Wednesday cont.
It was no wonder that Cleo’s trip to Middleton library to
look at back numbers of the Gazette did not reveal much. Bertie Browne, editor
in chief and owner of the twice weekly freebie, published all sorts of stuff
that was long on padding, but short on information and often devoid of accuracy. Hot air and fake
news were good enough to fill the pages that were not devoted to price-slashing
(if you can believe that) offers of cars, cats and cucumbers. The Fargo family did
not merit a single mention.
***
Cleo noted that Karl’s Viennese accent was as strong as
ever. His olde-worlde manners were quainter than any Cleo had come across
before, even in tradition-soaked England. Karl, brother-in-law of the ill-fated
Edith Parsnip and happy to be among books even if they weren’t in German, was
happy in Cleo’s old job. His research into the history of Middlethumpton
absorbed him whenever time allowed him to stop taking care of readers to delve
into ancient tomes, including a few hundred musty books bequeathed recently by
the estate belonging to the Marble family, whose elder statesman had met his
maker grimly and unexpectedly.
“How are the twins?” Cleo asked.
“Terrible-terrible wild,” he said, pronouncing wild as if it
started with a ‘v’ for victory and leaving off the adverbial ending as if
German did not use endings all the time, “but now they are at kindergarten they
can fight it out between themselfs.”
Cleo had long since given up on Karl’s English grammar.
“How is Clare?”
Clare was Edith Parsnip’s twin sister.
“Expected again,” said Karl “Cake in the oven.”
“I think you mean expecting, Karl and it’s buns not cakes in
the oven.”
“Another two buns,” he said.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Gary is coping well. I think you will, too,” said Cleo.
Small talk with Karl was normally more difficult and usually fraught with mixed-up
adages. But today he was preoccupied with the thought of another couple of
years raising twin babies with the added stress of the two who were already
there.
“Vat is it zat you vont?” he said now, spitting out his
Germanic consonants slowly and carefully. German consonants do not like being
in English words..
“Research on a family called Fargo,” said Cleo.
“Ha! Zee old guy they killed dead then found it wasn’t he
after all?”
“Yes, Karl, but who do you mean by ‘they’?”
“Family,” Karl said. “It happens in Austria all the time.”
“What happens?”
“Hurrying the old people along.”
“Along where?” said Cleo, knowing exactly what Karl, meant
but storing up the account for future telling in his words rather than hers.
“To the Grab,” said Karl, who filled in with German words if
he could not think of the English ones.
“You mean grave, I expect.”
“Extremely!” the librarian nodded.
“Exactly!” said Cleo. “Do you know the Fargo family, Karl?
Do they come here for books?”
“Frillers mostly,” said Karl, nodding wisely.
“Really,” said Cleo. “Some thrillers are full of
instructions on how to get rid of unwanted persons.”
“I can’t ask people if they want to learn how to do their
relations in, Cleo. I run a library not a police station.”
“Don’t worry about it, Karl. It was just a thought.”
“I von’t vorry, but zoughts are zings, Cleo. Mrs Fargo
borrowed a book on herbs and mushrooms. Has she poisoned someone?”
“That’s a very curious thought, Karl. Maybe someone should
go there and ask for the book because it has been ordered by someone else.”
“But it hasn’t,” said Karl, looking in his database.
“Yes it has. By me,” said Cleo.
“Hahaha,” said Karl. “Zat is clever, and you have my
blessink.”
“Just tell me the exact title of the book, please.”
Karl looked in his database for the appropriate entry.
“’How to tell vitch herbs and fungi are edible’,” he read.
“Wow, Karl. I’ll get onto it right away.”
“Happy cook!” said Karl. Who avoided ‘ing’ words on
principle.
***
If Cleo had been looking for an excuse to call on the
Fargos, she now had it, though she was far from sure that hunting down a library
book was a legitimate excuse for calling on people you didn’t know. She decided
to consult Gary although she had a pretty good idea what he would say when he
had finished laughing.
***
Catching up with what the children had been up to took up
the first hour or so of Cleo’s evening. Grit had everything under control as
usual and the two older girls had joined all the twins in the playpen. You
couldn’t have asked for better baby-sitters. Charlie and Lottie never tired of
playing with Teddy and Tommy. The babies, Max and Mathilda, were content to lie
wide-eyed and kicking.
The supper table was laid and the smallest fry bathed and
ready for bed even before Gary and Dorothy arrived. Dorothy immediately
volunteered to put the little boys to bed. Gary checked Charlie’s and Lottie’s
homework. Joe, Gary’s lost-and-found twin brother, Lottie’s father and now
editor of Cop’s Corner, Police HQ’s twice monthly insider magazine, would be
late home, since the next publication date was dangerously close.
“You aren’t cooking, Ladies!” said Gary. “I’m so hungry. Do
I have to make myself a sandwich?”
“Don’t bother, Sweetheart,” said Cleo. “The food will be
here by seven thirty.”
“Not Chinese again,” said Gary. “We had that last week.”
“I can’t cook and run my agency,” said Cleo. “I did the only
sensible thing and called Romano. He does such excellent takeaways,” said Cleo.
“So he does,” said Gary.
“That means you approve, I hope.”
“I suppose I do, if only your mother had not jilted him for
his brother. I don’t want to talk to him about Gloria.”
“Then don’t. I can’t see why my mother’s behaviour should be
allowed to influence our diet, Gary, and he may not come himself.”
He did. Poor jilted Romano arrived at the same time as
Nigel, who had had to sort out one or two things at HQ before driving to Upper
Grumpsfield. He now showed Cleo some new data on her laptop while Gary helped
Romano with his delivery.
“Mamma Mia,” the Italian restauranteur said as he deposited
the evening meal on the kitchen worktop. “I’m getting old. This is all so
heavy.”
“It looks like an awful lot, Romano,” said Gary.
“For ten as usual, my friend: Cleo said to bring plenty,” said Romano,
looking around rather anxiously.
“Don’t worry, Romano. Gloria is not here!” said Gary.
“She betrayed me!”
“If it’s any comfort, she also betrayed your brother,
Romano,” said Gary, and Romano’s face lit up. “She’s back in my old flat in
Middlethumpton.”
“Is she living with your mother?”
“No, Romano. My mother lives next door now with Roger
Stone.”
”That sounds more civilized,” said Romano. “You have
interesting women in your family – except for Gloria.”
“I agree. How much?”
“It’s on the house,” said Romano.
“No it isn’t,” said Gary. “Is 30 enough?”
“That’s too much!”
“You took time off and drove here, Romano. I’m not paying
for charity. I’m paying for the best pasta this side of the Alps.”
After much embracing and thanks, Romano took his leave.
***
“That’s taken care of him,” said Gary. “Dinner is served!”
“What did you tell him?” Cleo asked.
“That Gloria is back in my flat. He seemed gratified.”
“I’ll go home now,” said Grit. “Roger should be back soon
and it’s our jazz night.”
“Take some pasta, please,” said Cleo. “We can’t possibly eat
it all.”
***
As usual, it was a self-service affair at the cottage. Nigel
was very taken with the idea. PeggieSue sat in her high chair having her pasta
before the grownups. Lottie and Charlie helped her, so in the end it took much
longer. It was altogether a rather rowdy meal, but eventually all the children were
in bed and the agency business could be taken care of.
***
“I’m going to visit the Fargos tomorrow,” said Cleo, having
decided that she would get a better response if she did not tell Gary on his
own.
“What the hell do you want there?” he said now.
“Their library book is overdue,” said Cleo. “I’m going to
get it from them if they are at home.”
“What?” said Gary. “You don’t read books unless you’ve
downloaded them.”
“When you know the title you’ll know why I want to get a closer
look at those people.”
“OK. Spill the beans!” said Gary.
“Spit it out,” said Dorothy.
“’How to tell which herbs and fungi are edible,’” said Cleo.
Dorothy immediately stepped in with an explanation.
“That tramp was poisoned, wasn’t he?” she said. “Could it
have been a do-it-yourself toxin? That’s the perfect solution. There’s no
record of poison being bought; you take a walk in the woods to collect some of
those nasty toadstools; a quick brew and you have your perfect murder.”
“Isn’t that a bit farfetched, Dorothy?” said Gary.
“Why else would the Fargos borrow that book?”
“You’d better not accept a drink when you go on your wild
goose chase then, Cleo,” said Nigel.
“I’ll go,” said Dorothy. “It’s much more appropriate to have
an old girl fussing about the book than you, Cleo.”
“I agree,” said Gary. “But we don’t yet know exactly what
poison was inflicted on the tramp, do we? You’d better go along, Nigel.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Cleo.
“Are you inviting me?”
“Sure.”
“So that’s what Gary said you wanted to talk to me about,”
said Nigel.
“You have my blessing,” said Gary. “But don’t say I didn’t
warn you.”
“You didn’t warn me, Gary.”
“I’m warning you now. Those women are slave-drivers.”
“Be on time,” said Dorothy, giving Gary a disapproving look.
“I’ll be at the Agency office by ten to make a note of any information we have
on the Fargos.”
“By then Chris might be able to tell us which toadstools
were used,” said Cleo.
“I know there are 10 types of poisonous mushroom growing in
this country,” said Dorothy.
“How on earth do you know that?” said Gary.
“If you have a garden you need to know,” said Dorothy.
“One’s called ‘deathcap’.”
“I suppose you know the Latin name, too,” said Gary.
“Amanita phalloides,” said Dorothy. “I have a book on them.
I used to collect mushrooms in Monkton Woods.”
“Awesome,” said Cleo.
“I’m surprised you survived, Dorothy,” said Gary.
“I might not have if they had got into my saucepan,” said
Dorothy. “Some of them look really appetizing, but you only need 30 grams of
deathcap to kill a human and you can’t destroy the poison by freezing or
cooking.”
Nigel looked horrified.
“Only recently, a gardener killed herself eating canned soup
laced with deathcap,” said Dorothy.
“I’m glad we had pasta,” said Nigel.
“I’ll phone Chris right now,” said Cleo.
***
Chris had compiled his report on Toby Bates’s autopsy and
would have sent it the following day.
“Dorothy has had an idea,” said Cleo. “It’s about mushrooms
of all things.”
“She’s on the right track,” said Chris, “unless I’m very
much mistaken.”
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely an amatoxin, probably a-amanitin,” he reported.
“Deadly stuff. Can’t be destroyed by heat or cold. Same as in that soup I got
to analyse anonymously.”
“Since when do people send you anonymous soup, Chris?”
“”Ask me another.”
“Could that be soup from the chorus rehearsal, Chris?” Cleo
asked.
“Eaten by chorus members now on the intensive care list,”
said Chris.
“I have not heard about that,” said Cleo. “The plastic bowls
had lids. I expect some of the singers took theirs home to eat later.”
“They should be warned,” said Chris.
“We don’t know who they are, Chris.”
“It’s probably fake news,” said Chris. “You know how things
get around. I expect it tasted horrible. I’ve no idea how many tried it.”
“I did,” said Cleo. “No, I didn’t .The smell put me off.”
“What a good job,” said Chris.
“What can I do about it?”
“Wait and see. I assume you didn’t bring any of it home.”
“No, but Jane Barker took her pot home and I don’t think it
was empty.”
“You’ll have to warn her, Cleo.”
“If it isn’t too late.”
The speakers had been on so the company heard that dialogue.
When had the poison got into Jane’s soup? Was there sabotage at the church
hall?
“All we need to do now is prove that the Fargos brewed the
toxin and killed their relative. They then used that tramp as a stand-in,” said
Dorothy.
“Find Fargo, dead or alive,” said Cleo. “He may have died
the same death as the tramp.”
“Not to mention Jane Barker’s soup,” said Dorothy. “Though I
could well believe that she thought the toadstools were champignons and there
for the taking.”
“Search party tomorrow,” said Gary. “I’ll need you, Nigel.
There’s no question of Dorothy going to look for that library book at the
Fargos.”
“I can see your point,” said Dorothy.
***
Later that evening, Fred Bradley alias Brass decided to
close his sub-police station an hour early. He had entered himself for the
afternoon to evening shift. By nine p.m. most of Upper Grumpsfield had either
retired for the night or was indulging in some sort of entertainment at home or
abroad, so closing at nine would probably not even be noticed. It was
justified, he told himself.
***
Brass had not had any romantic involvement for a long time,
but since his unexpected escapade with Edith Parsnip he had thought of nothing
else. Was it only last night that he had thrown caution to the winds and himself
into what he could only describe as the love-making of his life? He had phoned
Edith that afternoon and checked that she was expecting him to call. He was not
quite sure what would happen at the vicarage, but if it went the way he thought
it might, he would suggest meeting at his bungalow next time, as long as the
children were not there. This weekend he was a free man and they could get to
know one another better outside the confines of a vicarage.
Shortly before nine, Brass closed the office window, smartened
himself up, shaved meticulously and patted a fragrant aftershave into his chin,
locked up the premises and hurried to his date.
Edith was waiting. She explained that Mary Baker and her
boyfriend had gone to the late showing at a cinema in Middlethumpton and would
not be back until midnight, so they could make a noise if they wanted to.
“What kind of a noise do you mean, Edith?” Brass asked.
Edith drew Brass into the hallway.
“Later,” she said. “First I want to show you the book.”
She led Brass into what she called her boudoir upstairs and
produced what her Romeo judged to be x certificate illustrations of all sorts
of things lovers seemed to enjoy and a whole lot he never knew existed.
“Now you see what I mean,” said Edith, letting her flimsy
negligée fall to reveal her nakedness.
“Where did the vicar get that book?” Brass stammered. He was
genuinely shocked.
“I expect he ordered it on the internet.”
“But surely you didn’t … “
“Mr Parsnip was not into the practical side of love-making
after helping to make five sons,” she said. “Are you afraid of having more
children?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. My wife is dead.”
“You don’t just have children with marriage partners,” said
Edith. “For instance, we could have a baby together, couldn’t we?”
“Oh no, Edith, I don’t want that,” said Brass.
“But I might,” said Edith.
“I think I’d better go home,” he said, horrified at the idea
that Edith could drag him into a relationship he did not want.
“Why don’t you just relax now you are here, Brass,” said
Edith, stripping Brass off as she got into her seduction routine. “We won’t
make a baby. I’ve taken care of that.”
“Well, if you are sure,” he said.
“Of course I’m sure,” said Edith. “This is just a game and
we don’t have to follow the pictures in that book, either.”
It must be said that Brass enjoyed the ‘game’ for as long as
it lasted, which was most of the night, though was a short break while they
headed for Brass’s bungalow. It had been Edith’s idea to go elsewhere before
the curate and her boyfriend returned.
“I can walk with you to your house if you like. We can get
some fresh night air. I love the fresh night air,” said Edith.
Brass found it impossible to refuse Edith’s offer. A brisk
walk later they were brewing tea in Brass’s kitchen.
“You can start this time if you like,” she said.
“Start what? Aren’t you going home now?”
“Do you want me to?”
Brass was silent for a moment. He felt bad about letting
Edith get into the bed that he had shared with his wife until her cancer was so
bad that she had gone into a hospice and never come home again. While he was
thinking, Edith had held his hand and led the way into the master bedroom.
“My wife slept in this bed,” he said. “It’s her bed.”
“But she is dead, Brass and I’m alive. She is only a memory
and I am real.”
Edith faced Brass and told him to put his arms round her so
that he could feel her reality. All the rumours he had heard about Edith’s
nympholepsy came back to him, but at that moment he ceased to believe them. She
was not a woman who ravished men without caring about them. She had been
wronged and he would put that right.
“Will you marry me, Edith?” he said, listening with
astonishment to his words.
“Yes,” she said as if she had been waiting for his proposal.
“When you are my wife we can get into that bed, can’t we?”
The logic of those words was not entirely clear to Edith,
since a bed was just a bed and she needed no other reason to get into it than
to make love and perhaps get some sleep, but Brass’s proposal was loud and
clear. As if to confirm that he meant what he said, he undressed and lay down
on his side, gesturing to Edith to join him.
“I will be a good wife to you, Fred,” she said now as she
lay close to the man she had decided to wed though she hardly knew him.
“Do you really want to marry me?” she said.
“Yes Edith, I’d like that, and if we make a baby that will
be just fine.”
They both lay on his side of the marriage bed just looking
at the ceiling for quite a long time. Then their hands sought one another, they
embraced as lovers do and consummated their new status. Edith was as gentle as
a kitten and not once did they stray onto the deceased wife’s half of the bed.
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