“We’ll need to talk to you again, Miss Knowles,” said Gary,
“but if I’m not mistaken, Miss Cartwright made a fool of you and she was trying
it on with us.”
Dorothy made sure that the chorus rehearsal had been
cancelled for that evening, but she would go along to the church hall anyway to
make sure that everyone who had come not knowing about the chorus director’s
appendix operation went home.
Gary’s ‘chat’ with Knowles was delayed until Cleo arrived.
He was relieved when she turned up in his office after an uncomfortable few
minutes with someone he could not fathom at all,alone except for Nigel, who was sure the chat
would be noteworthy in the true sense of the word.
Gary’s day included letting Ed Fargo stew in his
arrest cell, probably trying to convince a defence lawyer that he had not done
anything wrong. Staying at home was a luxury Gary appreciated. Monday mornings
did not really allow for it, but Chief Inspector Gary Hurley was the boss of
his department, after all, and there was the admin to see to.
After that mammoth meeting at Cleo’s cottage, Dorothy did
her weekend shopping and was glad to be home. As usual, she would cook and eat
lunch, making sure that her cat Mimi got her share, and then put her feet up
for an hour before devoting herself to one of Beethoven’s trickier sonata movements.
It would be too easy just to have a crime or two to solve. A
phone-call from Greg woke the Hurleys very early on Saturday morning to say almost
as much.
“Didn’t you mention a corpse in the freezer at the villa at
some point, Gary?” he started.
A phone call to the hospital in an official capacity
revealed Kate Crow’s current address. Gary decided to go there himself
immediately. He did not want her forewarned. An interview with the Norton
brothers could wait.
Cleo did not want to have any more contact with Robert. One
reason was his continuing resentment of Gary and the children, though he had
not wanted any.
Dorothy had made rather a fuss when Jane Barker was
discovered nearly unconscious on her sofa, TV blaring, artificial electric fire
full on. That was in truth partly because she had recently rather neglected her
neighbour, who went on and on about ‘dear Jim’ although her husband had most of
the time been referred to as ‘that dratted man’ when he was alive.
As Gary stood waiting for the London Intercity, it occurred
to him that he had no idea whether the person he was meeting was male or
female. It was a good idea to hold up a sign to say who he was, even if he had previously
thought it was silly.
It was the link Dorothy eventually made between the tramp’s
poisoning and the lethal soup that made it all so awful. She and Cleo had
definitely been in danger. Chris’s newest report was credible. Even if only
small amounts of toadstool poisoning were consumed, it would cause severe
illness and possibly death. Who could have done such a thing deliberately?
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 decided to find out more about the Fargo family herself
before regaling Gary with Dorothy’s advice. It was just possible that the tramp
had genuinely been mistaken for the deceased relative.
Fred Bradley, known to everyone as Brass, was one of a rota
of cops who ran the sub-police station in Upper Grumpsfield. It was really only
a room with a counter and IT equipment, a coat stand, a loo and a tiny kitchen,
but it served the purpose admirably and was a welcome addition to village life,
since many residents regarded it as a sanctuary where they could air their
grievances.
Cleo Hartley-Hurley wondered how Gary would take
the news that she was planning a project that was a far cry from what he used
to call snooping. She would probably have less time to air her theories on the
current cases that beset the Chief Inspector who had, despite himself, become
quite reliant on his wife’s Agency and her wise comments, and been put on the
straight and narrow more than once by Dorothy’s hunches.
The day Lisa Keys came to introduce herself to
Dorothy Price in Upper Grumpsfield should have been one of rejoicing and
gladness. At least that’s what Mary Baker, who was now established at St
Peter’s parish church as its lady curate, said later when she realized how
crestfallen Dorothy had been. There was nothing diplomatic about getting Lisa
to take over the chorus.