The Round Robin Statements, chapter 1

By Caroline Coleman

Inspector Kendrew looked peevishly around the room, his tired face oozing dissatisfaction. That his day off should have been interrupted by a call from the station was annoying enough. Now to find himself stuck at this house, feeling as if he had been landed in the middle of an Agatha Christie set-up, he found it difficult to contain his irritation. He was a fraud man usually, much happier poring over spreadsheets and bank statements than dealing with people. Murders were definitely not his thing. But times were hard; not enough manpower these days. They needed someone to come out immediately and this was his unlucky day.

He looked around the rag-tag bunch of witnesses, assuming that amongst them there must surely be a murderer, and sighed heavily. “You will all be required to give details to my Sergeant. Your names, addresses, and statements. Nobody must leave the premises until we say you may”. As usual, there was a shimmer of something through the room. Annoyance, impatience, guilty consciences? Nobody spoke up. Nobody collapsed on the floor, wailing that it had been them, that it had all been a terrible accident. Just a good British tense silence. He nodded to Sergeant Breacher and strode out of the room.

He'd been briefed already, so knew this had been a house party to celebrate a sixtieth birthday. The birthday girl was downstairs whilst the deceased had been found on the floor in his bedroom, fully dressed, evidence consistent with poisoning. He put on white surgical gloves and a mask, then took a deep breath before entering the room. He didn’t want to be there, but he must. He must see the body of Mr Simon Ian Springer, aged 47, married with two children. The jaundiced, anguished face, the mess that is made when an apparently healthy man becomes fatally sick. He inspected the details as quickly as he could, knowing that he could much more easily face the photos and evidence reports of the Forensics team.

Next, he turned his attention to the rest of the room. He noted a neutral sort of carpet, frayed at the edges, tired bed linen, and a wardrobe that he knew would contain a sad collection of skeletal wire clothes hangers even before he looked. In a corner was a small suitcase, well worn, the handle tied at one end with twine. It was open, displaying a jumble of clothes: a green sweatshirt with a logo that turned out to be for the Sunnyhead Allotment Society, underpants, a black sock with purple heels and toes, and a half-eaten Penguin biscuit lying on blue packaging. A gardening book lay next to it, clearly well used, with a broken spine and pages softened at the top from repeated thumbing. It was open on page 47, which was crumpled and torn, but seemed to be about pruning apple trees and was extensively marked with a red pen.

Downstairs, the atmosphere remained nervy although one of the Constables had made hot drinks for everybody. Sergeant Breacher had organised a table and chairs to start questioning the witnesses – Inspector Kendrew nodded approvingly. At least he had the best person to help on the case.

He sat down and there was a long pause. Expectation hung in the air and he realised that everybody was looking at him. Standing again, he explained the circumstances of the murder – not very much, and not much they didn’t already know. Then he pointed sharply to the nearest person. “Let’s make a start with you”.

Chapter 2. Joan Cumberley Briskett. By Marion Colledge

He looked at me.
Me: I came down from the North, being invited to the party three months before. I only know two people here: the hostess Jean and her husband, Philip.

Sgt: your name first if you don’t mind.

Me: Sorry, Joan Cumberley Briskett

Sgt: How do you spell that mouthful?

Me: Cumberley? C-U-M-B-E-R-L-E-Y Briskett B-R-I-S-K-E-T-T (Like the otugh meat but with double T ).

Sgt: How did you travel and where did you come ‘down’ from and what time did you arrive?

             Pink-face over there is restraining a rude giggle.

Me: By train to Brandish, then Jean picked me up. She seemed in a funny mood. Not sure if she was happy to be sixty or not. Kept biting her lip and frowning, in the car.

Sgt: Ok that’ll do. Don’t try to incriminate others. Get on with answering my questions.

Me: I live in Morecambe near the pearl fishing grounds. It was quarter to seven when we got in. There were eight or nine people here already.

Sgt: How did you know the hostess?

ME: We met at the University of Reading doing a horticultural degree.

Sgt: In that room who did you know? Did you know the deceased?

Me: I did actually: he was on the same degree. But-but I hadn’t seen him for about thirty years.

Sgt: Any interests?

Me:  in common? Er: Fruit trees. I grow wall-trained fruit trees, oh ,and the pearls. He once came to Morecambe to see the pearl-fishers.

Sgt. What did you drink at the party and did you talk to the deceased?

ME: I had a shot of alcohol in lime juice. Otherwise I’m teetotol. And Of course I did, Sergeant. We talked about pruning espalier fruit trees. It’s terribly difficult, sir. I grow quinces and he grows apples.

Sgt: Interesting, what chemicals do you use to fertilise them?

ME: only a NKP mix, sir, from any garden centre.

Sgt: Is that known to be poisonous?

ME: You’d have to have a lot of it!

Sgt: Did you have any chemicals on your person when you came?

ME: No, Sir. What would be the use?

Sgt: Where did you leave your bag?

ME: In the room I was allocated upstairs.

Sgt: Number?

ME; They don’t have numbers they have names, Polyanthus, sir.

Sgt: That’s next to the deceased. He was in Cedar. We’ll be searching your bag.

What was on the table to eat?

Me: Home-made Yorkshire tomato and lentil soup in a big VAT on a heat retaining tray. Er - Champagne.

Sgt: The food first please.

Me: Er, I can’t remember. I quickly drank three glasses of champagne and…

Sgt: Yes?

Me: I had to go upstairs to the toilet.

       The ugly woman with blue under-eye liner raises her eyebrows.

Sgt: I see. I’ll ask someone else then. How long were you out and roughly what time was it?

Me: 9 o’clock, I think. 10 minutes.

Sgt: What did you do there? Did you take your bag there?

Me: Yes, I did take it, and what do you think I did there? Vomited ,of course. Come to think of it, the champagne tasted weird.

Sgt: Hmmm. Sorry to hear that. I suggest you might have mixed some garden product in a little bottle and put it in the victim’s champagne? Were you at any time standing or sitting next to the victim?

Me: Yes, much of the evening. You see, I’m rather shy when it comes to large gatherings and since I only knew Jean, the victim and Sally over there…

Sgt: You don’t remember what he, the victim, ate?

Me: salmon from the silver platter and mixed veg, and now I remember there was delicious cream and ice-cream turnover.

Sgt: that he ate: and you?

ME: sir, when you’ve been sick, do you feel like eating?

Sgt: Was the deceased upstairs at the same time as you?

Me: No, Sir, I want to tell you something. I think the deceased was in a relationship with Jean.

              Gasps from around the room.

Sgt: Why, what makes you think that.

Me: She said in the car he’d written her some letters and she’d show them to me later.But she didn’t say love letters?

Her husband over there can perhaps tell you more?

Sgt: So you came down stairs, didn’t eat anything and what time did you go up to bed?

Me: 10 o’clock, sir. I’d had enough.

And when you went to your room, did you go back out again.

Me: No sir, there’s hand washbasins in the room you see.

Sgt: Where was the deceased when you went upstairs?

ME: They were beginning to dance. He was dancing with Jean.

Sgt: OK that’s enough. Thank you.

 

 

Chapter 3_ by Nicole Kenny

Sergeant James Breacher stood in his corner, doodling a picture of a sausage dog, vaguely listening to the statements of what had happened. He was aware his stomach was growling aggressively. Probably thinking about sausages.

He was convinced he could easily take up drinking after accepting this job, instead the wife now had him on spinach and kale smoothies. He was curious if he could have her arrested for messing with his diet and wellbeing.

When the Inspector told him to get his big boy boots on to join him on this case, he thought this was partly because it was his time to shine and also the Inspector was getting towards retirement and really didn’t want the paperwork this was going to throw up.

Jim coughed, perused the room and focused at an older lady, who apparently got dressed in the dark; quirky, eclectic, that’s what she’d be described as, he thought.

He’d asked her for name and instead received detail about her long-ago deceased parents, long rest their souls. They were meant to name her after a local pharmacist, but then there was a blue moon and a farm, so her parents settled on Evelyn Trianna Gertrude Butterworth. Evelyn gave her address and described how she knew the victim Mr Springer. This created a cascade of further verbal diarrhoea about, well, he wasn’t too sure.

“To tell you the truth,” she rambled on, “I didn’t know if we were being offered a fish or mutton as a course tonight so I bought a bottle of vimto and curried eggs and arrived by tandem bicycle at 4.36pm”.

Fumbling in her weathered handbag, made of felt and decorated with beaded flowers and what looked like a goat or a sheep, possibly a cow for all he could figure out, wool was tumbling out in a rainbow of colours.

He regained conscious thought and listened in.

“So after I located my cordless drill and found the tea cosy, the delivery man was simply gone,” she said exhaustively. The fellow guests were looking impatient.

Jim was pretty sure he’d missed a stage in her recollection but could confidently say it didn’t matter. She was possibly the most untrustworthy of witnesses.

One of the nearby constables was bringing in another tea tray and couldn’t hide their perplexed expression as the Inspector stood next to him rubbing his temple.

“Mrs Butterworth if we can stick to the events of the evening, was there anything suspicious or out of the ordinary in your opinion when you arrived?”

The woman with the eyeliner assumed to be one Sally Harvey-Shackleton the third (but by marriage only), sitting on the chaise lounge, interjected, “Sergeant,” she breathed heavily, touching his forearm, “Evelyn has issues with her memory sometimes, don’t you darling?”

Mrs Butterworth looked mortified.

“I bloody do not,” she ejected loudly, “I know all about you and Frank having liaisons behind Budgens two Fridays ago after his hip operation. Mavis saw you after she bought her beef shin at the butchers because she’s simply not happy with the quality at the supermarket these days”.

Sally sat down sheepishly and turned her body towards the wall, avoiding eye contact with all and sundry.

The Seargent coughed loudly to create a distraction.

“Mrs Butterworth can you remember where you last saw the deceased?”

Mrs Butterworth grabbed yet another ball of wall, a handful of knitting needles, a sweet wrapper and a lightbulb. Her bag was becoming like Mary Bloody Poppins.

“Now I have a friend whose grand-daughter was a plumber, thighs like trunks, must have been one of those Lebanese women…”

It was now the time for Jim to interject, “Ok Mrs Butterworth, I think we might be done for now”.

She nodded politely, proud of her help despite not really knowing what was going on.

The Inspector strolled back to take the lead in the middle of the room and headed over to a lanky gentleman with piecing blue eyes and a black slick-back toupee.

Suddenly Mrs Butterworth stood up, wool cascading to the floor.

“Oh I do remember something,” she said, adjusting her frames over her nose with one finger and fiddling with yet another ball of wall. “I did see Simon talking loudly to someone behind the library door after I got one of those god awful drinks Jean insisted on serving, then he wandered up the stairs nodding to me as he passed. I then found my missing needle, in fact I almost tripped over it, and Joan was coming down the stairs as I went up the stairs to spend a penny”.

The gasp was deafening. Jean looked cautious.

The Inspector sighed loudly then interrupted,“let’s start again, shall we?”

Chapter 4 by Rosemary Ostley

After a short break to attend to necessary functions, the Sergeant returned to the fray with what he hoped looked like renewed vigour.  Thinking no-one could be worse than his last interviewee, he pointed to an elderly but spruce gent who looked keen and alert. 

‘Take a seat, please.’

‘Oh, rath-er, this party is turning out to be much more fun than I thought it was going to be.’

‘Ah, shit,’ thought the Sergeant, ‘wrong again’.  ‘Your name, Sir?’

‘Jonas Pringle, but you can call me Jonny, dear.  Everyone does.’

‘Let’s stick with Mr Pringle, shall we?  And it’s Sergeant, not “dear”.

‘So sorry. What can I tell you, Sergeant?’

Making a note of ‘Jonny’’s address, which he saw was in the next village, the Sergeant continued, ‘Let’s start with why you’re here and what your relationship with the hostess is.’

‘Well, I’m here because I served in the RAF with our birthday girl’s father, who sadly, is no longer with us.  I’ve always taken an interest in the dear child’s life and she invites me to family do’s.’

‘And you’d be how old, Sir?’

‘I say, that’s a bit personal donchano.  I tell the ladies I’m in my 70s, but if it’s crucial you know the truth, I was born in 1943.’  Jean’s old man and I went into business together after we quit the service.  He was a chemical engineer and since I’d had a feel for the sciences at school, we made a good pairing – entrepreneurs before the word became fashionable.  Did you know the word is French, literally translated as ‘to undertake’.  So, we were a pair of undertakers, wot! 

‘Thank you.  Now, just tell me when you arrived for the party and what your movements were during the evening.’

‘Righty-ho.  Um, I arrived by taxi at around seven.  I like a chinwag with taxi drivers, but this one was a surly blighter – ignored me for most of the journey.  Can’t think why.’

‘Could we keep on point, Sir?’

‘So sorry.  The front door was open, so I slipped in and made for the downstairs lavatory first.  Then I went to join the happy throng.  I couldn’t see Jean anywhere, but by the time I’d located the drinks table and helped myself to a substantial measure of hooch, I noticed her arriving with Joan.  I’ve met that woman before and the Butterworth person’s reputation precedes her, so I mingled with the room rather smartly and got into conversation with the corpse.’

Slightly taken aback, James Breacher, regaining control of his eyebrows, asked, ‘And what did you talk about with, er, Mr Springer?’

‘Not a lot, as it happens.  He seemed a cold fish, a bit out of his depth in the situation.  He was polite enough, but after a few minutes he made his excuses and disappeared from view.  Then I went over to Jean and wished her a happy birthday and gave her a hug.  We chatted briefly and she told me to make sure to help myself to some supper.  I didn’t need telling twice so I wandered over to the buffet table and piled up a plate.  Bang up victuals, actually.  I polished off the salmon in short order then I tackled the pud.  Needed another drink after that lot.’

‘And then, Sir?’

‘Ah, well, another trip to the lavvy as it happens.  Bit of a second home to me these days, the lavvy, if you catch my drift, Sergeant.  But when I got there, it was occupied so I had to go to one upstairs.’

‘Did you see Mr Springer upstairs?’

‘No, I had an urgent task at hand.  I didn’t notice anyone else.’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary?’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to say.  Better her grandmama doesn’t know, but I just caught sight of Jean and Philip’s rather wayward teenage granddaughter Millie, sliding down the bannister.’

Thank you, sir, I think that’ll do for now.  I’ll let you get back to your ‘hooch’.

 

 

Part 5, by Joan Lightning - Philip John Carstairs

Kendrew beckoned to a man in a smart casual suit, who was sitting holding the birthday girl’s hands. A man about her age, with distinguished grey sideburns, and taut anxious eyes – her husband?

“Your full name, please. And age, address, and what time you arrived,” he asked once the man was sitting before him.

The voice was clipped and precise. “Philip John Carstairs. 62. Address is here in this house, and I originally arrived here exactly 18 years and 22 days ago.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. Yes. Jean Carstairs is your wife?”

“And I’m her husband, yes.” Was that a slight curl of the lip?

“How is she?”

“How do you think, having a bloody murder at her 60^th? Talking about selling the house and moving to Essex, where no one knows us! Such a shock when we found him this morning! Are you certain it’s murder? He took lots of peculiar alternative medicines. Could he have poisoned himself?”

That would certainly solve a lot of problems. Kendrew thought. “We’re still looking into it, sir. Would you tell me how you knew the deceased?”

“He’s Jean’s cousin. Came down with our son, Bob, and Bella, and their daughter Millie, the night before last, by car. All due to return tomorrow, so that Bob and Bella could drink at the party last night. Give it a full day before driving, you know. Most of the others stayed over for the same reason.”

Most? Who left? He made a mental note to chase up the names of anyone who had been at the party and left immediately it finished.

“He came without his family? He was married with children, wasn’t he?”

“Adult children, and yes, but er... he and Kathy had a falling out. She’s in France, ‘finding herself,’”—he sketched air quotes—“with a woman they met on holiday. You understand what I’m saying?”

Kendrew did.

“Ah. I see. You’re suggesting he might be depressed? Took it himself? At his cousin’s birthday party? In her home? Did he hate her?”

Carstairs grimaced. “No. They were very close,” he replied with evident reluctance. “I’m suggesting perhaps he was careless. Not thinking straight. Picked the wrong herb by mistake.”

“There wasn’t anything odd in the bedroom.”

“Look in the fridge. He has several cartons and packages in there. He went out in the garden yesterday picking Sweet Cicely leaves. ‘For his digestion,’ he said. Made a joke about not picking the wrong thing and ‘doing a Socrates’.”

Kendrew nodded at Breacher, who immediately hurried out to look in the fridge.

He returned his attention to Carstairs. “Does Hemlock grow here?”

“I don’t understand.”
“Hemlock. That’s what killed Socrates. It’s often mistaken for wild parsley or Sweet Cicely. Does it grow here?” Kendrew kept his face relaxed, but watched Carstairs shift in his seat.

“I really wouldn’t know.”

Kendrew remained silent, watching a bead of sweat form on the man’s brow. He knows all right.

 “Try asking the old witch – Evelyn,” Carstairs blurted. “I bet she’d know it. I wouldn’t put it past her to sprinkle a few additions into his pots.”

“You don’t like her?”

“She’s senile, always losing knitting needles and finding them at the worst possible moment. If she’d been the victim, it would make more sense.”

Interesting. He really hates her. I wonder why.

“You were late to the party, weren’t you?”

“Er, yes. Well, you know. These are mostly Jean’s friends and family. I gave her some space to just catch up. I came in about 8.30.”

“And where were you during the day?”

“All day?”

“We don’t know, yet, what the poison was. Hollywood makes much of people eating then clutching their throat and dying, but in reality, it can take hours or even days for symptoms to begin. So we need to know about everything from the time he arrived here. Did you all eat and drink the same things?”

“Er, yes, but Simon insisted on having his vile green potion with breakfast and lunch. No one else had any of that.”

Still pushing the idea it was self-inflicted. I bet anything we find hemlock in the fridge, but who put it there will be anyone’s guess. The real question is, is it in the body?

The door opened and Breacher brandished a handful of bags and a pot.

I hope he brushed them for fingerprints.



Part 6. By John Broadhouse

The door opened, and Sgt Breacher entered the room brandishing a handful of bags and a pot.

Inspector Kendrew. “Please remain in this room while I liaise with my Sergeant; we have not finished with your statements.” (He beckons to Breacher to follow him to the adjoining room)

The bags were emptied onto a table with the pot.

Inspector Kendrew. “I’m pleased to see you have used your gloves, can you get them bagged up and sent to forensics, I doubt they will find anything as everyone at the party ate and drank the same food without succumbing to any dire ill effect, so that means the poison was introduced to Simon Springer after he went to his room. Therefore, I want you to do a search in that room and the rooms of Jean, Evelyn and Joan, who visited upstairs while the party was in full swing. Second thoughts, search all the rooms. Anyone could possibly get access, as the doors are not locked.

“Also get the contents of the opened suitcase in Simon’s room bagged and checked for forensic evidence. Also, why is there one sock in the case? Maybe we should try and locate the missing one.

Sergeant Breacher. “Going by their statements, the University of Reading Horticultural Degree features prominently; at least 3 were there years ago on the same course, and there were some relationships going on with the deceased.”

Inspector Kendrew. “Good work, Sergeant, see what you can dig up. It sounds like this could be a crime of passion. Also arrange for them to be fingerprinted and get their car movements checked.

“I shall do the last remaining statements and call it a day, so do your searches while I have their attention.”

Inspector Kendrew enters the room to see the suspects pacing the room agitated.

Phillip John Carstairs. “I must protest at the length of time you’re taking with these statements; it’s been a long day, and we are all tired. You have no evidence to detain us, so can we continue another day?”

Inspector Kendrew. “Was it you who was overheard having heated words behind the library door with the deceased, when he was on his way upstairs?”

Phillip was taken aback with this question and was lost for words for a few moments.

Phillip John Carstairs. “It’s not what you think. It was all a misunderstanding. He was having a go at me. He had completely got the wrong end of the stick.”

Inspector Kendrew. “I must stop you there. We will resume this statement tomorrow at the station, 10 am sharp.”

The other suspects looked shocked, especially Mrs Carstairs, who was feeling very embarrassed. What was Phillip keeping from her? Kendrew turned his attention to the rest of the suspects.

“It's getting rather late to continue, so we can call it a day. Those who have not yet made their statement will be first to do so tomorrow. Remember this is being treated as a possible murder enquiry, so do not leave the vicinity until you are told that you can.”

Next day at the station, Breacher and Kendrew arrive early to sift through the data from the searches.

Sergeant Breacher. “This looks interesting. Millie (Jean & Phillip’s teenage granddaughter) has got a criminal record. I also found this yesterday while doing another search. It's the missing sock - found it in Evelyn Butterworth’s room.”

Inspector Kendrew. “Looks like we've got some leads to go on!”

Sergeant Breacher. “That was shrewd, guessing Phillip was the one arguing with the deceased. You took a chance on that one.”

Inspector Kendrew. “I did a quick process of elimination in my mind and came to the conclusion that he was the only one. It certainly paid off.”

 

Chapter 7 By Veronica Sims

The previous evening, the Inspector had returned home from work with the murder occupying most of his thoughts. He even forgot to watch the 3^rd day of the Test after supper. His wife did not remind him, as she had something on Netflix that she wanted to binge.

He found the mainly middle-aged group of suspects to be a strange crew.

The plan for the day was to interview all the guests individually at the police station. He knew the out-of-towners would make objections to not being allowed to return to their home turf and normal lives. Especially if one of them was the murderer! There was a lot to get done.

Arrangements had been made for the guests who didn’t live in town to have rooms at the local Travel Inn. The locals found relatives and friends to put them up. Even so, his boss had grumbled at the cost. Inspector Kendrew had urged the suspects not to discuss the events, though he had little faith that they would take any notice of his words.

The body was already with the pathologist, and the forensic team had gone in as soon as the guests had been removed. Kendrew realised that the guests charging around the property after the discovery of the body had probably destroyed any useful evidence.

He then went to his office with a cup of coffee: black, bitter, necessary. Was this all about an affair? Was there something more to the death, perhaps going back to the days at uni, at Reading, in the work some of them were engaged in? This was not his usual field of investigation, as he typically spent hours on his computer trying to determine who had been stealing from whom. He also wondered what sort of man the victim had been. Who had hated him? Who had loved him? How did he get to the truth?

He picked up his phone. He would get Sergeant Breacher in for a chat. He knew the Sergeant as an acute thinker who was interested in people. More interested in people than he was himself. Breacher probably already had a theory. They had worked together successfully before, each bringing their different skills into a useful partnership. Their solving of a local government money laundering case had got them both many brownie points.

The Sergeant arrived within 5 minutes, carrying two paper cups of coffee.

 “I thought we would need plenty of this today,” he said, placing a cup next to the now-empty one on the inspector’s desk.

“Absolutely,” agreed Kendrew, immediately starting on the new brew. “What are your thoughts?”

“Well, I suppose it could just be about jealousy, but I think there is more to it than that.”

“Yes, so do I,” the Inspector agreed. “Have any of them had any intellectual differences, I wonder? People can be pretty heated about that. Do any of them still work at Reading or another university? I suppose people do get upset these days about the environment.

“And with good reason, Sir,” said Breacher, in a slightly reproving tone.

“Hmm! Let’s not start on that subject,” said the Inspector, “We have a murder to solve”…


Chapter 8 by Andrew Stock

I am always sad when the old house stands empty. 30 years I have worked here as head Gardner, groundskeeper, chauffeur, handyman and anything else they need. Why, it was only last week the day before the party they had me elbow deep in the rose bushes clearing away the brambles that had broken through. Ive still got the scars to prove it.

           “Giles.” Her ladyship bellowed, “The roses are under siege. They must be protected at any cost.” I knew it would be a bad job because neither her or his lordship would do it. Both trained horticulturists they are and yet when it comes to brambles its good old Giles who’s called to the fore, down on my hands and knees with the pruners. You can’t use weedkiller, would do more harm to the roses than the brambles, not that I can find my weedkiller must have left it in the top shed. Wasn’t in its normal place in the tool shed but that’s what happens when you have too much to do, begin forgetting things. Like I say I don’t like it when the place is empty like it is today. All of them whisked off to the police station for questioning when his lord and ladyships best friend is barely cold. I only escaped being dragged in to the station cos I was away at my sisters house on the day it happened. She hasn’t been well, my sister. I was looking after her for a weekend. Anyway, I’m glad I didn’t have to go to the police station I’ve too much to do here. Now that I think of it the weedkiller cant be at the top shed I haven’t got round to mending the roof yet and it leaks, so I wouldn’t have left it there. Anyway, I wouldn’t be much good to the police I have a terrible job remembering things nowadays. Funny, that’s just made me think. The day of the party the ‘weekend before my 60th birthday party’ as the ladyship called it, I was half buried in the rose bush and I was sure someone was standing behind me. I crawled out as quick as I could in case it was her ladyship but when I looked around there was no-one there although there was a lovely scent, stronger than the roses, more like the perfumes they wear nowadays. Don’t see the need for them myself there’s no smell that cant be taken away with a good old fashioned flannel and a bar of soap. I did wonder if I had imagined it but the smell was very strong I would remember it anywhere.  No I just shut the toolshed door which had somehow blown itself open and got about my work. Roses don’t get rid of brambles themselves do they? Anyway I can’t stand here all day dreaming like a schoolboy. I’ve got jobs to be getting open with. Now, where’s my edging tool? There it is just where it should be hanging on its nail. Just a minute what’s this a bit of material caught on the nail looks like its got a bit of blood on it. Hope someone hasn’t hurt themselves too badly. Right I better get on, edging doesn’t do itself. All this daydreaming I’m running late. What a palaver. A dead man in the house and the house all empty. As I say, good job they didn’t take me to the police station I would have been no help at all.

 

chapter 9 Jean Carstairs  By Joy Wilkinson

Jean looked in the mirror and sighed at the sight of blood shot eyes and pale grey skin. It had been a dreadful night’s sleep at the ghastly Travel Inn, not at all what she had anticipated following her 60th birthday party. Her hair was a mess, resembling a straw nest built by a drunken magpie with bits of purple feathers and red beads snagged from the fascinator she had worn last night. She ran her fingers through it before dragging her hair back into a ponytail. She pulled a bright pink lipstick from her handbag and applied it. Lipstick always made everything better, she thought.

She glanced at her watch. Should she have some breakfast before heading to the police station? But at the thought of food, her stomach gurgled, and not in a good way. All those strange drinks at the party, almost like being a student again and trying all sorts of weird and wonderful concoctions. Evelyn and Joan could always be relied upon to liven up the drinks. And there had been way too much champagne. Or was there such a thing as too much champagne?

What a party though. Definitely something she could regale guests with at future dinner parties. Imagine: “...and then they found Simon’s body in one of the bedrooms!” Cue raucous laughter. Mmm, maybe she should take his death a bit more seriously.

But Simon had always been such a pain, all those summers she was expected to look after her much younger cousin, such a tattletale. She wasn’t surprised his wife finally left him. But for another woman though! She should have more sympathy but all those years of looking after the little brat during every holiday had sucked out any sympathy she had left. Every single thing she said or did when he was around he ended up telling his mother. Everything. She was glad to be rid of him, to be honest. He would never be able to tell anyone her secrets now.

Joan now. There was a good friend. One who could be relied upon to keep shtum, secrets were safe with her. Her best friend since meeting at Freshers Week, they had shared so many experiences together. They had even shared a few men which, rather than pull them apart in jealously, only seemed to bind them together even more.

Talking of men, she really should speak to Giles about the new garden design. She glanced at her watch again. There was still time before she needed to go to the police station and she needed a bit of fresh air. And it wasn’t very far to get back to the house. Now Giles, there was a real man, what a body, must be all that gardening. It was the perfect set up really: Philip for his brains and Giles for his body.

And now, with Simon gone, none of them had to worry about their secrets getting out. She smiled and put the lipstick back in her bag.

 

Chapter 10: Unravelling the Knots by Julie Small

Inspector Kendrew was not a man given to melodrama, but as he surveyed the suspects assembled in the station’s chilly interview room, he felt a pang of theatrical anticipation. If only he’d brought a monocle and a thunderstorm.

Inspector Kendrew stood at the front of the station interview room, the air thick with suspicion and the scent of stale coffee. The suspects were each more restless than the last and shifted in their seats, eyes darting between the Inspector and Sergeant Breacher, who was now clutching a plastic evidence bag containing the infamous sock.

“Let’s be clear,” Kendrew began, voice steely, “Simon Springer was poisoned. The evidence points to something introduced after he left the party. The question is: who had motive, means, and opportunity?”

Jean Carstairs, her lipstick a defiant slash of pink, glared at her husband Philip, who was pale and sweating. Evelyn Butterworth clutched her knitting, eyes wide, while Joan Briskett nervously twisted a napkin. Giles the gardener lingered at the doorway, hands still marked by bramble thorns, and Millie, the granddaughter, slouched in with a look of studied indifference.

Breacher cleared his throat, “We’ve got the sock - found in Evelyn’s room. The missing weedkiller. A blood-stained scrap from the shed. And Millie’s criminal record, which might explain the missing sock, but not the murder.”

Kendrew’s gaze swept the room, “Simon joked about ‘doing a Socrates’. But someone knew exactly what they were doing. The champagne tasted odd, and the perfume in the shed wasn’t roses.”

Jean stiffened, “Are you suggesting…?”

Kendrew interrupted, “I’m suggesting, that secrets have a way of surfacing. Simon Springer knew things. Things some of you wanted kept buried.”

Philip’s voice cracked, “He was family. Why would any of us…?”

Kendrew echoed, “Family… can be the sharpest blade.”

Evelyn piped up, “I never touched his drink! I only drink Vimto. And as for the sock, I thought it was mine. Socks are always turning up where you least expect them.”

Giles spoke quietly, “I saw someone in the shed. Thought it was Jean, but the perfume was wrong.”

Millie rolled her eyes, “Everyone’s blaming everyone. Maybe he just made a mistake.”

Breacher stepped forward, holding up the evidence, “Forensics are running tests now. The answer is close. Very close.”

Kendrew let the silence settle, the suspects shifting uneasily. He knew the truth was within reach, woven through the tangled relationships, the missing weedkiller, the secrets whispered in the garden and behind closed doors.

He looked each suspect in the eye. “Tomorrow, we’ll have the results. And when we do, the person responsible will have nowhere left to hide.”

As the suspects exchanged uneasy glances, Inspector Kendrew’s gaze lingered on Jean. Her earlier bravado had faded, replaced by a flicker of something else - was it fear, or relief? Giles’s mention of the unfamiliar perfume in the shed seemed to unsettle her more than anyone. Meanwhile, Philip’s hands trembled as he avoided his wife’s eyes, and Evelyn’s knitting needles clicked faster, betraying her nerves. But it was Joan, silent and watchful, whose eyes darted between Jean and the evidence bags, as if weighing secrets too heavy to share. In that charged silence, Kendrew sensed the truth was close - closer than anyone in the room dared admit.

The room was silent, the tension palpable. The final reckoning was coming and this time, no secret would stay buried.