“Seventy to eighty grand in an auction,” Arty said after a detailed examination and referring to his book. He put it carefully back down.
That was the end of the DIY day, and it had been an absolute pleasure: Arty’s company, the antiques, the quiet absorption in what we were doing. Despite everything, for that one day I felt calm and contented. I’d been able to put all my troubles to the back of my mind and concentrate only on Arty and the antiques.
When he’d gone, he’d be gone forever. It would be a long time before he was back in the country, and it seemed unlikely our paths would cross again.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I saw Lance and Philomena in the teashop,” Mrs. Billings said, as she arrived the next morning.
She looked at me, waiting for a response, and I tried to remember who Lance and Philomena were. Oh! Of course: Mr. and Mrs. Dixon senior, James’s parents, who lived in Spain.
“Said they’d moved back,” Mrs. B said. “They’ve sold up abroad and are living in their old house again. Kicked the tenants out; they weren’t village folk anyway. Said it were too hot for them abroad—Lance and Philomena, not the tenants.”
“It took them a long time to work that out,” I said. They’d been there nearly twenty years. I wondered if it had been their or James’s decision to sell.
Once Mrs. B had started her rounds, I sat through a terrible 1990s episode ofColumbo, while I waited for her to do what she had to do and leave. Then, I headed out. It was time for me to put my planfor Tarquin into action. I took with me a pair of gardening gloves and a Tupperware in a small rucksack and walked across the fields to the woodland my mum and I had walked through, day in, day out, all those years ago.
Time was, I could’ve walked round and taken what I needed in less than half an hour, just like shopping at the supermarket, but with the passing of the years since I last visited, it took me a while to find what I was looking for. But find it I did.
The flowers were over, but the small, dark berries were still there for a few more weeks: deadly nightshade. I put the gloves on and picked a few off. I put them in the Tupperware and headed home.
Next, I phoned Tarquin and asked him to come over to discuss my case.
“Can you get into the office?” he asked.
Not unless I’m going to poison the whole firm, I thought, and that might not be a bad thing, but it would be harder to engineer, and I’d certainly need to go back for more berries.
“No transport, car’s at the garage,” I said.
“Can’t you use one of James’s? He has about twenty.”
Was he mad? They were all classic cars. “James is out in the Audi. I’m not allowed to touch the old ones,” I said. “And he only has a few now.”
And Tarquin said fair enough, but could I wait until tomorrow? He’d call in midafternoon on his way back from another appointment.
“Great, I do have something I need to discuss with you,” he said, before I hung up.
Scene set, I drove to the Waitrose on the outskirts of Tippington and bought the ingredients for a cake.
***
James was out late that night and I spent the evening watching TV, or rather in front of the TV, thinking about what I was going to do the next day and how I didn’t have any actual evidence that Tarquin was corrupt.
Then I’d think about the consequences if I didn’t. “They might up it to murder,” Tarquin had said. Yes, if he got his way—James’s way—they might well do that. I hardened: Sometimes you have to do what you have to do. Then I softened. He had three children and he always seemed so affable. Then I made myself harden again.
When I went to bed, I slept the sleep of someone who is about to roll the dice and hope for the least bad of numerous bad outcomes.
When James had left the next morning, I took the cake ingredients out of the cupboard and baked. It was so long since I’d made anything like that, it took me ages to weigh and mix, but in the end, I was quite pleased with what I’d done. I iced with lilac icing to try to hide the slight tinge of purple the nightshade berries had given it.
Sure enough, Tarquin was round that afternoon, ready to add another billable hour, and I was ready with a kettle and two mugs, onePoirot(his), oneDeath in Paradise(mine).
I showed him in, said “Tea?” and began pouring before he could answer.
“Sugar?” I asked.
“No, thank you,” he said.
“Milk?”
