build up in her once more.
