Birthdays Can Be Murder (15 page)

‘So, what next?’ Jenny asked, and Mollineaux, after giving her a quick, exasperated look, finally gave in to the inevitable.

‘We question Arbie and Keith about the crates,’ he confirmed, his voice as discouraged as he must have felt. ‘But they’ll only deny everything. I don’t suppose anyone else could have come down during that morning and afternoon. Babs Walker, perhaps?’

‘I doubt it,’ Jenny said miserably. ‘If they had, I’m sure Martha or Vera would have seen and mentioned it, even if they’d chanced to come down on one of the rare occasions when I wasn’t in the kitchen myself.’

‘Besides, Babs Walker has no motive,’ Mollern said, sighing. ‘She lost all her chances of a wealthy marriage when Justin died.’

‘Oh but …’ Jenny said, and then stopped.

Mollineaux, reaching for a second piece of cake, stopped in mid-action and looked up, gimlet eyes glinting. ‘Oh but what?’

‘Well, Justin had already broken it off with Babs,’ Jenny admitted reluctantly. She
hated
being a stool pigeon. ‘He told me so just before they went into dinner. He said he was keeping an eye on her in case she caused a scene. Well, in case she took reprisals was more accurately what he hinted at.’

‘I wish you’d told us that before,’ Mollineaux said, too weary to be really angry, and Mollern suddenly began pushing back his notebook pages with an energy that had both Mollineaux and Jenny staring at him expectantly. Eventually, and with a small grunt of triumph, he stopped and tapped a page with his pencil. ‘I thought so. One of the guests said they saw Babs Walker leave the party for a brief spell, somewhere about 11.30 p.m. She went out into the garden for some fresh air apparently. The last he saw of her, according to his statement, she was heading towards the greenhouse.’

Where there was paraquat.

‘Really?’ Mollineaux’s eyes began to gleam.

Jenny’s lip’s twisted wryly, instantly seeing the flaw. ‘And she just happened to have a handy hypodermic needle in her handbag, I suppose?’ Both men wilted slightly. ‘Unless the needle is a blind,’ Jenny mused, only half-serious.

‘The classic red herring you mean? To put us off the track?’ Mollern rolled the thought around – with some scepticism, it has to be said – while Mollineaux sighed heavily.

‘I wouldn’t put it past our killer,’ he agreed morosely. ‘The more we get into this case, the more intricate it becomes. But that needle narrows it down a little. Don’t you agree, Miss Starling?’

Jenny did. She could quite see that if she was right about the business with the hypodermic, then it narrowed it down very considerably indeed.

To just one, in fact.

But it still didn’t make sense.

Mollern pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I suppose we’d better see Miss Walker about that turn in the garden.’

‘Hmm? Oh yes,’ Jenny murmured, and then gave a clearly visible start as memory gave her a jab in the ribs. ‘Oh, there was just one other thing.’

‘Yes, Miss Starling?’ Mollineaux asked, his voice so calm it made her give him a double-take.

‘You know that little talk we had. About my not interfering,’ she began carefully, not trusting Mollineaux’s calmly inquiring look one little bit.

‘Yes, Miss Starling,’ he said smoothly, ‘I remember it well.’

Jenny swallowed. ‘Well, I took it to heart, I assure you,’ she said quickly. ‘But I assumed that you didn’t mean for me not to make a suggestion or two, if a thought occurred to me.’

Mollern glanced at his superior and very nearly smiled at the look on his face.

‘Yes, Miss Starling?’ Mollineaux said, by a great effort of will actually managing to avoid grinding his teeth. ‘And I take it that a thought has actually occurred?’

Jenny took a small step sideways, just out of his arm reach. Well, you never knew. ‘Yes. I think you might find that Daphne Williams is Jimmy Speight’s real mother.’ She got it all out in an undignified rush.

Mollern, who thought he’d been prepared for anything and was waiting with his notebook at the ready, very nearly dropped his pencil.

‘You did know he was adopted, didn’t you?’ Jenny added quickly, just to break the rather deep quiet that had suddenly fallen over the kitchen. Mollineaux stared at her for a moment, then seemed to pull himself together.

‘Yes, Miss Starling. We had managed to gather that much information all by ourselves,’ he acknowledged, the sarcasm so finely dealt out that she almost missed it.

She blushed. ‘Good. Well, that was all.’ She made a vain move in the general direction of the door.

‘Just a moment,’ Mollineaux said, his voice rising loudly before he brought it back firmly under control. ‘Just what makes you think that the housekeeper is Speight’s real mother?’

So Jenny told him. When she had finished, and Mollern’s ever-busy pencil had finally scratched to a halt, Mollineaux had calmed down in fact as well as in appearance. He was silent for a few moments, and then said quietly, ‘It’s very slim evidence on which to base a theory, Miss Starling.’

‘Oh yes, I know. That’s why I wondered if you could possibly check it out more thoroughly before we …
you
… talk to Daphne.’

‘I’ll get onto it,’ Mollern offered. ‘It might be tricky getting names from the adoption agency. They can be very strict about things like that. But a murder investigation cuts a lot of red tape.’ And with that gem of wisdom, he took a step backwards, and complete pandemonium broke out.

A sound that would have made a fire-engine siren seem piffling by comparison rocketed around the room and made Mollern jump even further back, going into an instinctive half-crouch. Mollineaux as well shot back and flinched as a grey streak leapt, hissing and spitting, onto the table. The cat, whose tail Mollern had just trodden on, ran maniacally across the table, jumped into the sink, shot out again, paused on the marble-topped workspace for an emergency lick, then shot up to the top of the dresser, landed on the table again, and would have set off on the circuit all over again if Jenny hadn’t quickly grabbed it.

‘Be careful!’ she said crossly to the sergeant, cradling the panting cat close to her impressively padded breast and tucking his twitching and stinging tail firmly under its own furry body to keep it warm. She began stroking the ears back from its head with long, gentle strokes.

Mollern flushed red. ‘Sorry,’ he said instantly. ‘I didn’t know it was there,’ he added defensively. He looked at the cat guiltily. Mollineaux, on the verge of unrestrained laughter, nodded his head to the doorway and Mollern, still feeling like a first-class bully, slunk off.

Together the policemen left to question Arbie and Babs Walker and then get on to the adoption angle.

Jenny continued to absent-mindedly stroke and comfort the cat, her mind on other things. That needle bothered her. And the conclusions she’d tentatively drawn from it bothered her even more. And she did so hope Margie Harding hadn’t had too hard a time of it.

Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt when someone started a lawnmower going in the kitchen. Jenny looked around quickly, but she was most definitely alone. Then, realizing where the sound was coming from, looked down. The cat, eyes closed, was purring contentedly, not to mention awesomely noisily, its fluffy grey cheek pressed against her sternum.

Jenny was so flabbergasted that she stopped stroking.

The cat opened his wide orange eyes and stared at her. He, too, looked surprised. All at once his ears began to flatten, and Jenny put the animal down even more quickly than she’d picked it up. All available claws protracted, but by then Jenny was already making her way to the steps.

A
RBIE LOOKED UP
from his gin and tonic and grimaced as the door opened. He’d been about to ask Babs to marry him, and this time he was sure she’d say yes. He’d give her no other option. So he was furious at the interruption.

It was a little early to be drinking, but he hardly cared what the police thought, and so he met Inspector Mollineaux’s ironic eyes with a jaunty smile.

‘Ahh, here you are, Miss Walker. I was wondering where you’d got to,’ Mollineaux said jovially. Babs flushed. She took a large sip of her own gin and tonic and stared at the unlit fireplace. ‘I have a few questions, Miss Walker. I’m sure you won’t mind?’

‘Perhaps she minds very much,’ Arbie shot back, his voice lowering dangerously.

‘I don’t see why,’ Mollineaux said mildly. ‘You do want to help us find Justin’s killer, don’t you, Miss Walker?’

‘Of course I do,’ Babs said quickly, and cast Arbie a ‘shut up’ look.

Arbie rapidly changed tactics. He shrugged amiably but at the same time hitched his chair just a little closer to Babs. Mollineaux chose to sit opposite her, on a little two-seater sofa. He gave Mollern a blank look, which his sergeant instantly read, and joined him on the sofa. Babs now faced two implacable officers of the law, and she crossed her legs nervously, showing off long, silk-clad limbs to perfection. Neither man so much as glanced at the feminine attractions on show, but Arbie looked at her with hungry eyes before forcing himself to look away again. It was impossible to tell whether he was amused or annoyed.

‘Now, Miss Walker. You and Justin Greer were engaged to be married, is that correct?’ Mollineaux started off gently.

‘That’s right.’ Her voice came out as a nervous squeak, and she coughed and said again, more forcefully, ‘Yes. We were.’

‘But didn’t Justin break off your engagement just before the party?’ Mollineaux asked, looking genuinely puzzled and sounding only mildly curious.

Arbie Goulder instantly stiffened. He saw the danger at once, although Mollineaux didn’t believe the object of his desire had done so. Babs looked surprised that the police had found out, and certainly angry and a touch humiliated, if the colour in her cheeks was anything to go by. But she didn’t look scared. Not well up on the brains department, Mollineaux thought interestedly.

‘Why do you say that?’ Arbie challenged, before Babs could speak.

‘We have it on good authority,’ Mollineaux said, meeting the florist’s gaze with equanimity.

‘Oh?’ Arbie looked downright disbelieving. ‘Whose, may I ask?’

‘Certainly,’ Mollineaux granted. ‘Justin Greer himself.’

Babs gasped and put a hand to her mouth. All three men looked at her. ‘What sort of cheap crack is that?’ Arbie asked angrily, his voice rising at last as the policemen finally succeeded in dragging a genuine reaction from him. ‘Greer’s dead.’

‘Oh, you noticed?’ Mollineaux said sardonically, then before Arbie could open his mouth, slipped in quietly, ‘Before he died he told someone that he had just, er, disengaged himself – as it were – from his fiancée. Is that true, by the way, Miss Walker?’ He suddenly turned to Babs, giving her no time to think.

‘Well, yes,’ she admitted, proving that, overall, it was far less taxing to tell the truth than to invent a lie. Arbie gave her an exasperated look, and Mollern smiled over his notepad.

‘How did you feel about this, Miss Walker?’ Mollineaux asked softly, and put up a hand as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arbie’s mouth open. ‘I can, of course, take Miss Walker to the station to be questioned without interruption,’ he pointed out warningly. And as Babs gave another gasp of dismay, Arbie furiously sank back in his chair defeated. Mollern was sure he could actually hear him fuming.

Mollineaux turned again to the beautiful woman opposite him, who re-crossed her legs. He waited.

‘Well, naturally I was surprised.’ She gave an agonized glance to her one-time lover, obviously seeking reassurance. Arbie, unable to help her, gave Mollineaux a look that could kill.

‘Only surprised?’ Mollineaux asked, his voice rising in disbelief. ‘Weren’t you upset?’

Babs flushed. ‘Of course I was. Very.’

‘Hmm. Upset enough to want to kill him, Miss Walker?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. How could I kill him?’ Babs shot back, getting to the very heart of the matter, perhaps more by luck than judgement. And Mollineaux just stopped himself from sighing out loud. Yes, how indeed? Instead, he changed tack.

‘You left the party at about 11.30 for a turn around the garden,’ he stated, as a fact. ‘Where did you go?’

Babs looked blank. ‘I did? Well, to get some fresh air, I suppose.’

‘Yes. But where did you go?’ Mollineaux persisted, and could see Arbie fairly squirm in his chair. Babs merely shrugged a very pretty shoulder. She opened her wide pansy-brown eyes even further.

‘I can’t remember. Just around the lawn, I think. Smelled the roses, you know, that kind of thing. Too much party can get you down, sometimes. Especially if you’re not in the mood for it.’

Well, it had certainly got Justin Greer down, Mollern thought, but didn’t hesitate in his shorthand scribbling.

‘I see. You obviously like flowers.’ Mollineaux glanced sardonically in Arbie’s direction before continuing. ‘Did you go to the greenhouse? To see if there might be any orchids?’

Babs shook her head. ‘No. I would have remembered if I’d done that.’

Mollineaux continued to stare at her thoughtfully. ‘I see. Well, thank you Miss Walker. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to talk to Mr Goulder now. Alone.’

Babs was very swiftly out of the chair and out of the room. If wild horses wouldn’t have dragged Arbie from her side in times of danger, the same wild horses couldn’t have kept Babs Walker by
his
side, when it was his turn to face the firing squad.

‘Now, Mr Goulder. Wasn’t it unusual for you to “do” the flowers for the Greers’ party, when not long ago, Justin pinched your girlfriend?’

Arbie smiled, not at all put out. ‘Alicia asked me to “do” the flowers, as you so delicately put it.’

‘And you didn’t object?’ Mollineaux asked, letting his voice drip disbelief. ‘You didn’t mind providing the flowers for your hated rival’s birthday party?’

Arbie let the ‘hated rival’ pass. ‘Naturally not. I’m a businessman, Inspector. I don’t run my nurseries as a rich man’s hobby but as a business. Alicia paid full whack for every daisy and rosebud, I promise you.’

‘Yes, I’m sure that’s all perfectly understandable,’ Mollineaux concurred placidly. ‘But you stayed for the party afterwards. Why on earth would you want to do that?’

‘Alicia invited me,’ Arbie said with a shrug.

‘That’s all? You didn’t, perhaps, want to stay in order to see Miss Walker again?’

‘Of course I did,’ Arbie admitted readily. And said nothing more.

It’s like trying to get blood from a stone, Mollineaux thought wrathfully. He has no pride. He readily admits to chasing a woman who had previously given him the elbow, and he doesn’t care a jot for the opinion of others. And that made him not only unusual, but dangerous as well. Mollineaux did not like him. But was he a killer?

‘You keep paraquat at your nurseries, Mr Goulder?’ he asked, deciding a blunt instrument was the only chance he had of battering down the florist’s defences.

Arbie blinked. ‘I might have some, forgotten about, amongst the old stock, but I doubt it. Why do you ask?’ There was such a wealth of suspicion in his voice that Mollineaux felt his heart sink. His instinct told him that nobody could act that well. He glanced at Mollern and saw a similar dismay deep in his own eyes. Arbie Goulder seemed so right for it. He had motive, and, somehow, opportunity. They didn’t know yet just how Justin had been poisoned, but everyone at the party had opportunity, if only they could figure out how. Moreover, Arbie was psychologically right for it. Tough. Arrogant. Clever. But did he actually do it?

Mollineaux sighed. ‘That’s all for now, Mr Goulder.’

‘He was poisoned with paraquat, wasn’t he?’ Arbie said. ‘That’s why you wanted to know if Babs had gone to the greenhouse. Old Thorne might still have some of the stuff tucked away somewhere. So that’s what killed Greer,’ Arbie deduced thoughtfully. He didn’t sound particularly sympathetic. Nor, alas, did he sound particularly guilty.

Mollineaux rose to his feet, fighting his anger. He glanced at Mollern, who also rose, and together the two policemen left, well aware that Arbie watched them go with mocking eyes. Outside he gave Mollern a speaking look and sighed deeply. He’d never known a case so complicated and so full of unhelpful witnesses and potential suspects.

‘Let’s get onto the Daphne Williams angle,’ he said heavily. ‘There, at least, we should be able to make some sort of headway.’

Jenny woke up the next morning and dressed. She had slept badly, tossing and turning and trying to pick holes in her own theory. But no matter how she kept rearranging it, it always came out with the same name. But there was still so much that she didn’t understand. Besides, one piece of evidence alone didn’t convict a killer.

‘Oh hell,’ she murmured to herself and walked to the window, which was, of course, wide open. Even in the depths of winter Jenny slept with her bedroom window wide open. Fresh air was better than medicine, her mother was always saying. And she should know. She practically lived up doomed trees in makeshift tree houses.

Out of the window she saw Trevor Watkins wander over in the direction of the herb beds, and was instantly out the door. Jenny very badly wanted to have a word with the cockney crook.

She followed the vile scent of cigarette smoke across the lawn, past the delightful herb garden to a rock garden on the other side. And there, sitting on a dry-stone wall was Trevor Watkins, glaring rather testily at a noisy robin singing in a nearby plum tree.

‘Hangover?’ Jenny asked sweetly, and saw the way the man tensed. His feet were flat on the ground, ready to move. His free hand was palm down on the wall, ready to launch himself at any attacker. Jenny would have bet her fee that he had a weapon, probably a knife, on him somewhere. His eyes passed over her swiftly, and he slowly relaxed.

‘Hello,’ he said pleasantly. ‘And yes, as a matter of fact, I did have a bit too much to drink yesterday evening.’

‘Our friends the police been giving you a hard time?’ she asked, glibly and totally without sympathy.

‘They take it in relays,’ Watkins agreed, neither missing her sarcasm nor acknowledging it. ‘I keep telling them Justin rang me up and invited me to the party, and they keep saying no way. I keep telling them I came down only to have a nice time at a fancy do, and they keep telling me that I killed Greer. I keep saying why on earth would I, and they say that perhaps it was Alicia I was after. They keep asking about the argument I had with her, and I keep saying what argument? As an hour’s diversion it’s bearable. As an all-day sporting event, it lacks a little something.’

Jenny nodded and took her place a little along the wall from him. ‘So why not just tell them that Alicia owed you money and have done with it?’ she asked, and saw him pause in the act of lifting the cigarette to his mouth.

Trevor Watkins turned and glanced at her. His face was totally blank. ‘Come again?’

Jenny shrugged. ‘I heard Justin tease his sister about her gambling debts. Just over there, in fact.’ She nodded her head to her left. ‘By the lake. Then I hear around and about that you own a gambling place. I imagine Justin could be just as mischievous as his sister, and invite you to the party. Ergo …’

‘Alicia owes me money,’ Trevor finished. ‘How very clever you are. And how right. Alicia
does
owe me money,’ Watkins admitted, for the first time his voice revealing a ruthlessness that must always have been in his character. ‘But I doubt that you’re as clever as you think,’ he added, standing up and grinding the cigarette out under his heel. He stared at her levelly, to see if she’d got the not-so-subtle hint, and Jenny stared unflinchingly back. Trevor grinned. ‘You’re a game bitch, I’ll give you that,’ he said, almost cheerfully. ‘But don’t cross me, there’s a love.’

And with that, he was gone.

Jenny watched him go, her heart thumping. She was sure that she had come off the worst in that little exchange, and she wasn’t thinking of the threats either. Those she totally disregarded. They were second nature to someone of Trevor’s mentality. ‘I doubt that you’re as clever as you think you are,’ he’d said. And Jenny had the dismaying feeling that he was right. She was missing something. Oh, she was on the right track, she was sure of that. And no doubt Trevor Watkins was going to prove to have played a very big part in it all. But what that part was, she had failed to find out.

No doubt she was not as clever as she thought she was.

When she finally left the wall, about an hour later, she was just in time to see a car pull into the drive. For the first time she saw Sherri Greer, standing by her husband’s side, waiting at the door. She looked pale and hollow-eyed, but a smile trembled on her lips as a figure climbed out of the car and stood looking vaguely around in the bright morning sunlight.

Jenny’s eyes roamed straight past Keith Harding and alighted on Alicia Greer, who moved into her mother’s outstretched arms with a small sob. Her father completed the circle, closing his arms around his daughter’s shaking shoulders as Keith Harding, still the outsider, looked on unnoticed.

Jenny slowly approached, aware that Chase, Daphne Williams and Martha were all clustered in the doorway, not wanting to miss the triumphant return of the young mistress of the house. Jenny stopped silently when she reached Keith Harding’s side, and watched. Standing as tall as he, she did not have to look up to notice that his jaw was clenched tight, and that a little muscle ticked away furiously by the side of his mouth. His fists, too, hung at his sides, clenched so tight that his knuckles were white. He looked deeply unhappy.

As if sensing that someone was missing, Alicia turned and smiled at Keith, her eyes glancing across the few inches of space to Jenny.