14
Only one thing cast a faint pall over the celebratory tea held at Dunquenchin that Thursday afternoon. Margaret Sexton had been found dead in Angela’s garden.
‘Grisly, really,’ shuddered Trent, helping himself to another toasted teacake.
‘Horrible,’ agreed Michelle, spooning out some jam.
Momentarily, everyone in the room stopped laughing and chattering (‘So it was you, all the time!’ ‘Yes, me!’) and generally drawing the many laborious misunderstandings of the past few days to a satisfactory close. It was Trent who had found the body, and now all eyes turned to him, in hope of gauging his feelings. But although he made a loud burp and said, ‘Excuse me,’ he otherwise betrayed no sign of inner turmoil.
It looked like a suspicious death, however. Foul play was certainly indicated. Shears, rake, weed-killer, garden twine, bucket, all the usual things had been employed. Flower-pots, hose, watering-can, secateurs.
‘Someone must have thought she was a real cow,’ averred Osborne, in his innocence, and was surprised when the entire roomful of people stared guiltily into their tea.
‘I suppose, to be fair, we ought to investigate,’ said Gordon. ‘I mean, it must have been, ahem, to coin a phrase, someone in this room that did it. In fact, pretty obviously it was Trent.’
Trent looked up, but said nothing. Gordon, embarrassed, cleared his throat and continued.
‘Surely it’s obvious. For a start, (a) Trent can’t imagine killing anyone without popping into a garden centre first; (b) he knows most about murder; (c) he hated her; (d) she was blackmailing him; (e) she’d deceived him; and (f) he’s got a new girlfriend who might have put him up to it.’
Gordon looked at the floor, his heart thumping. ‘No hard feelings, of course, Mr Carmichael.’
‘Of course not,’ agreed Trent, with the weird smile of a man who has already killed off his young pipsqueak antagonist in his latest novel with a pair of shears. ‘Goes without saying.’
Michelle loyally spooned some jam on to the back of his hand. He looked her in the eye and licked it off slowly.
‘Perhaps it’s not as simple as all that, anyway,’ piped Angela. ‘Trent doesn’t know anything about real murder. And if we all start accusing each other –’
‘Well, I think you did it!’ said Michelle, jumping to her feet. ‘After all, Margaret broke up your marriage!’
‘She did?’ shrieked Angela, jumping up likewise. ‘Jesus, what a cow.’
Osborne felt slightly detached from all this. He didn’t know Margaret. He knew Trent Carmichael only by means of his boring shed in Highgate and the lousy plots of his books. And self-evidently he could proffer no useful insight into this nasty murder, since there had been scarcely a second in the past two days when he wasn’t either locked up with a long-suffering rabbit, or in bed with Angela Farmer investigating Daphne du Maurier’s Vanishing Cornwall. So while the others debated the murder in question, he just felt sad and preoccupied. It is not every day that a friend goes bonkers and is sectioned under the Mental Health Act. When they led Makepeace to the waiting car with his arm twisted behind his blue-chiffoned back, he had uttered an extraordinary plea which would live in Osborne’s memory in all his future years: ‘You can’t do this to me,’ he said with solemnity, ‘I am a contributor to The Times Literary Supplement.’
‘I think Osborne should look into it,’ said Lillian. ‘He would have a fresh eye.’
‘Yes, but he also doesn’t know who anyone is,’ snapped Trent.
‘He could find out.’
‘So could anybody.’
‘Well, someone’s got to do something.’
Angela interjected. ‘Well, I think Osborne must be tired, poor baby. Don’t you need a quiet lie-down?’ And she waggled her eyebrows at him in a suggestive manner.
Catching the unmissable nuance of this, Michelle stifled a scream of annoyance. ‘I’m phoning Mother,’ she said, running from the room. ‘And I think you’re all mad.’ She slammed the door behind her.
Angela looked around carefully. ‘Hey, I think I’ve been in this play,’ she said. ‘And unless I’m mistaken, this is the moment when the policeman appears at the front door in a very tall helmet and we all freeze with our hands to our mouths and the curtain comes down to a cloudburst of applause.’
Things were gathering unstoppable speed. For example, when Mister Bunny stepped gingerly from the train at Honiton station, he was promptly knocked over sideways, with some violence, by a woman in a motorized wheelchair careering wildly along the platform, ostensibly out of control. It was a bad start for a visit. A litter-bin broke his fall, but possibly at the cost of a fractured rib, so the benefit was questionable. ‘Aagh,’ he exclaimed, clutching his dented chestal area. ‘What was that?’ His glimpsed impression was of an old, cracked-looking female in a velour track-suit shouting ‘Out of my way’ and ‘Mind your backs’ as she gouged a path through the new arrivals before hurtling towards the far end of the platform, where it ended in a sheer drop and a small pile of gravel.
‘Aagh,’ he repeated, staggering towards a bench and sitting down. Not only had she knocked him sideways, she’d run over his foot, leaving a nasty black mark on his Hush Puppy. In some respects, the random childlike brutality of this woman reminded him fondly of Lillian, but he cast such thoughts from his mind. After all, he was a man with a mission. Beside him he placed a small square suitcase, which he patted affectionately, evidently glad that it was safe.
‘No harm done, I expect,’ he said aloud, although no one was present to hear him, least of all the death-on-wheels lady, who had now mysteriously vanished.
‘Oh well.’ He picked up the suitcase and placed it under his arm.
‘Come on,’ he said, again to nobody visible. He was hobbling slightly. ‘Ouch.’
Why was he here? Because, in his desperation to locate his bunnykins beloved, he had telephoned Come Into the Garden and spoken to Clement, the sub-editor; and against an unusually loud and echoing atmospheric clatter – suggestive of masons and electricians working inside the dome of St Paul’s – Clement had explained in a raised voice about redundancy and Digger Enterprises and Honiton, and so on. Which had led Mister Bunny straight to the Honiton train.
‘What’s that din?’ yelled Mister Bunny. ‘Is somebody using an electric saw in there?’
‘That’s right. Well, the editor said we should take home anything we liked, and my colleague Ferdie has decided he wants to dismantle the built-in bookcases.’
‘I see.’
‘Which is only fair because as well as half the furniture I’ve got the carpets and a few of the partition walls, and the light fittings and the boiler, and the sink from the Gents.’
‘What’s left, then?’
Clement looked around.
‘This phone. And some underlay. And the old red mark on the wall where the franking machine exploded. I was saying to Lillian, it’s funny how you start off not wanting to take anything – just an angle-poise lamp or a dictionary, you know – and then somehow you can’t stop, and before you know it –’
At which point, mercifully, Mister Bunny’s money ran out.
‘Er, do you think these tyre tracks are significant?’ asked Osborne, worried that he was stating the obvious. At the scene of the crime, despite the trampling of many feet around the body (all had wanted to check that Margaret was really dead), the keen-eyed detective was able to discern a distinct and extensive criss-cross pattern of neat parallel ruts, about twenty-four inches apart. What could this mean? Osborne’s brain worked rapidly. These marks were suggestive of either a motorized wheelchair doing repeated three-point-turns, or a frenzied Dalek with mud on its eyeball, or possibly a pair of novelty-act synchronized twin cyclists of outstanding technical versatility.
‘Did trick cyclists kill this woman?’ he said, puzzled.
Angela, Trent and Michelle gathered around to look at the evidence – the others having sensibly stayed in the warm at Dunquenchin. Osborne explained his theory, waving at the tracks in a vague but hopeful way.
‘A trick cyclist homicide hit-team? That’s a new one,’ said Trent, fumbling in his inside pocket for a notebook and pencil.
But Michelle did not respond. She was staring at the tracks. ‘I’ve just had a horrible thought,’ she said.
Angela didn’t care very much, and suggested they go inside for coffee. ‘I say it was cyclists; and I say they won’t get far,’ she said. ‘Stand out a mile in any normal setting, pirouetting on their back wheels playing Ravel’s Bolero on the kazoo. I’d like to know their motive, that’s all. What do you think, Trent? Hey, perhaps Margaret was writing a book about their unnatural love for their bikes.’
‘You mean, velocipedophiles?’ suggested Michelle dismally, from force of sub-editorial habit.
‘Yeah. Velocipedophiles, that’s good,’ said Angela. ‘Take it from me, lady, you were wasted as a nun. Velocipedophiles – you can imagine what they get up to, those sleazy bastards, greasing their pumps –’
‘Riding tiny little innocent trikes,’ added Carmichael, nodding. ‘Selling illicit videos of the Tour de France –’
‘But it wasn’t cyclists who killed Margaret,’ Michelle interrupted, with a gravity that made them both stop and listen. ‘It was my mother. And I think I know why she did it.’
Angela made a tut-tut noise. ‘Listen, I have been in this play. But for the life of me I just can’t remember whether I get killed early so I can start drinking before the interval.’
Tim put down the phone and, with his eyes closed, feebly traced his way along the walls to the kitchen, where Gordon was washing up.
‘That was Mrs Lewis, my next-door neighbour,’ he said, stunned. ‘She had a bit of bad news.’
He sat down.
‘Not the cat?’ Gordon sympathized.
‘No, the cat’s fine.’
‘Yes, since the door was open, he ran out in the street. And luckily the fire engine swerved to avoid him.’
‘What fire engine?’
‘The one that put out the fire in my living-room.’
‘Oh.’
Tim, as though in a trance, removed his spectacles and then banged his head on the kitchen table, quite hard, three times.
He put his specs back on again. ‘No, it’s still true,’ he said. ‘Oh God.’
‘Was it an accident? Some thoughtless oversight?’
‘No, that’s the funny thing. She did it deliberately.’
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Lewis.’
‘Why?’
‘She said she was fed up with me ringing her from the office, and from here, and from tube stations, and from the corner shop, to check that the place hadn’t burned down while I was away.’
‘Still, it’s a bit extreme.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘How’s the damage?’
‘Apparently the flat is habitable. It just looks awful and it serves me right.’
‘So you can go back if you want to?’
‘And she’s taken the cat.’
‘Oh well.’
Gordon sat down beside him, and kindly put an arm on his shoulder. Tim wanted to cry again.
‘Can you show me that Phototropism thing you told me about? I feel I need taking out of myself.’
‘All right. If you’re sure. I need to tinker with it first, though, because Makepeace interfered with it somehow.’
‘I can wait,’ said Tim. His mind’s eye was consumed with the picture of his living-room carpet alive with flame, his Post-it notes combusting spontaneously on the door-frames like the necklace of fairy-lights around Harrods. ‘Do you know what I really regret?’
‘No, what?’
‘That Margaret didn’t live to see this moment. You see, she always upheld I was worrying about nothing.’
As Mister Bunny hobbled up the lane towards Dunquenchin, he encountered Michelle and Trent Carmichael stooped double and agitatedly tracing a set of tyre tracks in the opposite direction. ‘There!’ yelled Michelle. ‘And there!’
‘If only I had a big magnifying glass and a fancy pipe,’ said Trent sarcastically.
‘This isn’t funny!’ she snapped. ‘We’ve got to find this wheelchair before it’s too late!’
It was at the word wheelchair that Mister Bunny decided to intervene.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
‘Busy,’ said Michelle, waving him away.
‘Did you say you were looking for a woman in a wheelchair?’
‘Yes, she’s my mother. What’s it to you?’
‘Would she be wearing a track-suit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then she ran over my foot at the station just five minutes ago,’ said Mister Bunny, proffering his Hush Puppy for inspection. ‘And I’d like to say that a more reckless –’
‘The station?’
‘That’s right. But –’
‘Trent. Come on. We’ve got her.’
‘Perhaps you can help me, too,’ Mister Bunny called after them. ‘I’m looking for a tall blonde woman in a pink coat.’
‘Really?’ Michelle narrowed her eyes. ‘Well, be careful if you find her. I happen to know that this morning she hit a man on the head with a shovel.’
‘Everything is going too fast,’ said Osborne, while Angela stroked his forehead and made nice, friendly, croony noises into his ear. ‘So slow down.’
‘Everyone’s dashing about, discovering things. We’re hurtling towards the edge and there’s a sheer drop and a small pile of gravel!’
‘You’re delirious. Perhaps it was the shock to your system of eating something other than cake.’
‘I’m not used to it, that’s all. I’ve just spent two days in cupboards.’
‘So ease up.’
‘It’s very agitating out here. And I miss the rabbit. Is he OK?’
‘He’s fine. He’s eating Murder, Shear Murder. He gave me a look that said it tasted like the gardener did it.’
Osborne rolled over. They were lying wrapped in a duvet on the sitting-room floor. Angela had pulled the curtains against the early night, switched on some lamps, and lit the fire. The only thing to ruin the mood was the music, which by an unfortunate but understandable error was not Al Bowly (as Osborne had requested) but Abba’s Greatest Hits, Volume Two.
‘Did you miss me?’ shouted Osborne above the jaunty din of ‘Take a Chance on Me’.
‘What a question. Does cowpat stick to your shoes?’
‘I missed you very much.’
‘Like hell.’
‘You going somewhere?’
Osborne thought about it. He pictured, for some reason, the Birthplace of Aphrodite; in particular, the woman with the grey cloth who slopped the tables while you were eating your toast, and who always put your cooked breakfast down on top of your newspaper, before you could move it out of the way.
‘You don’t have a job any more.’
‘I know. Thanks.’
‘But look on the bright side. You know a lot about celebrity sheds.’
‘Oh yes. I forgot.’ Osborne tried to remember when he had last seen a job advertisement that said ‘Knowledge of celebrity sheds an advantage’.
‘Angela, do you really think the Observer will snap up my column?’
‘Trust me, I’ve got a plan. Does the name Chimneypot mean anything to you?’
‘Something to do with Father Christmas?’ She tweaked his nose.
‘Yeah. If you like. Something to do with Father Christmas.’
Lillian stretched out her arms, yawned and snuggled closer to the fire. Virtuous exhaustion was a novel sensation, and one to be relished. This had been a great day for her, all in all – first the searing, cleansing conversation with Gordon’s dad, then the daring rescue of Osborne, followed by the modest disclaimers (‘Anyone would have done the same, Michelle, but funny how it was me’), and now the peace and quiet for reflection in the cosy lounge at Dunquenchin. ‘Mother Theresa of Calcutta must feel like this every day,’ she thought, wiggling her toes. Somehow the mental picture of Mother Theresa panting, wiping her brow and resting on her shovel after heroically clouting a loony on the side of the head was a surprisingly pleasing one. She must mention it to Gordon’s dad.
‘Who was at the door?’ she chirped, hearing Gordon’s dad return from answering the bell. And turning, she found herself face to face with Mister Bunny.
‘Bunny,’ he said, simply. ‘Smee.’
‘Bunny. Oh.’ She looked at Gordon’s dad, who deliberately looked the other way.
‘Er, hey-wo bunny. How doin?’
They stared at one another. Mister Bunny extended the suitcase.
‘I bwung Dexie,’ he explained.
‘Shall I leave you?’ asked Gordon’s dad. ‘Or shall I try to interpret?’
‘No, it’s all right,’ said Lillian. ‘Do you think we could have a cup of tea?’
‘My pleasure.’
Gordon’s dad paused before leaving the room, however. ‘You must be Mister Bunny, then?’ Mister Bunny nodded.
‘And is this Dexter, the teddy bear that’s not very well at the moment?’ He pointed at the tiny suitcase. Mister Bunny nodded again.
‘Well, I just can’t tell you how lucky you’ve been in your timing. My niece Margaret would have grabbed you, chomped you and minced you up into little pieces – bones, fur, little ears, squeaker, button-eyes and all. But you will be relieved to hear she succumbed to an unexpected bombardment of garden implements today at about half-past two p.m. Cup of tea, then, Lillian?’
Mister Bunny signalled at him to wait, and then produced a cup-soup sachet from his coat pocket.
‘Bunny, look, got crutongs,’ he smiled.
‘Just the tea, please, Mr Clarke,’ said Lillian. And she wondered whether Mother Theresa likewise was sometimes cruel to be kind.
‘Right. Hold on,’ said Gordon. ‘It’s nearly there.’
Tim watched amazed as his new friend voyaged into the dark interior of a computer program, stooped in deep concentration over his keyboard, his body shaped like a human question mark as he tapped and thought and tapped some more. ‘No wonder Makepeace went off his rocker,’ Gordon commented wearily to no one in particular. And then went tap, tap, click, tap, tap again.
‘Sorry,’ said Tim, casting an eye around Gordon’s office, ‘but I’ve only just put two and two together. Did you invent Digger?’
‘That’s right.’ Tap, tap, tip, tap-tap-tap.
‘Hence Digger Enterprises?’
‘Mm.’ Tap. Tip.
‘But Digger was enormous, Gordon. Why aren’t you offensively rich?’
‘I am. I just bought Frobisher’s, remember.’
‘But why aren’t you a big company?’
‘I didn’t want to be.’ Tap, tap, thump. ‘I wanted to work at home. I wanted to keep my own life simple. But I’ve got lots of people working for me, one way or another, in the town, in London, in the US. And Dad’s been marvellous.’
‘Lumme. I had no idea. And this one’s called Phototropism? I hate to be critical, Gordon, but it’s not quite as catchy as Digger.’
‘Oh, I know.’ Tap, tap, tip-tip, tap. ‘It’s just provisional.’
‘Would you like me to think of a name? I’m pretty good with words, especially horticultural ones. Well, it’s my job. I mean, you know. Was.’
‘That would be great.’ Tap, tap, click, click, whir, tap, tap. Thump. ‘In fact, you can tell me your ideas when you get back from your journey into the unknown.’
Gordon helped him into the glove and helmet (‘Sorry, specs off’) and sat back.
‘Just stop whenever you feel like it,’ he said. ‘But tell me first, what can you see?’
Tim took a while to reply.
‘A really intense black,’ he said at last, ‘as though light has never existed.’
‘Do you feel anything?’
‘No. Unless, yes, the hairs of my arms are tingling. And I seem to be stretching, relaxed, turning very slowly. Am I floating?’
‘Not visibly.’
‘Oh, but I am. Weightless, warm, drawn out. And now there’s music coming from somewhere. Gordon, you’re a genius, this is beautiful.’
‘What does it feel like?’
‘Well. I don’t know how to put this without sounding crazy, but I think I’m, um, germinating.’
‘I’ll shut up, then. Good luck.’
‘You could call it Come Into the Garden. In memoriam, sort of. You could give away free packets of seeds.’
‘Now you’re rambling.’
‘Like a wild English rose?’
‘Like an idiot.’
‘Bye, then.’
‘See you later.’
Gordon set a stop-watch for fifteen minutes and quietly left the room. Outside, he leaned on the door.
‘What’s up?’ said his dad, arriving with some mugs of tea. ‘Gordon, you’re crying.’
The boy wiped the tears from his eyes, and blew his nose in a large hanky.
‘I don’t know why, Dad. I just feel a lot better now, that’s all.’
‘How long have we known each other now?’ gasped Trent Carmichael, clutching his chest as he raced to keep up with Michelle. She was steaming along the London platform at Honiton station for the third time, yelling ‘Mother!’
‘Since yesterday morning,’ she called back.
‘Is that all?’
They both stopped in their tracks. They could hardly believe it. Trent Carmichael leaned against a wall and wheezed.
‘I don’t even know, why we’re doing this,’ he panted. ‘I’ve obviously lost track. You think your mother killed Margaret, using a composite of all the murder methods she’d found in my books?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Because you had told her on the phone that you’d met the original of the girl in S is for … Secateurs! which she was obsessed with?’
‘That’s my theory.’
‘Right. Got it. So tell me this. If she’s such a dangerous maniac, why on earth do we want to find her?’
‘Because that’s what you do to murderers. I’m surprised at you, Trent. You of all people should know that you must track them down and confront them.’
‘Can we sit down?’
‘What?’
‘I want to sit down.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t look so worried, sweetheart,’ he said, ‘I only want to talk to you.’
With a sudden intense weariness which bleached her blood, Michelle realized what Trent Carmichael was going to say. It was brush-off time. That ghastly up-beat inflection is never used for anything else – it goes with ‘It’s been fun, really!’ and ‘I’ll never forget how we found that body in the garden!’ So it was all over, bar the platitudes. Here, on a cold, dark station platform, in a place she’d previously considered entirely notional (‘G. Clarke, Honiton, Devon’), he would ditch her with a clear conscience and bugger off home. She tried to think positively about it, but with no job to return to, and now no mother she dare reside with, dismay promptly overwhelmed her. How predictable life is. Of course she will pretend she agrees with him (‘Marvellous interlude!’), promise to come and see the famous shed (‘One day!’), laugh about the hectic run of events, ask jokingly to see the novel she appears in. And then he’ll get on a train and wave, and she’ll know for a certainty that he’s secretly thinking, ‘Thank God that’s over.’
‘Well, Trent, it’s been real,’ she said bravely, trying not to cry.
‘That’s true,’ he agreed, puzzled.
‘And yes, one day I’ll come and see that shed!’
‘Oh. All right. Good.’
‘And thanks for the autograph! I’ll treasure it!’ You had to hand it to her, she was taking pluck into new dimensions.
‘Michelle, why are you talking like this? Are you going somewhere?’
‘No. Aren’t you?’
‘Not unless you are. I just wanted to ask you if you fancied going back to that garden centre we passed, where Osborne was tied up. I thought you might, you know, get off on it.’
She said nothing.
‘I think the pitchfork is still there,’ he added. Michelle’s mouth went dry. ‘Are you offended?’
‘So you don’t mind if we give up chasing your mother?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Even though I think I can hear a faint moaning coming from the end of the platform, where conceivably she tipped over the edge into a small pile of gravel?’
‘Leave her.’ They got up to go.
‘You know something, Michelle? As a writer of crime fiction, your imagination intrigues me very deeply.’
Wincing, she put her hands to her ears.
‘Just wait till I get my hands on your dangling modifiers,’ she warned, saucily.