Page 15

Phyllis

The funeral dragged on for what felt like hours. Phyllis was desperate to slip out to try and find the man, who she was now sure must have been Michael, but she was trapped in the pew next to the silver-haired man and couldn’t escape without drawing attention to herself. So instead, she sat there, kicking herself for getting distracted and allowing her chief suspect to get away for a second time.

Finally, the service drew to a close and the congregation stood up to leave. Immediately, Phyllis pushed past the posh man and hurried out of the church. As she’d feared, Michael was nowhere to be seen; he’d probably be miles away by now. But still, the fact he’d come to the funeral was very interesting indeed. For one, it proved Phyllis’s theory that Michael running off with a lover was nonsense, as he and Cynthia had looked pretty cozy in the church. And it showed that the man was getting overconfident, willing to take risks; a classic mistake that had been many a fictional murderer’s undoing. Yet there were still many questions left unanswered, and it was these Phyllis pondered as she walked away from the church.

“Hello! Yoo-hoo, wait up!”

Phyllis glanced over her shoulder. The silver-haired man was hurrying after her, waving his order of service in the air like a flag.

“I was wondering if you’d like a lift to the wake? I’ve got my car parked round the corner.”

“No thanks, I’m not going.”

“Why not?” The man had reached her, panting a little. “I saw the caterers going in this morning, the afternoon tea looks like it’s going to be quite a spread.”

Phyllis opened her mouth to say she had to get home, but stopped. It would be highly risky to go in case Cynthia recognized her as the woman from the book club who’d been sniffing around about Michael. But equally, this wake gave her the perfect opportunity to investigate the house and look for clues. Phyllis paused, weighing it up. And then she remembered 4.50 from Paddington , where Miss Marple gets herself invited for afternoon tea at Rutherford Hall so she can pretend to choke on a fish paste sandwich in order to entrap the killer. Although Phyllis hoped she wouldn’t have to go that far, the invitation to visit the scene of the crime was too tempting to turn down. Besides, like Miss Marple, she was rather partial to a fish paste sandwich.

“Very well. Thanks for the offer.”

It was only a ten-minute drive from the church to Mountfort Close, during which Phyllis gently pumped the silver-haired man—whose name was Richard—for more information on Michael and his mother. It turned out that Eve had lived in the house for forty years, and Michael and Cynthia had moved in with her nine months ago, after they were forced to sell their own home in Bristol.

“Michael was very secretive, but from what Eve could work out, he’d made some bad investment decisions and got himself in a spot of financial bother,” Richard said, as they drove along the coast. Last week’s storms were long forgotten, and a low autumn sun hung over the glistening sea. “Eve and I were friends, and she confided in me that Michael had not only lost his home but all his and Cynthia’s savings too. And from the sounds of their argument last week, I imagine there were other debts Eve had only just found out about.”

“And so Michael wanted his mother to sell her house?”

“That’s right, he was putting a lot of pressure on Eve, but she refused. She loved that house: it was where she’d lived with her beloved husband up until his death, and she’d put a lot of time and effort into the garden. But it wasn’t just that. Between you and me, she told me that she was worried if she sold the house and gave Michael his inheritance early, he’d just squander it like he had his own money. Eve loved her son very much, and she wanted to protect him from himself.”

“And so he killed her to get his hands on the inheritance,” Phyllis said. Just like in Ordeal by Innocence .

“I keep thinking: if only I’d rung on the doorbell when I heard them arguing, maybe I could have saved her. I’ll live with that regret for the rest of my life.”

Phyllis glanced at Richard and saw him staring out of the front window, his face creased with sorrow. Then he shook his head and turned to look at her.

“Sorry, I’ve waffled on and rudely asked you nothing about yourself. How did you know Eve?”

“Oh, eh…” Phyllis wracked her brains for a cover story, then realized it only risked complicating things. Better to tell the truth; or a version of it, anyway. “I actually never met her. But I was in a book club with Michael, and I’ve met Cynthia before, so I felt I should come and pay my respects today.”

“How kind of you,” Richard said, smiling at her. “Now tell me about this book club. I’ve always been interested in joining one.”

“We meet at St. Tredock Community Center on the third Wednesday of the month.”

“And what sort of books do you read?”

“A mixture. Most of them are pretty poor, if I’m honest, but that always makes for a good discussion.”

Richard laughed, and Phyllis felt herself flush again. What was going on with her today? She was behaving like a silly school girl.

“And are you open to new members?” Richard asked. “I’ve only lived in the area for eighteen months and still not met many people, so perhaps a book club would be a good way for me to make new friends?”

“New members are welcome,” Phyllis said, staring out the passenger window so Richard wouldn’t see her pink cheeks. Thankfully, they were pulling into Mountfort Close, cars already parked up along the pavement. Phyllis was relieved to see a large crowd of people filing into number eight; with this many guests at the wake, she should be able to have a snoop without Cynthia spotting her.

“Here you go.” Richard held Phyllis’s door open for her and she didn’t move, momentarily flustered.

Once she was out of the car, Richard offered Phyllis his arm, but she pretended not to notice and walked straight to the door of number eight. Her whole body was vibrating with excitement as she stepped inside. Here she was, Miss Phyllis Hudson, about to sneak into the prime suspect’s house and find the vital clue to incriminate the killer. It was enough to make Agatha Christie proud.

“Let’s go to the living room, that’s probably where the food is,” Richard said, and Phyllis allowed herself to be steered left into a large, airy room.

There was a huge three-piece-suite in the middle, the biggest Phyllis had ever seen, and a conservatory off the back looking out over a sprawling mature garden. Phyllis thought of her own sparse living room and swallowed.

“That’s Cynthia’s sister over there,” Richard said, nodding at a small, birdlike woman twitching by the fireplace. “And the pair she’s talking to are Cynthia and Michael’s daughters, Caroline and Elinor. They rarely visited their grandmother, although they’ve both been playing the part of the grieving granddaughters very convincingly this week.”

Was the whole family involved in the plot to kill Eve and get their hands on the inheritance? It would explain why Cynthia’s sister was looking so jumpy, and why the two daughters were trying to impress everyone. Phyllis studied the three of them, but their faces gave nothing away. She scanned the rest of the guests, but didn’t recognize any of their faces, apart from…Phyllis quickly turned away when she saw Beryl from the community center chatting to an elderly couple. The last thing she needed was that woman seeing her here; Beryl was a notorious gossip.

“They must have set up the buffet in the dining room,” Richard said. “How about you stay here and I go and get us both a plate?”

“Thank you.”

He gave a small bow and then disappeared in search of sustenance. As soon as he was gone, Phyllis turned and headed back toward the front hall, keeping her face tilted away from Beryl. If there were any clues to be found, they wouldn’t be on show down here in the living room. There was a staircase leading up from the hall and Phyllis began to climb it. With every step, she expected to hear someone shouting for her to stop, but no one said a word and she got to the top unnoticed.

There were five doors leading off the upstairs landing, and Phyllis scanned her eyes across them before heading to the one on the far right, at the front of the house. It was a bedroom, and from the raised guards on either side of the bed, Phyllis guessed that it must have been Eve Watkins’s. Was this where Michael and his mother had argued before he killed her? If so, the crime scene had long ago been cleaned up: the bed had been stripped of all linen and the strong smell of bleach suggested the whole room had been disinfected, removing any evidence of foul play. To the right of the door were several boxes of books and some black bin bags, and Phyllis pulled one of the bags open to see it was full of women’s clothes. Eve’s family were clearly wasting no time in casting her belongings off. Phyllis abandoned the bags and moved on to the next door.

This room appeared to be some sort of an office: there was a bookcase along one wall and a desk under the window. Phyllis crept into the room, pulling the door shut behind her as she tiptoed across to the desk. It was tidy, with only a computer, a pen pot—from the golfing images on the front, Phyllis assumed it belonged to Michael—and a paper diary. She opened it and began to flick through the pages to the most recent dates, but there was nothing about murdering a mother or running away to Bodmin in there. She put the diary aside and turned her attention to the desk drawer. Phyllis expected it to be locked, but when she pulled on the handle it opened to reveal a pile of papers. She took them out of the drawer and hastily flicked through. They seemed to be mostly household documents: electricity bills, insurance policies and some old receipts. But halfway through the pile, Phyllis stopped and drew breath. In front of her was a credit card statement addressed to Mr. M. Watkins. And there, in red, was a number the size of which Phyllis had never seen.

￡165,449.

Was that how much Michael owed? Richard had mentioned the man was in financial trouble, but this debt was bigger than anything Phyllis had ever imagined. No wonder he’d looked so stressed the whole time; just the thought of it made Phyllis feel sick. Was this what Eve had discovered and she and Michael were arguing about before he killed her? If so, the police had missed a key piece of evidence.

Phyllis stuffed it into her bag and began to move around the rest of the room. She was sure there must be another clue in here, but what was it? Not a stopped clock, like in The Murder at the Vicarage , or a frayed lamp cord, as in A Murder Is Announced ? Phyllis mentally kicked herself; if Miss Marple were here, she’d know what to look for.

And then she spotted it.

Under the desk, a small wastepaper basket which, by the looks of things, hadn’t been emptied for a while. Phyllis hurried back to the desk and picked up the bin. It contained the usual random assortment of rubbish: a few empty crisp packets—Michael had clearly been a fan of Monster Munch—several discarded tissues, and some ripped-up bits of paper. It was these Phyllis was most interested in, and she scooped out the contents of the bin and stuffed them into her handbag. She would go through these later, when she was in the safety of her own home.

A clock chimed, causing Phyllis to jump. She really needed to get back downstairs before Richard returned from the buffet and started wondering where she was. At the thought of him, Phyllis’s stomach gave a small dip. It was ridiculous, a woman of her age fawning like a silly teenager. But still, it had been more than sixty years since a man had smiled at her in the way Richard had.

“And just look how that ended,” Phyllis muttered to herself, shaking all thoughts of romance out of her head. With one last glance around the office, she opened the door and stepped back into the hall. She began to make her way toward the stairs and then stopped. To her left was another door, slightly ajar, and through it she could see a double bed, fully made. Was this Cynthia and Michael’s room? If so, it might well contain clues. Glancing around her to check the coast was still clear, she slipped inside.

It was indeed the principal bedroom. There was a large double bed, fitted wardrobes along one wall and a dressing table overflowing with pots and bottles. In the far corner was a door, which Phyllis assumed led into an en suite bathroom; she’d read about those in books but never seen one in real life. For a second, she considered having a look but resisted. To the right of the bed was a chest of drawers and she crossed to that and opened the top drawer. It was filled with men’s underpants, and she quickly closed it. The next one contained socks; and the one below, T-shirts and sweaters. Wherever Michael had gone, he hadn’t taken much with him.

On top of the dresser were two framed photos. The first was of Michael and Cynthia on their wedding day: she was wearing a puffy wedding dress, and he was in top hat and tails, both with the look of rabbits caught in the headlights. The second photo was black and white and clearly much older. Phyllis picked up the frame to take a closer look. It showed a woman and a small boy standing in front of a stone cottage, the sea stretching out behind them. The cottage looked vaguely familiar, like the ones that used to stand on the coastal path to St Piran’s, until the erosion got so bad they had to be pulled down. Phyllis immediately recognized the woman as Eve Watkins, as she had the same eyebrows and jawline as the photo in the order of service. The child looked about five or six, with dimpled cheeks and pudgy legs sticking out from his shorts. This must be Michael outside his childhood home. Both he and his mother were looking at the camera, grinning at whoever had taken the photo as the wind whipped their hair. There was something about their happy, carefree faces that made Phyllis’s chest ache, and she was about to put the photo down when she heard a creak from outside the bedroom door.

Someone was coming up the stairs!

Phyllis’s heart started to pound, and she looked around for somewhere to hide. There was the en suite, but what if this person wanted to use the toilet? The footsteps were getting louder, and Phyllis opened the nearest wardrobe door and climbed inside, pulling it shut behind her. A second later, she heard the bedroom door click open.

Phyllis held her breath so as not to make a sound. She could hear footsteps moving round the room and the opening and closing of drawers. It must be Cynthia, looking for something. After a minute or so, Phyllis heard the footsteps moving back toward the door. She allowed herself to breathe again; this must mean Cynthia was going downstairs. And then there was another creak and a male voice.

“Ah, here you are, love. I was wondering where you’d snuck off to.”

From her position in the wardrobe, Phyllis let out a silent gasp. Michael was here!

“What are you doing up here?” Cynthia said. “Did anyone see you?”

“Of course not, I crept up. Besides, everyone’s too busy fighting over the buffet.”

“It’s still too risky. Imagine if word got out? Everyone’s gossiping enough as it is.”

Phyllis inched forward and pressed her eye up against the crack in the wardrobe doors. There were only a few millimeters of space, but it was enough to see Cynthia standing by the bed next to the man. His back was to the wardrobe door, but it was definitely the same person as in the church. So, Michael really had dared to return to the scene of the crime, and on such a public occasion! Phyllis felt a flicker of admiration, before she remembered that he’d murdered his mother and stolen ten thousand pounds from the community center.

“Relax, they’re just a bunch of bored pensioners,” Michael said. “What are you doing up here, anyway?”

“Hiding from my sister. She’s been trying to get me on my own all day and I know exactly what she wants to talk about.”

“You think she’s panicking?”

“Of course she is. That Goody Two-shoes is terrified someone will work out I wasn’t really at hers on Wednesday night.”

“You don’t think she’ll tell the police, do you?”

“No, she’s not that stupid.”

Aha, so Cynthia hadn’t been at her sister’s the night of the murder! Phyllis had known the woman was lying about her alibi. For a second, she was tempted to burst out of the wardrobe and tell the pair she’d caught them red-handed, but Miss Marple would never have done something so brash.

“I just want this all to be over so we can get out of here,” Cynthia said, her voice weary.

“Not long now, love. Once the house has been cleared, you’ll never have to come back here again. I was thinking, maybe we should go somewhere hot? We both deserve a bit of sunshine after all of this.”

Phyllis felt a stab of panic. Michael and Cynthia were fleeing the country! Perhaps they were going to hide out in the Caribbean? Miss Marple had gone to St Honoré in A Caribbean Mystery , and it sounded wonderful, serial killer aside.

Phyllis heard feet moving across the carpeted floor, and the pair stepped out of her line of vision.

“I know this past week has been hideous, but it might all work out for the best in the end.” Michael had dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “With Mike out of the way, we can finally be together.”

Wait, what? Had she just misheard that? Phyllis leaned forward and very gently pushed the door ajar to get a better view.

Few things shocked Phyllis Hudson. But the sight of Cynthia Watkins being kissed passionately in the arms of a man—a man who was most definitely not her husband, Michael Watkins—took her breath away. She recoiled, and as she did her head knocked against a coat hanger, causing it to clatter against the rear of the wardrobe.

“Did you hear that?”

Phyllis pushed herself into the coats and dresses, trying to disappear, but it was no use. A second later, the door was yanked open and there stood Cynthia and the man who wasn’t Michael, both glaring at her.

“Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my wardrobe?” Cynthia demanded, as the man grabbed Phyllis’s arm, pulling her out. She stumbled but his grip was strong, and she didn’t fall.

“Were you just spying on us?” His face was red.

“I wasn’t, I swear.” Phyllis didn’t have to put on her fake “little old lady” voice now; it was quivering for real.

“Oh my God, it’s you ,” Cynthia said. “You’re the woman who was here last week, aren’t you? The one with the humping dog. She said she was in a book club with Michael.”

“Michael was in a book club?” The man still had hold of Phyllis’s arm, but he turned to look at Cynthia, his face twisted in disbelief. “He didn’t strike me as the reading sort.”

“He isn’t, she was lying.”

“I wasn’t,” Phyllis croaked.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I was…” Phyllis wracked her brain. What would Miss Marple do? But her mind was blank, because Miss Marple would never have been stupid enough to be caught hiding in a wardrobe.

“Right, that’s it, I’m calling the police,” the man said.

“No!” Phyllis cried, at the same moment Cynthia said, “Don’t bother.”

“But she’s clearly up to something,” the man said.

“Yes, but the last thing we need is the police turning up in front of those vultures downstairs, giving them something else to gossip about,” Cynthia said. “Just get her out of the house without a fuss. I’ll deal with this myself later.”

Cynthia’s lover looked like he was about to say something else, then he nodded and pulled Phyllis toward the door. His grip was painful on her arm, but she was determined not to cry out as he led her down the stairs. There was a crowd of people milling around in the hallway, and their eyes turned to look at Phyllis as she descended.

“Nothing to see here folks!” Cynthia’s lover said in an overly cheery voice. “Just an old lady who needs some air.”

“Phyllis?”

She looked round to see Richard standing in the living room doorway, holding two plates piled high with food. His expression turned to confusion when he saw her being marched toward the front door. But before she could say anything, Phyllis was pushed outside and the door slammed behind her.