The Diane Dimbleby Murder Collection Volume 2 Page 2

  There were a series of “Ah, but” sputters at the end of the line; these were Susan’s attempts to bypass Diane’s argument. He’d paid off the police, paid off the bank clerks, laundered his money through drug gangs, and numerous other steadily more outrageous comebacks. Diane listened for a while, pulling her teabag from the cup before she agreed with Susan that it was definitely plausible now, with all those things taken into account.

  Susan seemed happy and rang off to call the network of women that helped the ”truth” get out; “doing a public service” was how they saw it.

  Diane took her tea and headed to the living room and the chair next to her bookcase. She wanted to ignore what Susan had talked about, but her mind kept asking the question: “How did he get all that money?”

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  Albert was punctual as ever, knocking on Diane’s door at 9:30 am. She knew him well enough by now to be grabbing her coat at 9:29. She opened the door to dazzling sunlight, the clouds of the previous day having skirted the area as if in recognition of the importance of the day.

  The streets outside were lined with cars; illegal parking was being ignored for the day as the village enjoyed the influx of people from all around. The centennial had been planned for almost a year, and Apple Mews was going to take full advantage of it. Great groups moved to and fro across the main street, and Albert reached for Diane’s hand as they worked through the crowds. This area of the main street had been coned off to stop accidents, and a detour led through the backstreets for people looking to park.

  The front door to The Waddling Goose pub was oozing people, an overflow from inside spilling out onto the benches and tables outside. Plates of breakfast foods were being delivered by sweating kitchen staff that had trouble getting back inside, before finally giving up and going around to the back door.

  Albert and Diane arrived at the edge of the village green and heard a loud tapping followed by a “One Two, One Two” from the Mayor of the village, Timothy Carson. A squeal of feedback brought gasps from several in the crowd, and Bill Travers could be heard shouting something about tweaking the top end, which brought laughter and some saucy remarks from the crowd.

  As they passed the marquee where the contestants were lovingly laying out their baked beauties, Diane saw Tim Carson standing on a platform that hadn’t been there the previous morning. A series of wooden planks had been used to construct a makeshift stage next to the restaurant tent, and Tim was wandering about aimlessly while Suzie Carson arranged the coloured rosettes that would be awarded to the top three contestants in each category.

  “That rosette is the size of a dinner plate,” exclaimed Albert.

  “For the prize of prizes, the lemon sponge victor,” responded Diane.

  “That will have to be some cake. I get a pretty good one from Tesco, myself.”

  Diane patted his hand gently.

  “People around here take their baking very seriously.”

  They both wandered over towards the contest tent and the scent of lemon wafted over them along with a faint whiff of adrenaline. Diane stopped just outside the tent, not wanting to crowd the contestants in their preparations. But what she saw opened a floodgate in her saliva glands. Iced cakes of all sizes were placed upon decorated plinths. Scones were piled high on silver dishes; at least a dozen were required to enter the contest. And there were platters of crumpets making the wooden display tables creak. It seemed that everyone that had once looked in a cookbook had decided to try their hand.

  Diane pointed out Mrs. Newman’s table and the lightly iced sponge cake topped with a decorative sugar flower. She then directed Albert to look at Mrs. Gilbert’s display, a heavenly glow seeming to come from her layered sponge with edible gold decoration. The front of her table displayed the four enormous rosettes that she had won over the last five years. Albert remarked that the cake was either very good, or she was “greasing the wheels.”

  “Mrs. Kendall over there,” Diane pointed to a table sagging under crumpets and scones that was being fussed over by a woman in a lilac dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat, “makes the best scones in the county. I’ll be buying a half-dozen as soon as the contest is over.”

  After giving their senses a tasty start, they made their way to the restaurant tent that also contained the judging table. Columns of polystyrene cups stood upon a table next to three tea and two coffee urns. Plastic bottles of water sat in ice behind the table, readily available to the three caterers that were handing out cups and collecting money as fast as they could.

  Albert left Diane at a table near the tent opening and bought them a couple of cups of tea, returning with chocolate-coated biscuits too. They sat and watched the crowds, commenting on the tea and the weather and the hustle and bustle, waiting for the official opening of the fête by the Mayor.

  Chapter 2

  As the chime of the church bells wafted through the trees surrounding the village green, three dignitaries climbed the loosely nailed steps onto the platform. The tune cut short to signify the half hour, and the throngs became hushed and turned towards the stage to await the Mayor’s words.

  Timothy Carson was a rotund character with hair the thickness and colour of an aged, overworked broom. Usually in a smart suit, he had foregone his usual jacket and comic tie for a thin white shirt that was open at the neck and that had the sleeves rolled up over thick forearms. He looked more in line with his old career of a foreman at a construction site than the respected mayor of a small town. Stepping up to the microphone, he scanned the crowd briefly and gave an uncharacteristic small cough.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” intoned the Mayor with all the solemnity his jovial character could muster. “Welcome to the Apple Mews Centennial Fête.”

  The crowd cheered as one, the beauty of the sun-drenched day and the bubbling excitement rousing the normally reticent and sedate public to the almost bawdy level of a TV show audience. Timothy soaked it all up. He was in his element with everyone looking at him with smiles and happy hearts. He waved his hands in the air to calm the last vocal remnants of the crowd that were whistling and whooping.

  “This is a very special day for Apple Mews, and we are so happy to see such a large turnout to help us celebrate. One hundred years ago, Sir Malcolm Trunbridge started this fête as a thank you to all of the people that worked and lived on his estate. Since then it has grown to be the wonder you see today, in no small part to our local benefactor and newest inhabitant of Critchley House, Douglas Macdonald.”

  Douglas took a small step forward and waved a hand to the crowd who returned the gesture with a rousing applause.

  “Now, today we have some special events. The big one, as you’re all aware, is the bake-off. There’s the largest number of competitors that we’ve ever had, all vying to knock reigning and repeat champion, Mrs. Vera Gilbert, from the lemon sponge cake throne and claim their five-hundred-pounds prize.”

  A wave of woo's ran through the audience at the mention of the prize money and heads turned to look for the absent Mrs. Gilbert, who was still worrying over her display and decorations in the contest tent.

  “Next up is the scone contest which will be a hot one, no pun intended,” Timothy grinned, proud of his joke even as no-one joined him. “And finally, crumpets, crumpets and more crumpets.”

  A lone figure wolf-whistled and yelled, “Come on, Jinny!”

  “Looks like someone has a favourite already,” Tim said, throwing an exaggerated wink at the crowd to a smattering of laughter.

  “I’m sure we wish all of the contestants the best of luck, and I’ll be enjoying your cakes very soon. Vendors will be selling extras afterward, and the proceeds will go to the Battling Childhood Obesity Fund.”

  Puffing up his chest and straining a few shirt buttons, Timothy went for the moment he relished every year, and that everyone was waiting for.

  “So, without further ado, I hereby officially open the Apple Mews Centennial Fête. Let the festivities begin!” He thrust hi
s hands into the air, and the carnival rides started pumping out their pipe music as gears started to grind the assorted apparatus up to operational speed. He bellowed, “Have a wonderful day, everyone,” as a parting shot, but the cacophony of rides and evaporating audience meant it was lost to all but Timothy.

  Like water running through a sieve, people flowed out of the central area where there were no amusements and headed along the paths to the fairground rides and stalls with selections of prize games and into the restaurant and beer tents. The flaps of the baking competition tent had been lowered, and several fans were employed blowing air into the back of it to keep the arrayed delicacies from melting and warping. This made the tent billow heartily with loose flaps snapping down as air pressures battled.

  The Mayor, the vicar, and Douglas Macdonald conferred briefly, and Suzie Carson flitted back and forth between the award table and the huddled men with sheaves of paper and bottles of water. She stopped to give an explanation of the scoring categories and the rating methods.

  “There are 10 points each for Flavour, Texture, Presentation, and Originality. Every cake, scone, and crumpet will need those points. I’ve laid them out with the contestant’s names,” she said, pointing to the left column, “and the categories in these tables. We will tally the scores when you have had a chance to try all of the entries.”

  “I’ll need all that sugar to drag this stack of paper around with me,” remarked Douglas, wafting the ream of paper in the air and enjoying the breeze on his warm skin.

  “There’s a lot of judging to do this year so try not to eat too much of each cake. I know it’s tempting,” she said as her eyes locked onto the vicar, “to eat every piece of all of them, but we don’t want to be full by the later ones and not give them a proper try.”

  The vicar had been thumbing through the papers and looked up briefly to see Suzie’s eyes piercing into him. He smiled sheepishly because she knew how much he enjoyed this job. These weren’t the rushed jobs that littered the tables at a Bring and Buy Sale; the culinary mistakes rushed out for a church fundraiser. James Timmers enjoyed a good cake, and he planned to enjoy every single one today.

  “Right then. Off you trot, judges. Don’t forget to cleanse your palate with the water.” Suzie waved them down the steps and towards the tent.

  At the entrance flap to the tent, Constable Jackson waited to usher the gentlemen to their places. The need for a police presence had been dictated following the “Knock-Gate” affair of five years earlier when there was some question about sabotage: One contestant, bending to pick up a box, had tapped a neighbour’s table with their backside and sent their prize sponge cake tumbling to the ground, and the tapper had been hounded into the halls of infamy.

  Lifting the straining flap, a rush of air caught the papers in the vicar's hand and tried tearing them off, but Suzie Carson had been her thorough self and looped string through several of the punched holes beforehand. This left the vicar wrestling the wayward leaves in an attempt to regain order.

  Striding into the tent, the judges headed for their table, and the collective heartbeats of the people standing near their treasures doubled in unison.

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  Albert led Diane through the tides of people sloshing between stalls. He knew where she would want to go. At every carnival they had visited in their few years together, Diane had made a direct line for the Coconut Shy. Throwing small wooden balls at hairy coconuts wedged into cups on sticks seemed redundant in these days when a trip to a supermarket could procure a bag full of coconuts without any game of skill involved. But to Diane, it was much more than acquiring coconuts. She would laugh at a wayward throw, then hurl another along the same line with more force, and the laugh would reach deep into her and, by the end of five balls, she would have enough cheer to keep her smiling for the day.

  She knew exactly where he was going. He wasn’t much for trying his arm and looking the fool. “I’m too old to look like an idiot in front of kids,” he would say to her.

  “That’s exactly why we can look like idiots,” she would respond. “If you can’t make yourself look ridiculous at our age, then there’s never going to be a good time.”

  He would shake his head at her and lighten up his old fuddy-duddy attitude just enough that she would start giggling at his attempts to relax. He was the same way with dancing. Trying to loosen up just made him more awkward and stiffer so that her toes were in even more danger than usual.

  They pushed through to the Coconut Shy, and Diane spent five pounds on progressively worse attempts. Even Albert couldn’t hold in the chuckles as the balls flew progressively wilder. By sheer luck, one wayward ball glanced off another person’s coconut, and it rolled sedately off its perch like a stunned owl. Diane cheered and handed her coconut to the small girl whose line she had crossed with a smiling apology.

  They walked on to a loop toss, and Albert won a small fluffy orange toy that he gave to Diane in a solemn ceremony, as if handing over a precious gem. Then it was onward to watch others as they tested their strength and swooped around on the ends of the arms of a mechanical octopus. Squeals and laughter filled their ears as people immersed themselves in simple pleasures and pitted their wits against the ingenious carnival folk at their games.

  “I’m parched,” said Albert after watching groups of children whirling around on the waltzers. “How about some lunch and a cuppa?”

  “Albert, you read my mind. And the church clock just struck 11:30, so we’ll beat the rush.”

  Looking around, Albert got his bearings and plotted a course, his eyes being a level just over the heads of most people at the fête.

  “Hold on, Diane. We’re going to be passing through the perimeter of the Shooting Range. It’s like the Wild West in there.”

  Without another word, Diane felt herself pulled along through the crush. Albert was a fine man; she had known that for a good while now. And for all his stiff upper lip, he could drop a comical statement with a straight face, and it didn’t even seem like he realized. She felt it gave him this hidden childishness, like a child locked out of the house who can only talk through the letterbox.

  They reached the alley between tents that led back to the stage as a procession passed in front. The three judges walked away from the contest tent and were being pursued by a gaggle of women buffeting each other and in a heated discussion, some in raised voices. The lead judge, the Mayor, held in his hand a sealed envelope that was being given so much respect that a velvet pillow would not have been out of place to bear it hence. He was trying for a dignified expression, but seemed to be amused by the conversations coming from the procession.

  Diane and Albert ducked into the restaurant tent and found their old table still free. Albert went for more tea, and Diane watched the bustle press forward to the stage front, the tension trying to pull her in. She saw Jilly Newman and her mother form a union against the press of Mrs. Kendall, who was trying to get closer to the front. Her smaller height would normally have meant people would let her slip through, but these were not normal times, and there was an each-to-their-own attitude in the crowd.

  The Mayor handed off the envelope to his wife and, flanked by his honour guard of the vicar and Mr. Macdonald, he went to the microphone. As his hand gripped the stem, it was as if a hypnotist had triggered the audience for silence. The fairground noises continued, but the heads of everyone in the crowd was transfixed by that hand.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. What a baking contest that was. I have judged this for the last few years, and I haven’t seen anything like this quality and quantity,” he said as he reached down to pat his slightly rounder belly. “This was a tough one, I can tell you.”

  Restlessness rustled through the aprons of the onlookers, a mental willing for the mayor to get on with it.

  Diane noticed the vicar was fidgeting a little too, his hand straying to his pocket while Timothy spoke. It seemed as though he would realize what he was unconsciously doing and pull his
hand away, his eyes flicking around to see who had spotted.

  “I know, I need to get to the important stuff,” said the Mayor, as if picking up on the vibe of his audience. “But let me just say that there are no losers here today. There may be those that are slightly richer, but that display of the baking skill has you all getting my applause. Great work to you all.”

  His platitudes fell upon deaf ears. To the contestants, there was only the winner and then everyone else, the losers. Suzie stepped forward and handed the bright white envelope to her husband, then retreated to the award table.

  Albert’s return made Diane realize how she had become mesmerized by the proceedings. He slid her tea over and asked, “What did I miss?”

  Diane waved a quieting hand in his direction, and Albert turned to feign interest in the results.

  “The winner of five hundred pounds and the right to call their lemon sponge cake the best in Shropshire is…”

  Not a breath was inhaled as he slid his finger along the envelope, ripping through the paper with a slowness that filled the air with electricity. Every tear seemed to take double the time of the last. This felt like the opening of the world’s largest envelope.

  Then finally his finger was free, and he reached in to pinch a single sheet of paper, edges trimmed with gold.

  Diane thought someone was about to scream as Timothy glanced over the paper and cleared his throat.

  “Mrs. Vera Gilbert.”

  Whether from holding their breath or from actual shock, an audible sigh whooshed from the contestants. Nobody moved, no clapping, jeering or cheering. Just that single sigh.

  A flowered hat bobbed into view followed by a face that held one of the smuggest looks imaginable by man. There was a reluctance in the crowd to let her through, as if delaying her might change the result for the better.