‘Plants, I hope, and plenty of them,’ said Marilyn vigorously.
It was indeed plants that the landscape designer was after. Anthony Berra arrived waving a list. ‘Just checking if you’ve got any of these,’ he said after punctiliously greeting them both.
‘Not if they’re orchids,’ said Marilyn bitterly. ‘We’ve lost the lot.’
‘Not you too?’ Berra launched into a graphic description of Jack Haines’ losses.
‘How very odd,’ said Anna Sutherland. She frowned. ‘Has some nutter got something against orchids, I wonder? Or him and us, perhaps?’
Marilyn Potts stayed silent while Berra went on, ‘It also means I’ve lost all the plants Jack was growing for me for the Lingards as well.’ The landscape designer grimaced. ‘And you know what Charmian Lingard’s like.’
‘More money than sense, that woman,’ pronounced Anna.
‘Thinks money will buy anything,’ chimed in Marilyn. She sniffed. ‘Well, all I can say is that she hasn’t lived long enough yet to learn that it won’t.’
The sniffing became more pronounced and with tears welling up in Marilyn’s eyes, Anthony Berra hurled himself into the conversation. ‘Well, it seems that it’s bad luck all round then.’
‘Perhaps it isn’t just bad luck,’ said Anna Sutherland slowly.
‘Well, it certainly isn’t a coincidence,’ agreed Berra. ‘It can’t be. Not two nurseries of orchids in one night. It makes you wonder what it could be that you and Jack have in common – besides growing orchids, that is.’
‘Norman Potts,’ said Norman’s erstwhile wife, taking a deep breath. ‘That’s what.’
‘Of course, Jack’s stepson!’ he whistled. ‘I’d never thought of him,’ he confessed. ‘Ought to have done, I suppose, seeing he used to live and work there when Jack’s wife was alive.’
‘My once-upon-a-time husband,’ responded Marilyn, whose mind seemed still bound up with fairy tales.
‘But why should he or anyone else want to attack orchids?’ asked Berra, looking mystified. ‘I can’t imagine any reason myself but then I’m not a psychologist.’
‘If you ask me,’ said Anna, ‘reason doesn’t come into it.’
‘Is he pathological about them or something, then?’
‘The only thing Norman Potts is pathological about is Marilyn here,’ declared Anna Sutherland astringently.
‘What about Jack Haines then?’ asked Berra, still puzzled. ‘Norman can’t be pathological about Jack’s orchids too, surely?’
‘Can’t he just?’ said Anna. ‘He always was
anti-Jack
after Jack married Norman’s mother and he hasn’t changed that I know of.’
‘All I know is that Norman went over to Pelling a week or so back to see Jack Haines,’ said Marilyn Potts. ‘To try to find out where I lived.’
‘It sounds as if he might have succeeded,’ observed Anthony Berra, ‘if he’s the one who’s dished your orchids. And Jack’s.’
‘Well, I haven’t tried to find him,’ added Marilyn acidly. ‘I’d be quite happy if I never set eyes on him ever again.’
‘Are you likely to?’ asked Berra. ‘I mean, is he local these days?’
‘Last heard of living in Berebury,’ she said, ‘somewhere near a pub called The Railway Tavern.’
‘Living off his ill-gotten gains, I daresay,’ observed Anna Sutherland.
‘She means half of our worldly possessions,’ explained Marilyn. ‘His and mine.’
‘Immoral earnings,’ said her friend Anna Sutherland trenchantly.
‘Yes, of course,’ murmured Anthony, a little embarrassed. He started to hand over the list of plants he had brought with him.
Anna plucked it from his fingers and scanned it quickly. ‘Cercis canadensis – yes, we’ve got that; Photinia Red Robin – yes; Cotinus Royal Purple – lots of that; Lonicera etrusca – sorry sold out …’
‘You got a customer on lime soil, then, Anthony?’ said Marilyn.
‘Too right, I have,’ said Anthony Berra.
‘We can’t do you any magic potion for neutralising it. You’ll have to go to Jack Haines or Bob Steele for that,’ put in Marilyn, grinning.
‘I know, I know,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘What you’re saying is that Capstan Purlieu is a nursery not a plant centre. I haven’t forgotten. Now, what about a good Abutilon, Anna?’
‘We’ve got plenty. Take your pick. We’ve got a good line in lilies if you’re interested?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t like the scent much.’
‘Remove the stamen, remove the smell,’ said Anna wryly. ‘I see you want a Cornus controversa Variegata too.’
‘That’s the Wedding Cake Tree …’ began Marilyn, looking again as if she was about to cry.
‘I hear you’re getting married soon, Anthony,’ Anna Sutherland interrupted her hastily.
He nodded. ‘In the autumn. In the Minster over at Calleford by the bride’s father.’
Anna, looking solemn, said, ‘Don’t let the girl have any Aegopodium podagraria in her bouquet or you’ll never hear the last of it.’
‘Anna,’ said Anthony, throwing up his hands, ‘you’ve got me there. Explain.’
‘Bishop’s weed,’ cackled Anna.
It was at much the same time that morning when the solicitor Simon Puckle welcomed Benedict and Mary Feakins to his office in Berebury. That the solicitor was sitting behind a desk as he did so and not in an easy chair alongside his clients or even sitting beside them at a round table was thought by the junior members of the firm of Puckle, Puckle and Nunnery, solicitors, to be
old-fashioned
– even perhaps the making of a statement. That the desk had once belonged to Simon’s grandfather only contributed to this image of antiquity.
At this moment, though, Simon Puckle was more concerned about Benedict Feakins’ bad back than worrying about his own self-image.
‘I’m all right, really,’ said Benedict, nevertheless screwing up his face in pain.
‘Sure?’ asked Simon Puckle as his client lowered himself
into a chair with great caution. ‘We could always do this on another day.’
‘No,’ said Feakins with unexpected vehemence. ‘We need everything wound up today, don’t we, Mary?’
His wife nodded her head at this, her mind elsewhere. There had been a promise of coffee when they arrived and – her morning sickness having receded – she was now quite hungry. There might be biscuits with the coffee …
‘Just so,’ said the solicitor. ‘Now, as you know, probate has already been finalised – which was when you were able to take up residence in your late father’s house at Pelling.’
‘That means that everything is hunky-dory, doesn’t it?’ said Benedict Feakins. He essayed an uncertain laugh. ‘No last minute snags or anything like that?’
Simon Puckle said, ‘Certainly not.’
‘Copper-bottomed at Lloyds and all that?’ persisted Feakins.
‘I assure you that everything is quite in order.’ The solicitor was not prepared to state in so many words that the firm Puckle, Puckle and Nunnery were not in the habit of finding last minute snags in their work. Instead he made the point more subtly by moving swiftly on. ‘Now we come to the peripheral matters, particularly the transfer of such securities as were held in your late father’s name to yours. This, of course, will take time.’
‘Everything always seems to take time,’ complained Feakins wearily. ‘The law’s delays and all that. Shakespeare was dead right there.’
Simon Puckle did not rise to this either. ‘There is also
the important point that the liability for the insurance of the property is now your responsibility rather than that of the executors and,’ he added sternly, ‘there can be no delay about that.’
‘Are we talking big money?’ asked Benedict Feakins warily. ‘About the insurance, I mean?’
Simon Puckle glanced down at the contents of the file in front of him. ‘Nothing inordinate.’
‘I’m a bit strapped for cash at the moment, that’s all,’ admitted Feakins. ‘Moving expenses and all that. But I expect I could raise a loan.’
‘Perhaps an overdraft would be better,’ suggested the solicitor mildly.
‘We’ve reached our limit,’ interrupted Mary Feakins. ‘The bank won’t let us have any more,’ she explained naively. ‘We went there first this morning.’
‘I see.’ Simon Puckle gave the young couple a long hard look. ‘It is in my opinion a little early to be thinking of raising money against the property if that is what you had in mind and,’ here he raised his eyebrows, ‘if I may say so, a little unwise at this stage.’
Benedict Feakins was saved from answering this by the arrival of the solicitor’s secretary with a tray of coffee. Mary Feakins gazed hungrily at a plate of digestive biscuits and half-rose in its direction.
‘Ah, thank you, Miss Fennel,’ said Simon Puckle pleasantly, as she poured out the coffee and handed it round. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to stay as we shall need you as a witness to Mr Feakins putting his signature on these papers.’
‘Of course, Mr Puckle,’ she murmured, following the
coffee with an offer of biscuits all round. Mary Feakins took two.
‘Now,’ said Simon Puckle to his clients, ‘do either of you have any other questions?’
‘How long will it be before we – that is, I – can sell any of these assets?’ said Benedict Feakins, his coffee untouched.
‘When you have title to them,’ said Simon Puckle crisply.
‘And when will that be?’ persisted Benedict.
‘I think the correct answer,’ said the solicitor, ‘is that it will be in the fullness of bureaucratic time.’
Benedict Feakins groaned but whether this was from pain or disappointment at his answer Simon Puckle was unable to tell.
After his clients had left his office the solicitor sat at his desk thinking for a minute or two then he rang for his secretary. ‘Would you please see if the manager of the Calleshire and Counties Bank is free to have lunch with me today, Miss Fennel?’
‘The police are back, Jack,’ announced Mandy Lamb unceremoniously as she ushered Detective Inspector Sloan and Detective Constable Crosby into the office.
‘Come along in, Inspector,’ said Jack Haines heartily. He pushed his chair back and came forward to greet them with every sign of pleasure.
It was Sloan’s experience that a visit from the police was only ever welcomed by the victims of an offence. Villains seldom greeted him with the enthusiasm that met their return to Jack Haines’ nursery at Pelling. Since
the nurseryman and his other visitor were facing each other like a pair of warring dogs, it was obvious, too, that he and Crosby had arrived at a most opportune moment.
‘And meet Mr Anthony Berra,’ went on Haines, stepping back and ushering the two policemen into chairs. ‘He’s lost a load of plants too.’
‘Only in a manner of speaking,’ murmured Anthony Berra coolly. ‘It’s my clients who will be the losers in the long run. And Jack here, of course.’
‘So,’ hastened on the nurseryman, ‘we’re both very keen for you to find out who broke in and opened the greenhouse doors.’
‘And why,’ added Berra pithily. ‘That’s what I would like to know.’
‘Are you two the only losers here?’ asked Detective Inspector Sloan. ‘No other victims?’
‘I had stuff in there that I was planning to use in the gardens of Admiral Catterick but mostly it was for my clients, the Lingards,’ said Berra, giving a little cough.
‘And for young Benedict Feakins,’ put in Haines.
Anthony Berra pulled a face. ‘No, not for him any longer, Jack, I’m sorry to say. He says he’s broke and can’t afford me any longer.’
‘It happens,’ said Haines shrugging his shoulders. ‘There are some other orchids in the packing shed awaiting collection by a Miss Osgathorp so they’re safe enough and the other greenhouses and the hardy plants are all right. I’ve just checked them myself. As far as I’m concerned the biggest loss is the young orchids.’
‘And as far as I’m concerned nearly half of my stuff for
this season was in that one greenhouse,’ stressed Berra. ‘The remainder is in one of the other greenhouses whose doors weren’t left open …’
‘Now, Anthony …’ his voice died away as Jack Haines began a protest at this but thought better of it at the last minute.
‘There was nothing at all of mine in the orchid one,’ said Berra. He cast an enquiring glance in Jack Haines’ direction. ‘That’s so, Jack, isn’t it?’
Haines nodded.
Berra gave a twisted smile. ‘And so there being “No Orchids for Miss Blandish” is not my problem.’
‘You could say that, I suppose,’ agreed Haines sourly.
‘There were no orchids for our Mrs Lingard at the Grange, either,’ said Berra lightly, ‘since she wasn’t going to have any orchids anyway.’ He turned to the policemen. ‘She’s my client, you know, Inspector. The plants in number two greenhouse were mainly for her – their – garden. But not the orchids, thank goodness.’
Detective Constable Crosby suddenly stirred himself and asked the landscape designer if he’d got any professional rivals. Anthony Berra looked startled. ‘Er … no,’ he spluttered between coughs, ‘well, none that I know of anyway.’
‘Lucky you,’ remarked the constable sardonically.
‘I suppose that for the record I should say that there was a big London firm that also put in for the contract to restore the garden at Pelling Grange,’ the landscape architect admitted, ‘but seeing as I lived in the village anyway the Lingards awarded it to me.’ He gave a boyish laugh. ‘I suppose I came a bit less expensive too.’
‘And lived on the spot,’ added Haines generously. ‘I’m sure that helps.’
‘Also the Lingards know my future in-laws,’ admitted Berra sheepishly, ‘and I daresay that helps as well.’
‘Quite so,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan sedately. If there was one thing the police force did not usually suffer from it was nepotism. Most of the policemen whom he knew steered their sons and daughters away from serving in it as energetically as they could. And any such favours dispensed by the police could lead to a prison sentence.
For the policeman.
‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,’ chanted Crosby under his breath.
‘Mustn’t forget old Admiral Catterick at the Park,’ put in Jack Haines. ‘He’s one of your clients too, isn’t he, Anthony?’
‘He is indeed,’ agreed Anthony Berra warmly. ‘He’s a grand old boy. Been at sea all his life and doesn’t know the first thing about gardens.’
‘Leaves it all to you then, does he?’ asked Crosby, an innocent expression on his face.
Berra said, ‘Not quite, but I’ve been trying to get him to go over to labour-saving plants and so I’m mostly planting low-maintenance shrubs there. Unfortunately he’s lost quite a lot of the more interesting plants that Jack here was bringing on for him too. There were some more in another greenhouse – one which doesn’t appear to have had its doors left open either,’ he added pointedly.
‘Number three,’ said Mandy Lamb before her employer could respond.
‘This Miss Osgathorp you mentioned …’ Sloan hoped
he was dropping this name into their talk with the same delicacy as a fisherman landing a dry fly on a trout stream. He wasn’t sure if he had done.
‘Fierce old biddy who gives talks,’ responded Jack Haines immediately. ‘Quite sound on orchids, actually.’
‘Knows her stuff, Inspector,’ agreed Berra. ‘Bit of a battle-axe, though.’
‘Well, she was the Dragon at the Gate for years and years, wasn’t she?’ put in Mandy Lamb from her desk at the front of the office.
‘Come again?’ said Crosby, looking meaningfully at a jar of coffee.
‘She was Doctor Heddon’s receptionist,’ explained Mandy. ‘Protecting the doctor from the patients.’
‘I thought these days it was the patients who had to be protected from the doctor,’ muttered Crosby, sotto voce, a few famous medical murders at the back of his mind.
‘Last time I saw her,’ said Berra ruefully, ‘she told me exactly what I should be doing in the garden at the Grange. Thought I ought to be having a fernery there.’
‘She is something of a pteridophile,’ opined Jack Haines. ‘She says ferns can manage without her while she’s on her travels.’
‘But I ask you, a nineteenth-century fernery in an old monastery garden!’ Berra gave a short laugh. ‘I can’t see Charmian – Mrs Lingard, that is – wanting a fernery in her garden.’
‘When exactly would that have been, sir?’ asked Sloan. ‘I mean, when did you last see Miss Osgathorp? Not Mrs Lingard.’
Anthony Berra frowned. ‘It’s a while since – it must
have been three or four weeks ago. Can’t remember precisely when. I gave her a lift to the railway station. She was waiting at the bus stop but I was going into Berebury anyway and I picked her up and dropped her off at the sandwich shop two or three doors away from the station so she could buy something for the journey.’
‘Going off on one of her famous trips, I suppose,’ grunted Jack Haines.
‘She did say where,’ admitted Berra, ‘but I can’t remember where it was now. Not abroad, anyway. I do remember that much.’
With a fine show of indirection Detective Inspector Sloan took out his notebook and said, ‘If you remember, Jack, we had promised to come back to interview your foreman …’
‘I’ve told Russ,’ interrupted Mandy Lamb. ‘He’s on his way over from the packing shed this minute.’
Anthony Berra stirred and said to Jack Haines that it was high time he was on his way and that he would pick up the plinth he wanted from the yard before he went over to see the admiral. He gave a valedictory wave of his hand to them all as he left whilst Detective Constable Crosby edged his way towards a corner of the office where there was a kettle and a row of mugs standing beside the coffee jar. He stood in front of these like a dog awaiting its dinner.
Jack Haines looked up as the door opened again. ‘Ah, here’s my foreman now,’ he said. He turned to the newcomer. ‘Good, I’m glad you’ve turned up, Russ. The police want to talk to you.’
‘Any time,’ said the man, shrugging his shoulders. He looked across at the two policemen and jerked his head
in the general direction of the greenhouses. ‘About this massacre, I suppose? Terrible, isn’t it? There was weeks of work there – we’ll never catch up, will we, boss? Not this season, anyway.’
Jack Haines shook his head and said sadly, ‘No way, Russ. No way. Not now.’
‘We need to know when you left here last night,’ said Sloan to the foreman. ‘It could be important.’
‘Same time as usual,’ said Russ Aqueel, shrugging his shoulders again. ‘Must have been about half five. The others had knocked off prompt at five as normal but I came over to the office and signed off some timesheets for her ladysh … for Mandy here.’
Mandy Lamb tossed her head and gave a disdainful sniff in the background but said nothing.
‘Then,’ went on the foreman, ‘I checked all the greenhouse doors and,’ he added belligerently, ‘I can tell you before you ask that they were all closed when I left. Every last one.’
‘Sure, Russ,’ put in Jack Haines uneasily.
‘And number one properly watered and heated,’ insisted the foreman, ‘and steamy as it should be for the orchids. I checked the humidity in there before I locked the main gate and left.’
‘In that case, sir,’ said Sloan to the foreman, ‘you won’t have any objection to having your fingerprints taken by my constable here.’
The foreman thrust a grimy paw towards Crosby. ‘Be my guest, mate.’
‘After you’ve washed your hands if you don’t mind,’ said that worthy.