Bonbons and Broomsticks (BEWITCHED BY CHOCOLATE Mysteries ~ Book 5) Page 12

  “But… if it was just gibberish, why did you put it back behind the shelf?”

  James shrugged. “I don’t know, really. I was going to throw it away and then…” He gave her a whimsical smile. “I suppose it’s a bit like when you go back to a place you loved as a child—a beach or a patch of woods or even a house you used to live in—and you find something that your younger self had made, like a treehouse or a makeshift raft or even a stone with a crack that had an old knife stuck in it, which you used to pretend was the Sword in the Stone…” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “And you know it’s silly but you put everything back the way you found it, just… in honour of your childhood memories, I guess. This was a bit like that. So I brought it back here, tucked it out of sight at the back of the shelf, and haven’t thought about it since.” He looked thoughtfully down at the parchment for a moment, then held it out to her. “Would you like to have it?”

  “Don’t you want it?”

  James gave her a dry smile. “Well… as the Corinthians quote says, ‘when I became a man, I put aside childish things’. I think maybe it’s time I stopped trying to hang on to the past. If you don’t want it, I’ll put it in the bin.”

  Caitlyn took the parchment hastily. She didn’t know why, but for some reason, she couldn’t bear the thought of James throwing it away. Folding it carefully, she tucked it into her back pocket. Then she groped around for something to say as an awkward silence descended over them. She recalled what Nathan had said earlier and asked:

  “So… um… is Inspector Walsh opening an investigation into Sir Henry’s death?”

  James looked relieved at the change of subject. “Yes, he came to see Lady Pritchard this morning. He wanted to ask her about Sir Henry’s business affairs and whether he might have had any enemies.”

  “So the police are treating the death as suspicious after all?”

  “Well, I think the results of the post-mortem on the tramp who was found dead last week changed Inspector Walsh’s mind. He got the report last night and it shows that the tramp had been poisoned by digitalis.”

  Caitlyn raised her eyebrows. “Digitalis?”

  “Yes, it’s a compound found naturally in foxgloves, which stimulates the heart, causing it to pump harder—it’s used to treat conditions like heart failure. But it’s a very powerful chemical and even a slight overdose can kill you.” James grimaced. “I remember being in the garden with my mother as a little boy and being warned not to touch the foxgloves. People mistake the leaves, sometimes, for comfrey, you know, and try to make tea from it. And actually, there was a terrible case several years ago: a man in Sheffield committed suicide by eating foxglove leaves.”

  “Wow… I’ve heard that they’re poisonous but I had no idea they were that lethal,” Caitlyn said. “I’ve seen foxgloves growing in gardens everywhere in England! In fact, I think the Widow Mags has some—”

  “Oh yes, they’re very popular, especially in traditional cottage gardens. And they grow wild too, here in the countryside. You often find them in shady spots under trees and beside country lanes. The flowers are very pretty. As long as you don’t eat any parts of the plant, you’re fine.”

  “D’you think the tramp could have eaten some by mistake?”

  James shook his head. “The examination showed traces of undigested chocolate in his stomach—the last thing he ate—and when they analysed the chocolate fragments, they found that they were laced with digitalis.”

  “You mean… someone deliberately injected some chocolates with digitalis poison—and then gave them to the tramp? That’s horrible!”

  “Well, it’s also possible that the chocolates were intended for someone else and the tramp found them and ate them by mistake,” James pointed out. “It will be interesting to see what Sir Henry’s post-mortem turns up.”

  “So Inspector Walsh has agreed to do a post-mortem on Sir Henry after all?”

  “Oh, yes, definitely. In fact, I think it might have been done as a rush case this morning. Lady Pritchard was very resistant to the idea—it’s understandable, of course; no one likes the idea of someone cutting up their loved one’s body. But since this is now a murder investigation, she has no choice in the matter.”

  Mention of Sir Henry’s widow reminded Caitlyn of the conversation she had just had and she said: “Did Lady Pritchard tell you about their estate manager who was fired last weekend? He seems like someone with a grudge against Sir Henry.”

  “Yes. In fact, Inspector Walsh just left to go and question Derek Swanes now—”

  A loud crunching sound made them both look around. They found Bran standing by the stepladder, drool dribbling from his lips as he chewed something with great relish, whilst Nibs perched on one of the upper rungs and watched him with interest. Fragments of chocolate were littered around the mastiff’s huge paws.

  “Aargh, Bran’s eating the chocolate book!” Caitlyn groaned.

  “What?” James bit off a curse. He rushed to the dog’s side and tried to prise the mastiff’s jaws open. “Drop it, Bran—drop it!”

  But it was too late. The mastiff swallowed, then opened his mouth in a wide doggie smile, bits of chocolaty drool still clinging to his jowls.

  “Damn!” said James.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Caitlyn, surprised by the vehemence of his reaction.

  “I need to get Bran to the vet—he may need treatment for poisoning.”

  “Don’t worry, that chocolate hasn’t got any digitalis!”

  “No, no… I wasn’t thinking that… Chocolate, by itself, is poisonous to dogs. It contains a substance called theobromine which can cause vomiting, seizures, cardiac problems… even death.” He eyed Bran, who was sitting, leaning against the stepladder, panting amiably at them. The mastiff looked the picture of health. James sighed. “It might be okay, since Bran is such a large dog—the amount might not be lethal—but I can’t take the risk. I’ve got to get Bran to the vet immediately.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Caitlyn, mortified. “It’s my fault—”

  James gave her a quick smile. “Oh, no, it’s probably my fault for not thinking and leaving the chocolate book where Bran could reach.” He bent down and gave the mastiff’s collar a gentle tug. “Come on, boy… let’s go.”

  The mastiff heaved himself to his feet, then ambled slowly to the Gallery door. Nibs sprang off the ladder and scampered after his big friend, and they followed behind the kitten. As they were about to step out, however, they nearly collided with Mosley.

  “Ah, sir… Julian Pritchard, Sir Henry’s brother, has just arrived,” said the butler.

  “I can’t see him now, Mosley. I must take Bran to the vet as a matter of urgency. Can you tell him it’s inconvenient and ask him to return later today—or tomorrow?”

  The butler hesitated. “He’s very insistent on seeing you, sir.”

  “Well… I can see him as soon as I get back from the vet, if he’s happy to wait here.” James glanced at his watch. “I remember Jeremy Bottom saying the vet was going to be over at his farm this morning, so if I’m lucky, I could catch him there… which means I could be back in about twenty minutes… assuming Bran is all right.”

  “I’ll sit with Mr Pritchard until you get back, if you like,” offered Caitlyn impulsively.

  James gave her a grateful look. “That would be great. Thanks.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A few minutes later, as James roared off with Bran in his Range Rover, Caitlyn followed Mosley to the Drawing Room. There, she found a short, florid man in an expensive pinstriped suit waiting impatiently. He had a passing resemblance to Sir Henry but none of the older man’s presence and charisma. He did seem to have the same sense of self-importance, though. He flicked a wrist, glancing at an expensive Rolex watch, then said in a loud, nasal voice:

  “About time!” His gaze went beyond Caitlyn and he frowned. “Where’s Lord Fitzroy?”

  Caitlyn looked at Mosley but the butler seemed to be waiting for her to s
peak, so she gave Julian Pritchard an apologetic smile and said:

  “I’m afraid he has something urgent that he needs to deal with—but he’ll be here soon. Um… would you like a drink? I mean, tea—would you like some tea?” she hastily amended, reminding herself that she was in England.

  Pritchard gave an impatient huff. “Oh, all right—I’ll have a cup. But I haven’t got all day!”

  Caitlyn glanced at Mosley, who inclined his head as if to her unspoken instruction, and she couldn’t help thinking that somehow, she seemed to have fallen into the role of hostess, her actions resembling those of the lady of the Manor. Pritchard must have got the same impression because he glanced at her and said:

  “You Fitzroy’s wife?”

  “Oh no!” Caitlyn flushed. “No, no, I’m just… er… a friend.”

  “Hmm… speaking of wives, my sister-in-law is here, isn’t she? That’s really why I came. I… er… wanted to offer my condolences to my brother’s widow. Went over to Pritchard House first but she wasn’t there. Staff told me she was staying here.”

  “Yes, she stayed the night after the dinner, and then yesterday, after she heard the news about Sir Henry, she felt too unwell to go home.”

  Pritchard turned and called to Mosley, who was just about to leave the room. “Oi, you! Tell Sherry that I want to see her.”

  Mosley stiffened at the man’s rude manner but his voice was bland as he said: “Lady Pritchard is resting in her room. I am not sure she is up to seeing anyone.”

  “What is she, an invalid?” scoffed Pritchard. “You go and tell her that I’m here.”

  Mosley’s lips tightened but he nodded and left. Caitlyn cleared her throat and said:

  “I’m very sorry about your brother.”

  “Oh yeah.” Julian Pritchard made a face. “Never thought the old boy would cark it so soon. Still, I always knew Henry had a dodgy ticker—knew it was going to get him some day.”

  Caitlyn was taken aback by the man’s callous manner towards his brother’s death. Then she reminded herself that maybe this was the British way. Didn’t they believe in keeping a “stiff upper lip” and never showing emotion in public? Maybe Julian Pritchard was really devastated about losing his brother and crying inside. She glanced at the man’s face. Hmm… or maybe not. His smug indifference irked her and provoked her to say:

  “Actually, there is some uncertainty over the cause of death. The police are still investigating.”

  He scowled. “What do you mean? I thought it was all cut and dried. Just need to set a date for the funeral.”

  “Oh no—I don’t believe Sir Henry can be buried until his body is released after the post-mortem.”

  “What?” Julian Pritchard sprang up from the sofa. “They’re doing an autopsy? What the bloody hell for?”

  “Well, since it’s unclear what Sir Henry died from, I suppose they want to make sure that there hasn’t been any foul play.”

  “Of course there wasn’t any foul play!” snapped Pritchard. “What do they think this is—some sodding TV show? My brother just died of a heart attack; end of story.” He narrowed his eyes. “Is this that stupid woman’s idea? Henry’s wife has always been a hysterical sort. I suppose she’s been bleating to the police and telling them wild stories—”

  “No, actually, Lady Pritchard was very against the idea of an autopsy. And she hasn’t been hysterical at all,” Caitlyn added, annoyed. “In fact, I think Lady Pritchard is holding up really well, considering the shock she’s had.”

  Pritchard gave a derisive laugh and mimicked her voice: “‘Lady Pritchard’? I knew her when she was plain Sherry Holt. She’s nothing more than a small-time actress who landed on her feet because she met my brother in some pub and he took a fancy to her. She only ever married him for the money—” He broke off as he heard steps approaching the Drawing Room, and Mosley reappeared a moment later, escorting Sir Henry’s widow.

  Seeing the woman again, Caitlyn couldn’t help thinking how uncharitable Julian Pritchard was about his sister-in-law. Lady Pritchard looked ill with grief: she was ghostly pale, almost white, and there were even darker shadows under her eyes than when Caitlyn had last seen her. If anyone ever embodied the classic image of a woman mourning her husband, she did.

  “Oh, Julian—isn’t it awful?” she cried, raising a hand to her mouth and giving a muffled sob. “I can’t believe Henry is dead!”

  “Um… yes, yes…” Pritchard looked horrified at the thought of having to deal with an emotional woman. “Jolly bad luck. Well, can’t be helped, can’t be helped… Just want to get the estate settled as quickly as possible now, eh? Have you spoken to the lawyers yet?”

  Lady Pritchard looked doubtful. “I don’t know if we can do anything while the police are still investigating—”

  Julian Pritchard made an angry noise. “What the bloody hell do they think they’re doing? What’s there to investigate? Men die of heart attacks all the time.”

  “They’re saying it might not be a heart attack,” said Lady Pritchard breathlessly. “Oh, Julian—they’re saying Henry might have been murdered!”

  Her brother-in-law gave a forced laugh. “Why would anyone want to murder old Henry?”

  “Well, the police were asking me if Henry had any enemies. They said people are often murdered by someone wanting revenge… or someone who stands to gain from their death… you know, like inherit the estate. Oh, except… it can’t be that, because in that case, the main person who benefits is you, and you wouldn’t murder Henry,” said Lady Pritchard ingenuously.

  Wouldn’t he? Caitlyn wondered as she turned to look at Julian Pritchard. His cold attitude towards his brother’s death took on a new significance—and his horror and anger about the autopsy too. Someone who had murdered Sir Henry certainly wouldn’t want his body examined by a forensic pathologist…

  Julian Pritchard gave a nervous laugh. “Quite right, Sherry—quite right. And if the police suggest that, I hope you’ll tell them so. Now listen…” He changed the subject abruptly. “Did Henry reject Blackmort’s offer?”

  Lady Pritchard looked at him blankly for a moment. “You mean… for the sale of that strip of land? I seem to remember Henry saying that he was going to refuse—”

  “Yes, yes, I know, but had he given an official reply yet?”

  “I…I really don’t know—”

  “I don’t think so,” Caitlyn spoke up, recalling the conversation at dinner. “One of the reasons Sir Henry was so keen to get back that night was because he said he had a meeting the next morning with the Blackmort representative. He was planning to give them his answer then. This was after you’d left the table,” she added to Lady Pritchard.

  “Ah, good…” Julian Pritchard rubbed his hands, looking pleased. He turned to his sister-in-law. “You know how to get hold of this rep?”

  Lady Pritchard looked vague. “I suppose Henry would have the details somewhere in his study—Oh! I just realised: the man would have come for the meeting yesterday morning and Henry wouldn’t have been there,” she said in consternation.

  “I’m sure your staff told him the news,” Caitlyn assured her. Then she thought of something. “By the way, do you know if the tramp who died last week had been on your property?”

  Lady Pritchard shook her head firmly. “No, I never saw him.”

  “Never mind the sodding tramp,” said Julian Pritchard. “Listen, Sherry—why don’t I drive you back to Pritchard House and then we can have a look in the study together?” He gave his sister-in-law a patronising smile. “You probably wouldn’t understand about this, but this deal with Blackmort, it’s quite important. Wouldn’t want to miss a great opportunity just because of bad timing, eh? Come on…” He reached for her elbow.

  “But…” Lady Pritchard looked bewildered as her brother-in-law started trying to steer her towards the door.

  “Um… don’t you think you’re being a bit impatient?” said Caitlyn, disgusted by the man’s manner. “Lady Pritchard has had a
bad shock and isn’t feeling very well. I don’t think you should rush her—”

  “She looks fine to me,” snapped Pritchard. “And when I want you sticking your nose in my family’s affairs, I’ll ask you.”

  Caitlyn was speechless, taken aback by the man’s rudeness. She watched helplessly as he manoeuvred Lady Pritchard out the door. A few minutes later, she heard the sound of a loud motor starting. She went to the window; the Drawing Room overlooked part of the front lawn and driveway, and she was just in time to see a flashy red sports car with the licence plate “BIG 805S” reverse with a squeal of its tyres, gun its engine a few times, then roar away down the driveway.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Holy guacamole, this place is packed!” Pomona looked around the village pub in wonder. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it this busy. And it’s not even lunchtime yet.”

  Looking around, Caitlyn agreed. The Tillyhenge village pub was like many of its kind, with low ceilings, exposed wood beams, and dark wood furniture in cosy corners. At this time of the day, it was normally empty, with perhaps only one or two of the regulars having a quiet pint. Today, however, almost every table was full and the queue for orders stretched around the bar. She could see one of the barmaids hurrying to and from the kitchen hatch, bringing out platters of food, and Terry the landlord behind the bar counter, pulling pints with gusto and barely managing to keep up with the orders.

  He glanced up, caught sight of them across the room and gave them a cheery wave. Caitlyn smiled back. She liked Terry, not only for his good-natured, down-to-earth manner, but also for the fact that he was one of the few villagers who wasn’t prejudiced against the Widow Mags. In fact, Terry’s great fear wasn’t witches—it was drug dealers—and he patrolled his pub with an eagle eye, convinced that drug cartels were waiting to infiltrate his pride and joy at any moment.

  Pomona grinned and nodded towards a table near them, where several middle-aged ladies had their heads together, talking earnestly. “Aha! They’re all here for the gossip.”