Bree and I exchanged guilty glances, stepped away from the garden wall, and turned to face a woman standing knee deep in the grass near the front of the house, peering at us.
The woman wasn’t old enough to be Minnie Jessop. Her graying hair suggested middle age, but her pageboy hairstyle and her slender build gave her a youthful air. She was dressed in a handsome tweed blazer, a button-down shirt, and pleated wool trousers. Though her arms were folded, she seemed to be amused rather than irate, as if she’d grown accustomed to catching strangers in the act of ogling Dovecote’s notorious rosebushes.
“The house isn’t for sale,” she informed us.
“We’re not house hunters,” I told her. “We’re, uh—”
“What Lori means,” Bree interrupted, “is that we’re, er—”
The woman silenced our babbling with a wave of her hand.
“There’s no need to explain,” she said. “I know who you are.” She gave us an appraising look, then wagged a beckoning finger at us. “Come along. My mother has been expecting you.”
I gaped stupidly at her until Bree seized the pram’s handles and treated Bess to another bouncy jaunt through the long grass. Bess’s gurgling laughter brought me to my senses and I scrambled after them. The woman waited for me to complete our merry band, then introduced herself.
“I’m Susan Jessop,” she said. “Unless I’ve been misinformed, you’re Lori Shepherd and Bree Pym.”
“And Bess Willis,” I said, nodding at the pram. “My daughter.”
“How do you do, Bess?” said Susan.
Bess mooed at her.
“Who told you about us?” I asked.
“I’ll let Mother enlighten you,” Susan said, with a glance at her wristwatch. “If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be late for work. I teach at the local agricultural college. My hours are flexible, but I try to set a good example for my students by getting to class on time.”
She turned on her heel and strode across Dovecote’s lawn toward Sunnyside’s front door. Bree looked as confused as I felt as we scurried after her.
“What do you teach?” Bree asked.
“Countryside management,” Susan replied. “It involves—”
“Looking at how the countryside works,” Bree broke in, “and how it can be managed to maximize benefits to wildlife, habitats, farmers, and recreational users.” Noting Susan’s perplexed gaze, she added, “My boyfriend is a conservationist. He talks a lot about countryside management.”
“Good for him,” said Susan, sounding impressed. “It’s an important field of study in our crowded little island.”
I felt a quiver of ghoulish anticipation as she walked ahead of us to open Sunnyside’s front door. If Aunt Dimity was correct—and she usually was—Sunnyside’s floor plan would be identical to Dovecote’s. Once we stepped into Minnie Jessop’s house, we would know if Annabelle Craven’s story was plausible or if it was beyond the realm of possibility.
“May I bring Bess’s pram inside?” I asked. “I’d rather not leave it outdoors, unattended.”
“Feel free,” Susan said. “If you like, you can wheel it through the house to the back garden. Follow me.”
I could scarcely believe my ears. It was as if Susan Jessop wanted me to reenact Zach Trotter’s murder. I didn’t know who or what awaited us in the back garden, but I knew a golden opportunity when I saw one. I thanked Susan and pushed the pram into a modest foyer, where I paused to examine my surroundings.
The wall to my right held a row of hooks from which dangled coats, hats, scarves, net shopping bags, and a lidless fishing creel that appeared to be a repository for mail. To my left, I could see the last few steps of an enclosed staircase that led, presumably, to the second floor. Ahead of me, a hallway led directly from the foyer to a room at the rear of the house.
“Straight shot,” Bree said, just loud enough for me to know that her thoughts ran parallel to mine.
They were sickening thoughts, but I couldn’t keep myself from thinking them. If Zach Trotter had tumbled down a similar staircase and landed in a similar foyer, it would have been child’s play for Annabelle to drag his battered body through a similar hallway to the room closest to the back garden.
Feeling a little queasy, I pushed the pram to the end of the hallway and into a surprisingly large and modern kitchen. Susan, who hadn’t stopped to survey her own foyer, was already in the kitchen, holding the back door open for me.
“This way,” she prompted.
I wheeled the pram toward her, all the while imagining how easy it would be to maneuver a fresh corpse around the kitchen table and over the door’s low threshold to its final resting place. I was so absorbed in my macabre visions that it took a moment for me to register the strange tableau that met my eyes as I stepped into Sunnyside’s sun-drenched garden.
Apart from a few wall-mounted wire baskets filled with sphagnum moss, the garden’s only natural feature was a well-tended lawn. In the middle of the lawn sat a round glass-topped table surrounded by six plastic lawn chairs.
The table looked as though it had been set for afternoon tea, with six place settings, two creamers, two sugar bowls, a Victoria sponge cake, a stout plum cake, and several serving platters heaped with crustless sandwiches, cream buns, madeleines, meringues, petit fours, and the light-as-air confections known as Melting Moments, which were a great favorite of mine.
A tiny old woman in gold-rimmed spectacles was seated at the table, facing us. Despite the day’s warmth, she was bundled up in a puffy jacket, a bobble cap, a plaid lap robe, and a pair of fingerless mittens. I tried not to stare at her, but it was hard to look away. I felt as if I’d been transported to an alternate universe in which afternoon tea was served at ten o’clock in the morning by a wizened gnome who’d mistaken a balmy day in April for a frigid day in February.
The woman had been talking on a cell phone when we entered the garden, but she slid the phone into her jacket pocket when Susan crossed to stand beside her.
“Here they are, Mum,” Susan said. “I’ll switch the kettle on before I leave. The teapot’s on the kitchen table.” She glanced at her watch again, then looked pleadingly from me to Bree. “Would one of you be kind enough to fill the pot when the kettle whistles? Mum isn’t as steady on her feet as she used to be, and I really must dash. I’ll see you later, Mum. Have a nice time.”
Susan bent to kiss her mother’s sunken cheek, then hurried back into the house. A moment later, I heard the front door open and close, followed by the sound of a car driving away from Sunnyside.
Though my head was in a whirl, my manners didn’t desert me. I cleared my throat and said, “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Jessop.”
“Call me Minnie,” the old lady croaked, smiling toothlessly at us. Her lack of teeth gave her speech a sibilant quality, but she had no trouble making herself understood. “Bring that daughter of yours to me. I want to take a good look at her.”
I lifted Bess from the pram and carried her to Minnie, but I didn’t hand her over. I wasn’t convinced that Minnie was strong enough to hold her.
“She’s pretty as a princess,” Minnie declared, shaking Bess’s foot with a knobbly hand. “Healthy as a horse, too. Turn her loose. She won’t come to any harm. The grass is warm and dry.” She released Bess’s foot and pointed a gnarled finger at the kitchen door. “You can fetch some saucepans for her to play with, if you like.”
“Thanks, Minnie, but I brought toys for her to play with,” I said, gesturing toward the diaper bag.
“Little ones prefer saucepans,” Minnie said complacently. “I should know—I raised six of my own.”
The kettle whistled.
“I’ll get the tea,” said Bree.
“The saucepans are in the cupboard next to the cooker,” Minnie instructed her. “Don’t forget the lids. Children love putting them on and taking them off again.”
Bree nodded and retreated into the kitchen. I scanned the garden for hazards, detected none, and sat Bess on the lawn at a safe distance from the table and chairs. She seemed content to stay put while she explored the grass with her fingers, but I kept half an eye on her as I returned to Minnie’s side.
“Are you expecting company?” I asked, surveying the six place settings.
“Just a few old friends,” Minnie replied happily. “You and your chum are my guests of honor.”
“We are?” I said, unenlightened.
Minnie patted the chair next to hers. “Take a seat, dear. I’ll get a crick in my neck if I keep looking up at you, and at my age, cricks are a serious business.”
I apologized for looming over her and lowered myself into the chair before asking the question I was burning to ask: “How did you know that Bree and I would be, um, available for your party?”
“Bob Nash rang me yesterday,” Minnie explained. “Told me he’d had words with a daft Yank and a clueless Kiwi at the Willows. Described that fancy pram of yours, too. Susan knew what to look for.”
I brushed aside Bob Nash’s curmudgeonly adjectives and reformulated my question. “But how did you and Susan know we’d come here? We didn’t share our plans with Mr. Nash.”
“My great-grandson Giles tipped me off,” Minnie replied. “Giles is a florist. He looks after the plants at the White Hart.”
In my mind’s eye I saw a young man with a watering can going silently about his business in the White Hart’s library.
“He overheard us talking to Francesco,” I said as comprehension dawned.
“Giles is a good lad,” Minnie said proudly. “When he heard you tell the Italian chap that you planned to visit Dovecote this morning, he rang me straightaway. He knew I’d want to meet you. My daughter Tina rang, too, after she saw you chatting with Hayley Calthorp in Nash’s News.”
A second image flitted across my mind.
“Does Tina wear a blue anorak?” I asked. “Did she go to Nash’s News to buy travel supplies?”
“She’s flying to Stockholm next week,” Minnie informed me. “I hope she brings her anorak. It’s bound to rain.”
I sat back in my chair and regarded Minnie Jessop with a mixture of respect, admiration, and wariness. Minnie was no ordinary gossipmonger. She was a spymaster with a network of agents placed in strategic locations throughout Old Cowerton. Her slick operation made Finch’s grapevine seem antiquated.
“Tea is served!” Bree announced.
She emerged from the kitchen carrying an oversized cobalt-blue teapot as well as a net shopping bag filled with saucepans and their attendant lids. She left the teapot on the table and emptied the bag in front of Bess. Bess didn’t need any tips on what to do with the saucepans, but Bree played with her for a few minutes before returning to claim the chair next to mine.
“One of you will have to be Mother,” said Minnie. She gazed ruefully at her twisted hands. “I can’t lift the big teapot anymore.”
“Allow me,” I said, and filled our cups.
“Susan and I did the baking last night,” said Minnie, “but we made the sandwiches fresh this morning. Go ahead, help yourselves.”
I could almost hear the Melting Moments call to me, but it seemed impolite to sample them before the rest of Minnie’s guests arrived. Bree, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate to reach for a cream bun. Minnie eyed her approvingly, then got down to brass tacks.
“Is it true that you know Annabelle Craven?” she asked.
“It is,” I replied. “She’s a good friend of ours.”
Minnie patted my arm consolingly. “You’re not to blame, and so I told Bob Nash. Annabelle always was a charmer. I’m sure Hayley Calthorp told you that I made up hateful stories about Annabelle, but I know what I saw.”
“What did you see?” Bree asked eagerly.
Minnie opened her mouth to speak, then cupped a hand around her ear to catch the sound of a vehicle pulling up in front of Sunnyside. A moment later, the doorbell rang.
“Oh, good,” she said, grinning gappily. “They’re here.”