Birthdays Can Be Murder Read online

  And with that, Martha went suddenly quiet. Not that she needed to say anything else, Jenny thought glumly. No siree. As if they were one, everybody suddenly looked at her.

  ‘Miss Starling?’ Mollineaux prompted.

  It had to be paraquat, didn’t it? Jenny allowed herself the luxury of a quick, quiet fume. It couldn’t have been good old-fashioned arsenic, could it, that once popular poison that regularly saw off unwanted Victorian wives and husbands? Or even one of those untraceable South American blow-dart poisons that were so popular in classic whodunnits. Oh no. It had to be paraquat.

  ‘Miss Starling?’

  She looked up, one eyebrow raised. ‘Hmm? Oh, the greenhouse. Yes, I went in there. I wanted to see what was available. Not much, as it turned out. Some tomatoes and courgettes, but not much else.’

  ‘Hmm. And did you happen to notice the paraquat?’ Mollineaux asked blandly.

  Jenny looked resolutely across at him. ‘Yes,’ she gritted through her teeth. ‘I did.’

  ‘Was the bottle full or empty?’

  ‘More than half gone, I would say,’ she answered sweetly.

  ‘Did you notice if the top was on or off.’

  ‘On.’

  Mollineaux glanced at her, silently impressed by her no doubt accurate observations. ‘I don’t suppose you noticed if the dust on it had been smudged?’

  ‘No. I didn’t notice that,’ Jenny said slowly, and thoughtfully.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I take it, sir …’ Chase, unable to stand it any longer, cleared his throat. ‘I mean, was Mr Justin killed by paraquat?’

  The room held its collective breath.

  ‘Yes, Chase. He was,’ Mollineaux confirmed quietly.

  Now why, Jenny wondered, suddenly confused, did he confirm it? The police didn’t usually go around volunteering information. In fact, the less the general public knew, the better they liked it. Except, of course, that the people in this room were not exactly the general public. And no doubt Mollineaux was playing a very clever game. He wanted the killer to know that they knew. He wanted, in fact, everybody in the house to know. The more nervous everyone was, the more likely things were to come out. It was a clever ploy, but dangerous, and Jenny gave him a disapproving look.

  ‘Well, that’s all for now. Thank you for your co-operation. I do, of course, expect you to keep this knowledge to yourself.’ Mollineaux glanced at Vera and Martha. ‘No gossiping in the village, yes?’

  The two ladies quickly ducked their heads and eagerly followed old Thorne out the door. ‘Not you, Miss Starling,’ Mollineaux said as she made to rise, and Mollern saw the look of satisfaction that passed between butler and resident cook.

  Noticing it, Mollern realized grimly that their Miss Starling didn’t have many friends in the house. And that was too bad. She might well need a friend before this affair was cleared up.

  ‘So,’ Mollineaux said, when the room had emptied and quietened down, ‘it’s a very nasty business, Miss Starling.’

  ‘I noticed,’ she said dryly.

  ‘The staff seem to think you’re the number one suspect,’ he mused, leaning back in his chair and looking suddenly tired.

  ‘I noticed that too,’ she agreed, even more dryly.

  For a while the three very disparate people were silent. The police didn’t seriously suspect her, and she knew it. But they had to keep an open mind. She knew that too. Finally Jenny said, ‘There’s no doubt then? About the paraquat?’

  ‘None at all. The coroner’s report was most clear. Death by paraquat poisoning. It’s ancient stuff, of course, and they hardly ever come across it now. The hospital was informed at once, but Alicia Greer seems to be over the worst already. They’re thinking of releasing her as early as tomorrow. It’s a good job she didn’t drink all her champagne, as her brother did.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jenny agreed absently. Her mind was on something else. ‘Can they tell if the paraquat that killed Justin was the same as the stuff in the greenhouse?’

  Mollineaux looked at her curiously. ‘Justin? I didn’t know you were on first-name terms with the deceased.’

  Jenny could have kicked herself for making such a slip. ‘He was an informal sort of man.’ She shrugged casually.

  ‘Did you like him?’ Mollineaux asked sharply.

  ‘I did my best not to. To have liked Justin Greer, Inspector, would have shown very poor taste on my part.’

  Mollineaux’s eyes narrowed for an instant. He’d had several conversations with Justin before his demise and knew exactly what she meant. ‘Yes,’ he said judiciously. ‘And to answer your question, the lab is still working on it. Once they break the poison down further, I’m confident that they’ll eventually be able to make an identical match, if it’s the same stuff that’s in the greenhouse. But we are working on the premise that that’s what the killer used. Why?’ he asked suddenly, sitting up straighter in his chair, Clive Hopcroft’s warning about her clever intellect suddenly leaping up and hitting him in the face. ‘What are you thinking?’ he demanded sharply.

  Jenny shrugged. ‘It’s nothing specific. It’s just that paraquat is very much a gardener’s province, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but you heard for yourself. Anyone could have gone to the greenhouse and siphoned some off.’ He was not about to tell even Miss Starling about the startling discovery they had found in one of the waste bins in the ballroom. ‘And you can’t really see old Thorne bearing a grudge against the young master of the house, can you?’

  ‘No,’ Jenny said quietly. ‘But Arbie Goulder runs a very large nursery business. He must have acres of greenhouses in order to accommodate all those orchids and bird-of-paradise flowers of his.’

  Jenny glanced down at her nails innocently.

  By now, Mollineaux would be well clued in on all the gossip. He must know about Babs Walker being snatched from him by the more handsome, not to mention much wealthier, Justin.

  ‘And Mr Goulder, of course, had all the reason in the world to bear a grudge,’ she pointed out gently. ‘You’re assuming the killer went to the greenhouse for the poison. But have you considered the fact that he may well have come already fully equipped?’

  Thirteen

  TREVOR WATKINS ARRIVED back in time for lunch. Martha promptly refused to cook for him, and Jenny was torn between the itch to get her fingers on some minced beef, and distaste at the thought of who was going to benefit from her excellent, own-recipe shepherd’s pie. Eventually the minced beef won, which didn’t really come as a surprise to anyone.

  ‘I don’t know what the police are coming to,’ Martha sniffed to Vera, who, to everyone’s surprise, had not gone straight home after the questioning but had decided to stay on. The poor thing probably needed the wages, Jenny reflected. She’d heard somewhere that Vera had two aged parents to support. ‘Fancy asking a man like that to stay here. I mean, here, of all places. This is a respectable house, this is.’

  Vera nodded. ‘It’s terrible,’ she agreed.

  ‘I’ve heard all sorts of nasty things about that cockney,’ Martha went on wrathfully. ‘My Dave says he stabbed a bloke in a nightclub once. Not that they ever had him up for it, of course. Too many witnesses said he was somewhere else.’

  Martha broke off to watch Jenny carefully as she added tomatoes and carrots to the minced beef mix. Jenny didn’t mind. A good shepherd’s pie recipe should be passed on. ‘That’s the trouble with men like him,’ Martha continued to bend Vera’s willing ear. ‘Nobody dares stand up to him. I even heard,’ her voice lowered in a passing nod to delicacy, ‘that he arranges for girls who need abortions to get it done without going to proper doctors and stuff.’

  ‘Ooh, Mrs Vaughan!’ Vera said, shuddering. ‘I thought it was easy enough to get terminations nowadays.’

  Martha patted her shoulders gently. ‘Not always it isn’t, Vera, not always. Not if you’re desperate to keep it a secret, for instance, or if you’re a Catholic or whatnot. And there’s still some doctors as won’t give pe
rmission easily. But, there, I’m just saying, I won’t cook for the likes of him, and that’s that. My Dave said that Trevor Watkins cut some chap’s ear off once, just because he owed him money.’

  ‘Well,’ Vera said, recovering somewhat. ‘What can you expect when you run one of those casino places? Of course people will owe you money.’

  ‘Casino?’ Martha echoed, her voice raised so many octaves that Jenny thought the glass lampshade might splinter. ‘Nothing so fancy, my dear. Gambling dens, that’s all his establishments are.’ She sniffed judiciously. ‘What I can’t figure out is why he was at the party at all.’

  Jenny, who was busy adding oxtail soup to her bowl, had a good idea about that. She hadn’t forgotten Justin teasing his sister about her gambling debts that day at the lake. Nor had she forgotten Justin’s wrathful tone of voice when he’d pointed out to her that if Alicia could invite Arbie, he too could invite whomever he liked.

  Although she had no proof, Jenny would have bet a considerable amount of her payment for this job that Justin had telephoned the reviled Trevor Watkins and invited him to the party in revenge for his sister’s mischief-making.

  Not that Alicia’s sins were any of her business, Jenny reminded herself hastily. She’d promised the police she was going to stay out of it. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t think, did it? Next to cooking, thinking was one of the things she did best.

  She sighed and headed for the potatoes. Mashed with milk and lots of butter and some parsley and garlic, that was the secret for a really good shepherd’s pie.

  Chase returned from the dining room, looking his years. The events of the last forty-eight hours were beginning to take their toll, Jenny noticed with a pang. ‘Compliments to the cook on the shepherd’s pie, Martha,’ Chase said, unknowingly heaping praise on the enemy.

  Martha gave him an exasperated look, but when he sank heavily onto a chair, her expression softened. Without daring to give Jenny a glance, Martha rose and dished out a good plateful of the pie for Chase, who sat staring at it morosely, making no effort to eat. Jenny didn’t take it personally. The poor man had obviously lost his appetite.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, I really don’t,’ Chase said. ‘The dining room was always a place of gentility before. But Mrs Greer’s still in her bed, and Mr Greer sits there hardly saying a word. Then there’s that awful woman, who came down to lunch dressed in a cocktail dress. Can you imagine?’

  Jenny could. No doubt Babs, in her naivety, thought the rich always dressed for dinner. Even if it was lunch.

  ‘Praise be for Mr Goulder, that’s all I can say,’ Chase said. Obviously a businessman who ran something as British as a nursery was not in the same class as other businessmen, Jenny assumed. Besides, Arbie had the mark of a man who had gone to all the right public schools, even if he had never managed to totally fit in. And in the gloomy atmosphere of the dining room that Chase had just described, she could well see how the butler would latch onto Arbie as a lifeline. The world at The Beeches was coming apart, and it must be painful to watch.

  ‘I suppose that Watkins man was there,’ Martha said, unable to let go of her favourite pet hate.

  Chase sniffed. He didn’t need to say anything more on that subject. ‘Inspector Mollineaux was there.’ He changed the subject, leaving Martha wrong-footed. Obviously the cook wasn’t on such sure ground with Mollineaux as she was with Trevor Watkins.

  ‘It’s so difficult,’ Chase said. ‘Knowing how to deal with the police. Especially with Mr Greer actually present.’

  Martha frowned. ‘In what way?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Well, I mean, what does one say, or not say?’ Chase asked plaintively. ‘I certainly want to do my duty,’ he began, his pomposity easily forgiven, since it came mixed with such obvious sincerity. ‘I do so want the police to catch Justin’s killer. But how does one know what helps, and what doesn’t?’ he appealed helplessly. ‘Take Mr Banks, for instance …’ The butler suddenly hesitated, and Jenny realized she was sitting tensely on the edge of her seat now.

  She forced herself to relax, knowing that she could rely on Martha to ferret out the juicy bits.

  ‘What about him?’ Martha asked anxiously. ‘I like Mr Banks. He’s one of the last of the real old-fashioned gentlemen.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Chase said, relieved to find someone who understood his dilemma. ‘And Mr Greer is very fond of him too. After all, they worked together for so many years. So should I tell the police that I saw Mr Banks coming from Justin’s bedroom on the night of the party, or shouldn’t I?’

  Jenny licked her painfully dry lips and forced herself to wait patiently for Martha to ask the question.

  ‘Did you?’ Martha asked, right on cue but obviously surprised. ‘When?’

  ‘About 11.30. That’s just it, you see.’ Chase’s impassioned cry made Vera start nervously. ‘I can’t see how that could possibly have anything to do with the murder. Justin died in the ballroom, not his bedroom. So it might just embarrass Mr Greer if I told the police. On the other hand, how do I know that it might not be important? I don’t want to do anything to make the job harder for the police, do I?’

  Martha gnawed her lip, finally understanding his dilemma. Jenny cleared her throat and Chase looked at her instantly, his face hopeful rather than resentful, for once. As an interloper, Jennifer Starling was not to be tolerated. But in times of crisis, Chase was learning – as quite a few others had learned before him – that there was something comforting about the impressively large cook. Something honest and decent and, well, dependable, that you could rely on.

  ‘If I were you, Chase,’ Jenny said gently, ‘I should take Inspector Mollineaux discreetly to one side and tell him all you know. If you ask him to, I’m sure he won’t tell Mr Banks or Mr Greer where his information came from. It’ll probably turn out that Mr Banks has a perfectly rational explanation anyway,’ she continued bracingly, even though she secretly rather doubted it. ‘In which case, the matter can be cleared up quickly. It’s far better to be honest about these things. Don’t you agree?’

  Chase sighed. ‘I expect you’re right,’ he agreed reluctantly, and glanced at Martha for further guidance. But not even Martha could find fault with the advice. Chase sighed and rose, his food untouched. Jenny watched him go, and wondered what Mollineaux would make of the news.

  As for herself, she couldn’t see how it was particularly relevant. Unless it transpired that Justin had left the party and gone to his room for some reason. And even if that was the case, she couldn’t see how Tom Banks could have done something in Justin’s room that would have resulted in him dying half an hour later in the ballroom.

  The man was not a magician, after all.

  Was he?

  That afternoon, the weather changed. The sun, as if ashamed of itself for shining so brightly on a house of tragedy, took itself off behind a bank of lowering, thunderous-looking clouds, and the temperature dropped dramatically. In the ballroom, the police presence had dwindled considerably now that all the rifling, tidying, cataloguing and general sniffing around had been completed. There were still two constables left, however, to make sure that no one interfered with what evidence remained.

  When Jenny entered the room, a tray in hand, she was the immediate focus of their attention. ‘Hello, lads,’ she said cheerfully, firmly establishing herself as the adult in charge. ‘I thought you boys would appreciate some tea and scones. I made them fresh this afternoon and they’re still warm. I have apricot and strawberry jam. I know you boys don’t appreciate gooseberries, though why I can’t imagine. Although, as a matter of fact, wild damson jam is my all-time favourite.’

  Before she’d even finished she could almost hear their saliva glands beginning to stir. The slightly older constable glanced at his companion and nodded permission. ‘Can I put the tray on that table there?’ She pointed at the table which had hosted the champagne, but which was now totally bare. Again the older constable took charge. He still looked ridiculously young a
nd uncomfortable in the stiff blue uniform, and his rather ruddy complexion had paled a little at the cook’s choice of table, but the inspector had said all the evidence had been collected. He could see no harm. Besides, the smell of the scones had wafted over the air and his stomach was in danger of rumbling.

  ‘Certainly, Miss Starling,’ he said, deliberately using her name. He’d been taking careful note of all that had been going on, and had memorized everyone’s name, and was rather proud of the fact.

  Jenny found the gesture oddly touching. ‘Sugar? Milk?’ She poured the mugs of good strong tea as specified, glad when the two lads sidled closer to take them. She cut into the scones and reached for the jam pots. ‘Apricot?’

  ‘Strawberry, please,’ the youngest constable spoke at last. To Jenny’s eyes he looked as if he should still have been at school, but then, she supposed, even Mollineaux must have started out like this, although that was almost impossible to picture.

  ‘There you go.’ Jenny handed out the plates and watched in satisfaction as both men took huge bites. ‘That’s better. I daresay they forgot to feed you?’ Jenny gushed, playing the well-meaning but slightly dippy cook to perfection, then poured herself her own mug of tea.

  By now, neither constable was aware of the incongruity of her doing such a thing. Her opening gambit had successfully induced a feeling of ‘them and us’ just as she’d intended. ‘You lot must have been so busy the last few hours. I know we all have – in the kitchen, I mean. Well, you have to carry on, don’t you? Even when tragedy strikes, ordinary people like us just have to get on with things,’ she rumbled on cosily.

  ‘That’s true,’ the older constable said, licking his lips free of jam. ‘My partner will be wondering where I am. I should have come off duty hours ago.’