Deadhead and Buried Read online

  He started to leave the room, then turned back and added with a growl: “And don’t open the window for that cat!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Left alone in the house, Poppy made herself a cup of tea, then carried the mug back to the sitting room, looking forward to a couple of hours curled up with her grandmother’s books. But she had barely stepped back into the room when she met a pair of unblinking yellow eyes staring at her from outside the French doors.

  “Well, don’t look at me,” she said to the ginger tom. “I’m under strict instructions not to let you in.”

  The cat raised a paw and tapped the glass.

  “You’ve got your own entrance—why don’t you use that?”

  “N-ow?” Oren tilted his head to one side.

  “Yes, now,” Poppy said. Then she shook her head and laughed. She couldn’t believe she was having a conversation with a cat.

  “N-ow… n-ow…!” Oren said indignantly, pawing the glass.

  Poppy bit her lip. There was no way she’d be able to sit in here and read with the cat wailing outside. She hesitated a moment, then walked over to the French doors. Nick will never know anyway, she thought as she reached out and turned the latch. A minute later, the ginger tom was in the room, strutting around in a self-satisfied manner.

  “Don’t get too smug,” Poppy warned him. “That is just a one-off, because I’m feeling in a charitable mood. It doesn’t mean I’m a pushover—just so you know.”

  “N-ow…” Oren said with a feline smirk.

  Poppy picked up the huge plant encyclopaedia and was just about to sit down when she remembered guiltily that she hadn’t called Nell yet. She had sent her old friend a quick text before bed last night, but that was before she had discovered Pete Sykes’s body. It was hard to believe that that was only this morning—so much had happened since then! She hurriedly found her phone and dialled Nell’s number, smiling as she heard the familiar motherly voice.

  “Are you still in Oxfordshire? I thought you’d be on your way back by now,” Nell said in surprise.

  “Actually, I’m going to have to stay a few more days…” Quickly, Poppy told Nell about the situation.

  “Oh my lordy Lord—a dead body? Murder?” Nell gasped. “But what about the cottage? Are you still staying there?”

  “No, they’re still processing the crime scene so I’m staying with the neighbour next door.”

  “Oh, that’s nice of them, dear. Are they friends of your grandmother’s then?”

  “Er… well, he was friendly with her—”

  “He?” said Nell suspiciously.

  “Yes, the house next door belongs to the author, Nick Forrest—have you heard of him?”

  “Don’t know him from Adam. Does he live alone?” asked Nell, still in that suspicious tone.

  “Yes… well, except for his cat. He’s got this ginger tom who—”

  “How old is he?”

  “Nick? Uh… I don’t know… late thirties, I guess?”

  “Are you sure it’s safe, dear, staying alone with a single man?”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course it’s safe.”

  “But you don’t know anything about him!”

  “Well, he’s… he’s a well-known author. And his ex-girlfriend is the detective in charge of the investigation,” Poppy added. “It was actually she who suggested that I stay with him.”

  “Hmm…” Nell sounded slightly mollified. “So why aren’t they together anymore?”

  “I don’t know! That’s their private affair.”

  “Oh, Poppy, I don’t like it… Make sure you lock your bedroom door at night, dear. These older men… they might think you’re a naïve young thing and try to take advantage—”

  “NELL!” Poppy gave an exasperated laugh. “For goodness’ sake, this isn’t a Gothic romance novel with some old lech preying on a virginal heroine in a tower! Nick isn’t interested in me in the least. He’s just letting me use his spare room until I can go back to the cottage, and in return I’m looking after his cat. He’ll be away from tomorrow morning, anyway—he’s going on a book tour—so I’ll be alone in the house. And in fact, he’s gone out this evening to Oxford to give a talk at one of the colleges, so I probably won’t even see him again before he leaves.”

  “Hmm… well, the sooner you’re back in the cottage, the better. Now—” Nell’s voice changed and she said briskly, “—is the cottage clean? Have you given the kitchen and the toilet a good scrub before using them?”

  “Er…” Poppy thought guiltily of her half-hearted efforts. She hadn’t even bothered to really clean the kettle—just giving it a quick rinse before filling it with water. “It’s not too bad, actually. Most things seem fairly clean.” Then quickly, to distract Nell, she added, “My clothes are filthy, though, from falling in the garden, and I only brought a change of things for one day. Although I don’t really want to spend money buying new clothes right now…” she added with a groan.

  “How about charity shops? Have they got any of those in the village? You could maybe pick up some second-hand items for cheap.”

  “I don’t know… I didn’t see any today. Most of the shops seem to sell knick-knacks for tourists. But I can ask in the tourist information centre tomorrow. That’s a great idea—thanks Nell.”

  Poppy had barely hung up and settled back down on the sofa with the book when her mobile rang again. It was a number she didn’t know but, when she answered, Poppy recognised the voice instantly. It was Charles Mannering.

  “My dear, Inspector Whittaker has just been to interview me… this dreadful business about Pete Sykes! And to think that you found the body—you must be terribly shocked—”

  “Yes, it was a bit horrible to think of his body just lying out there the whole night when I was asleep,” said Poppy with a shudder.

  “Quite so… quite so… most distressing…” said the lawyer, making a tutting sound. “And Inspector Whittaker informs me that you’re staying in Bunnington for a few more days? Have you any friends in the vicinity?”

  “No, I don’t know anyone in Oxfordshire.”

  “Well, I hope you won’t mind an old man’s fussing, but I was thinking it must be quite unpleasant for you to be alone, especially on the first night after finding the body, so I was wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner and spend the evening at my house?”

  “Oh, that’s really kind of you,” said Poppy, touched.

  “It’ll just be me, I’m afraid, so it won’t be very glamorous company,” said Mannering, coughing apologetically. “I’m a bachelor, you see. But my housekeeper is a very good cook and she makes the most wonderful beef casserole. I’d be delighted if you’d join me,” he said with old-fashioned courtesy.

  “Thank you. I’d like that very much,” said Poppy, smiling. Then she thought of something: “But I don’t have a car and it’ll take me an hour to get the bus back to Oxford, assuming there’s one at this time—”

  “Oh, I don’t live in Oxford, my dear. My office is there but my house is actually on the outskirts of Bunnington. It’s the reason I’m the executor for your grandmother’s estate: I used to visit her nursery for plants and, over time, we became friendly. When she heard that I was a solicitor, she asked me to look after her legal affairs. Anyway, so it should just be a twenty-minute walk from the cottage, at the most.”

  “That sounds great. It’ll be nice to get some exercise. Okay, I’ll see you soon!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Charles Mannering’s home was an elegant house set in well-kept gardens, with a magnificent Victorian conservatory attached—an enormous yet airy framework of steel and glass, with arching ceilings, chequered floor tiles, and wrought-iron embellishments. It was obviously the lawyer’s pride and joy, for he wasted no time in taking Poppy through and showing her proudly around as soon as she arrived.

  The interior of the conservatory was a lush green oasis filled with ferns, palms, and a host of flowers and plants that Poppy didn’t recogn
ise, all in a vivid rainbow of colours. There was a marble fountain in one corner, its soft tinkling adding to the peaceful ambience of the place, and the air was warm and steamy, with condensation fogging up the glass panes as twilight fell and the air cooled outside.

  Mannering led her around, pointing out various plants and reeling off a string of Latin names that went straight over Poppy’s head.

  “…and this here is a Bergenia crassifolia, also known as Elephant’s Ears because of these wonderful big leaves. Of course, they’re considered a bit common nowadays—and you don’t really need to grow them in a greenhouse; they’re fully hardy, you know—but I think their foliage works marvellously with the other exotics. Very underrated plant…”

  He crouched down next to a bushy plant in a pot. It was covered in big, showy red blooms which reminded Poppy of the flowers that island girls put behind their ears.

  “This little beauty is Hibiscus rosa-sinensis. They can get as big as a tree, you know, in the tropics, but sadly in Britain they’re a bit more delicate. Oh drat…!” One of the large, trumpet-like flowers caught in Mannering’s cufflinks and, despite his careful efforts, it broke off from the plant. He removed the bloom caught on his sleeve and placed it at the base of the bush, as if returning a baby to its mother. Then he fussed over the plant tenderly, saying to Poppy, “She likes to be misted on a regular basis during the warmer months, otherwise she wilts a bit.”

  “Oh… um, right,” said Poppy.

  Mannering stood up and indicated a lush green vine climbing up a trellis against the side of the conservatory. “And this is Pandorea jasminoides, the Bower Vine. Isn’t she just ravishing? Hails from the east coast of Australia. She can be a bit of a diva as well: she will defoliate if she gets too cold, even here in the conservatory, and I need to pamper her with a bit of fleece in the winter—but she’s well worth it. Just look at those flowers! Perfect trumpet shape and with those deep pink throats!”

  “Er… yes, she’s lovely,” said Poppy, thinking that she was beginning to understand why Charles Mannering was a bachelor. Which woman could hope to compete with “ravishing” Pandorea and all his other pampered botanical darlings?

  She started to walk around the climbing vine to get a closer look, but Mannering grabbed her arm and said eagerly, “Do you like her colour? Then you must have a look at my Bougainvillea!” He practically dragged her to the other side of the conservatory where another vine was climbing, this time around an iron pillar that was part of the conservatory framework. The stems of this vine were brown and gnarled, and there were vicious thorns poking out from between the leaves, but its flowers more than made up for it. There was a cascade of them all along the branches—ruffled, papery blooms in the most amazing shade of magenta.

  “Wow…” said Poppy, suitably impressed.

  Charles Mannering beamed. “Magnificent, isn’t he? He’s a hybrid between Bougainvillea glabra and Bougainvillea peruviana. He needs to be kept warm—but otherwise, he flowers his heart out every summer.”

  “These are all very different from the sort of flowers you usually see, aren’t they?” said Poppy.

  “Yes, I do love the exotics,” said Mannering with an embarrassed smile. “I know many people prefer a traditional English garden, but I must confess, my weakness is for plants from more tropical climes.”

  “I’m surprised you went to my grandmother’s nursery, then. Didn’t she just sell cottage-garden plants?”

  “Oh no. English cottage-garden plants were her speciality, of course—especially the traditional favourites, like foxgloves and hollyhocks, but she also offered a range of other plants, especially flowering ones. It may seem strange for such a stern woman, but your grandmother loved flowers, you see, in all their shapes and sizes—”

  “That must be where I inherited it from,” said Poppy with a laugh. “Although, sadly, I don’t think I’ve inherited her green fingers as well.”

  “You never know, my dear,” said the lawyer complacently. “You may yet find that you have more skill with plants than you thought. It’s all about practice and experience, really. Have you ever gardened?”

  “No, not really,” Poppy admitted. “We—my mother and I—could never afford to stay anywhere large enough for a garden. We mostly lived in flats—very small flats! And we never stayed anywhere for long either.”

  “Well, now is your chance… if you decide to stay on at the cottage, that is.” He gave her a searching look. “Or are you still determined to sell the property, my dear?”

  Poppy hesitated, then said, “Oh yes, I’m sticking with my original plan. I don’t suppose you’ve had any interest?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact… I was intending to call you tomorrow to let you know that a property agent in Oxford has contacted me and said that a development company might be interested in the site. The challenges of renovation and restructuring would not be such an issue, since they would simply raze the cottage to the ground and pull up most of the trees and shrubs—”

  “What?” said Poppy, horrified. “But… that would destroy the garden and everything!”

  “Well, yes,” Mannering admitted. “But they would build a new house in its place—several houses, in fact. The site is so large, it could be subdivided into several townhouses, each with a small courtyard garden and—”

  “Can you put them off?”

  “I… I’m sorry?”

  “The property agent. Can you stall them for a bit?”

  “Well, certainly, but I’m afraid I don’t understand, my dear… If we want a quick sale, the sooner we start negotiations, the better.”

  “Yes, well… um… what if… er… what if we just put things off for a few weeks?”

  He gave her a surprised look. “Are you thinking of changing your mind about selling the cottage, my dear?”

  “No… yes… I mean… no, no, of course not. It’s just…” Poppy trailed off, not knowing how to voice the turmoil of feelings inside her. She couldn’t bear the thought of the garden being destroyed… but at the same time, she needed the money from the sale of the property. “I… I just need a bit of time, okay?”

  The lawyer looked nonplussed. “Well… er… certainly. Your grandmother’s will doesn’t stipulate a time frame so I see no reason why we can’t take things slowly.” Then he frowned slightly. “I shall have to think of a way of dealing with the property agent. He has been very persistent, calling me several times a day.” He sighed. “Things are a bit awkward, you see, because he is family of a sort and so he has a vested interest—”

  “Family?” Poppy said in surprise.

  Before Mannering could answer, they were startled by the sound of the doorbell ringing.

  “Who on earth can that be?” muttered Mannering, leading the way out of the conservatory and back into the house.

  Poppy followed, and they were joined by his housekeeper, who hurried out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “It’s all right, Mrs Graham—I’ll get it,” said Mannering, waving a hand and going up to the front door.

  It swung open to reveal a portly, middle-aged man with a balding head and a bushy handlebar moustache. He was dressed in a cheap suit and held a folder in his hands.

  “Ah! Charles—caught you at last, you old bugger! I’ve been leaving messages at your office all day, you know. Blasted secretary of yours is more protective than a Rottweiler! Anyway, I had the evening free so I thought I’d bring you the documents and save you the bother of—”

  “Hubert, I really don’t like conducting business from home,” said Mannering testily. “I must ask you to make an appointment with my secretary and we can discuss things in my office.”

  “But there’s nothing to discuss, really! I told you, I’ve negotiated a marvellous deal for you and all your client has to do is sign on the dotted line. Have you had a chance to speak to her again yet? I wish you’d tell me where she is in London—I could pop down and have a chat with her. I’m sure once she hears what she
stands to gain…” He trailed off as he noticed Poppy for the first time. He gave Mannering a lascivious grin. “You old fox! Didn’t realise I was interrupting a hot date.” He leaned sideways and elbowed the elderly lawyer in an exaggerated manner, saying in a loud whisper, “She’s a pretty little thing but a bit young for you, eh, Charles?”

  Charles Mannering went very red in the face. “Ahem! This is Poppy Lancaster—Mary Lancaster’s granddaughter.”

  “Mary Lancaster’s…” Hubert’s eyes bulged as the words sunk in. An ugly look flashed across his face, then it was quickly wiped clean, to be replaced by a greasy smile.

  “Cousin Poppy!” he cried, reaching out to grab her hand.

  Poppy stared at him. Cousin?

  Hubert pumped her hand up and down. “I’m delighted to meet you at last! Have you come to see Charles about the sale? Perfect timing, eh?”

  Mannering said irritably, “No, Miss Lancaster is not here on business. I’ve invited her over for dinner and we’re just about to sit down, so if you don’t mind—”

  “Ooh, what are you having?”

  Mannering looked taken aback. “A beef casserole, as a matter of fact, but I—”

  “Beef casserole! My favourite!” Hubert smacked his lips. “You don’t mind if I join you, do you? I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch and I’m starving!”

  Poppy was shocked by the man’s brazen manner and she could see that Mannering was at a loss over how to respond. It was ridiculous—Hubert was the one being boorish and presumptuous, and yet somehow, he made them feel rude and petty if they excluded him.

  Hubert saw the elderly lawyer wavering and added in a wheedling voice: “It’s a trek back to Oxford—you wouldn’t make me come all the way out here and deprive me of the chance to talk with my long-lost cousin, would you?” Then, before Mannering could answer, he stepped past him and walked boldly into the foyer.

  Sniffing the air in an exaggerated fashion, Hubert said: “Mm-mm… that smells good! Which way to the dining room?”