The Poisoned Chalice Murder

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Diane Janes

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Recent Titles by Diane Janes

  Fiction

  THE PULL OF THE MOON

  WHY DON’T YOU COME FOR ME?

  SWIMMING IN THE SHADOWS *

  STICK OR TWIST *

  THE MAGIC CHAIR MURDER *

  Non-fiction

  EDWARDIAN MURDER: IGHTHAM & THE MORPETH TRAIN ROBBERY

  POISONOUS LIES: THE CROYDON ARSENIC MYSTERY

  THE CASE OF THE POISONED PARTRIDGE

  DEATH AT WOLF’S NICK

  * available from Severn House

  THE POISONED CHALICE MURDER

  Diane Janes

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2018 by Diane Janes.

  The right of Diane Janes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8819-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-942-9 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-994-7 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  ‘So,’ said Mo. ‘What it comes down to is that Tom’s aunt suspects there’s a killer in the congregation.’

  ‘It sounds a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it?’ Fran laughed and reached up to adjust her hat, which still felt unsettled by the wind that had almost blown them into the tea shop a good ten minutes earlier.

  When the two friends had planned their excursion into Ulverston several days previously, they had not anticipated that the weather would turn so spectacularly against them.

  ‘Ah, the joys of the English weather,’ Mo remarked, as they were momentarily distracted by the sight of a runaway newspaper being gusted past the rain-soaked windows. ‘And when are you going to meet this eccentric aunt of Tom’s?’ she asked, returning to the matter in hand.

  ‘Well, we’ve been meaning to fix something up for ages. You know that Tom first mentioned it before we went down to Wimbledon, but somehow things keep getting in the way. Anyway, we’re going to motor down there this weekend.’

  ‘Staying overnight?’

  ‘Tom’s aunt is putting us up. It’s all very respectable.’

  ‘My dear old thing, I never suggested for a moment that it wasn’t.’

  There was a slight pause before Fran said, ‘I see Helen Wills has won the American National Championships, as well as Wimbledon. Poor old Phoebe Watson only picked up half-a-dozen games.’

  ‘We hardly ever do well in the American Nationals,’ said Mo. ‘Our men did even worse – just Bunny Austin in the quarter-finals.’

  Talk of the tennis smoothed over a potentially awkward patch, and from there they moved on to the latest world speed records. ‘I don’t see the point of it all myself,’ Mo said. ‘Though I would quite like to go up in an aeroplane, just to see what it’s like to fly.’

  When they had finished their tea and scones, they decided to complete their errands separately and meet back at Mo’s car. Fran made her call at the post office, then headed back into the storm. It was hopeless trying to keep an umbrella the right side out. She was battling down the street towards the place where Mo had parked her car, head down and one hand restraining her hat, when a sharp voice brought her to a halt.

  ‘Mrs Black? It’s Mrs Black, isn’t it?’

  Fran raised her head and decided that she half recognized the woman who was glaring at her through the rain. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is. I’m sorry …’

  ‘You don’t recognize me, do you? I’m Winnie’s sister.’ The woman allowed the words to hang in the air between them for a moment, before adding, ‘I just wanted to tell you that I think you’re a wicked, selfish woman, Mrs Black. Wicked and selfish, that’s what you are,’ she repeated, before Fran had a chance to gather herself and attempt a reply. ‘Forcing our Winnie to bring a child into the world without the dignity of bearing its father’s name, when you could easily give Michael a divorce. Wicked, that’s what it is.’

  ‘But … no, wait …’ It was too late. The woman had already marched off in the opposite direction. As Fran stood staring after her down the rain-swept street, she realized that she was shaking. She made it the few remaining yards back to Mo’s car, and once inside was able to extract a handkerchief from her bag and dab at her face with it, reassuring herself that any passers-by would assume she was wiping away the raindrops. She had never been verbally attacked in the street before – out of the blue and by a virtual stranger, too. It had been horribly embarrassing, even though there had been no one else there to see it. She had never been accused of wickedness either – at least not since her mother had caught her telling fibs about the fate of some leftover birthday cake, purloined from the pantry while Cook was not around. And that had been a good twenty years ago.

  It was so unfair, she thought. She had not been wicked. She was not the guilty party, Michael was. Michael and the wretched Winnie (‘the ninny’, a voice in her head could not help adding). It was they, not she, who had broken marriage vows and slunk off to live in another district, affecting to
be Mr and Mrs Black when they were not, leaving her, the real Mrs Michael Black, to face the social stigma of separation. It was all very well demanding that Fran should cooperate in a divorce, but divorce was such a scandal and the disgrace hung almost equally on the wronged petitioner. Why should she put herself through the mill just to make life easier for people who had behaved so badly?

  Of course, she had not known that there was going to be a child. Illegitimacy was a scandal too, and the child itself was innocent of any wrongdoing. She thought of Tom, who had married his dead brother’s sweetheart in order to give the child she was carrying their family name. It had been an unsurpassed act of selfless generosity, and it had averted a family scandal too, whereas divorcing Michael would set tongues wagging in completely the opposite way.

  ‘Fouf! Goodness but this is dreadful weather!’ Mo hurled herself into the driver’s seat, tossing her bag into the rear of the car in the process.

  ‘Where’s your china?’

  ‘It hasn’t come in. Some sheep-headed clerk had mixed up my order with another one, so it was a wasted journey. Why, darling what’s wrong? You look really shaken. Are you feeling quite well?’

  ‘I’ve had a rather unpleasant experience.’ Fran told her friend about the encounter in the street.

  Mo was full of indignation. ‘Damn cheek,’ she said, as she fired the engine into life. ‘A shock too, finding out that they’ve got an infant on the way. I say, do you need a tot of whisky or something, to perk you up? We can easily pop into the hotel.’

  ‘No, no. I’m perfectly all right. But Mo … tell me honestly, do you think she’s right?’

  ‘About the baby? I don’t suppose Winnie would tell her sister unless she was sure …’

  ‘No. About being selfish? Wicked, even?’

  ‘Of course not. Oh, do get out of the way, my good man, I’m trying to turn left … Sorry, darling, people are such idiots, the way they stand about in the road – and in this rain, too. No, of course you’re not being wicked. How can any of it possibly be your fault? Though I do wonder if you mightn’t divorce the wretch for your own sake.’

  ‘The scandal would kill my mother – and anyway, what possible good would it do me?’

  ‘You’d be free to marry again.’

  ‘I would be damaged goods. I could never marry in church.’

  ‘Well, what does that matter?’ Mo hesitated. ‘Well, yes, of course, it does matter.’ She punctuated the sentence with a loud blast on the horn. ‘Dear me, fancy trundling that handcart into the road without even looking! But you would be free to find someone else.’ She paused for a second before adding, ‘Tom Dod, for instance.’

  ‘Tom isn’t free.’

  ‘He might think differently if your own circumstances were to change.’

  Fran was momentarily silent. Mo did not know about the circumstances of Tom’s marriage, and could not possibly have guessed that he saw himself as honour-bound to the woman who had loved his heroic soldier brother. ‘Tom will never leave Veronica,’ she said at last.

  ‘Well, there are plenty more fish in the sea,’ Mo responded briskly. After a sidelong glance at her passenger, she added, ‘But I suppose if you really want sea trout, it’s no use trying to fob you off with cod.’

  The analogy of Tom with a fish – when the reality could not have been more different – made Fran laugh out loud, and the atmosphere in the car lightened considerably.

  ‘And in the meantime,’ Mo said, ‘you both have your utterly respectable, strictly platonic sleuthing.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Fran said. ‘Because, as I have told you repeatedly, there is nothing romantic going on between Tom and myself. We are merely friends, with some shared interests.’

  ‘Including murder.’

  ‘Including murder. Or in this case, not murder, but suspicious deaths.’

  ‘Which is how it all started last time, as I recall, and you ended up almost becoming a victim yourself. I do hope you’re going to be more careful this time.’

  TWO

  ‘I’ll be off for my bus now, Mum,’ Ada announced, as she appeared in the doorway of the sitting room, her summer coat on and her hat already in place. ‘I ’spect Mr Dod will be here soon.’

  ‘Thank you, Ada. Have a pleasant weekend.’

  ‘You too, Mum.’

  Fran turned away, giving Ada no excuse to prolong her departure. She was uncomfortably aware of the way in which Ada was overstepping the mark by mentioning Tom’s impending arrival. It was really none of Ada’s business how she spent her weekend. Fran knew that her mother would have sensed impudence in that attempt at a knowing smile and slapped Ada down immediately with some suitably acid remark. Good servants were supposed to be deaf and blind when it came to one’s private affairs, but even as she tried to tell herself that it did not matter what Ada thought about it, she knew it would not do to have rumours flying around. She wondered to whom Ada might be reporting that there were ‘carryings-on’, as she would probably have put it, between Mrs Black and a married man. At the same time – because one did not confide in one’s servants – she could hardly tell Ada outright that her weekend away with Mr Dod was to be a strictly chaperoned affair at the home of his great-aunt, and that one of their primary objectives would be to attend a Sunday service at the local parish church.

  With Ada gone, Fran strolled across to the basket chair where Mrs Snegglington was lying at her ease. She attempted to rub the cat’s head but Mrs Snegglington pulled back, avoiding the outstretched hand.

  ‘I’m only going to be away for two nights, and Ada will be in every day to feed you,’ Fran said, as she again attempted to stroke the cat, but Mrs Snegglington had seen the suitcase in the hall and was not to be mollified. As if to make her point more clearly, she stood up, stretched, jumped down from the chair and walked haughtily from the room.

  ‘Hey,’ Fran objected. ‘You are supposed to be my faithful companion.’

  At that moment, she heard the distinctive murmur of Tom’s Hudson approaching along the lane. She had been on the point of rushing into the hall when she remembered that she was a sensible woman of twenty-eight, not a schoolgirl being taken out on a trip, so she paused to allow Tom time to park the car, silence the engine then walk up the front path, only permitting herself to go and greet him once he had employed the heavy metal knocker in his own distinctive way – two distinct pairs of short raps, whereas most people went in for a single run of three. It was like his own private code, she thought.

  ‘Hello. All ready to go? Let me take that case and put it in the luggage box while you get your hat and coat.’ His smile warmed her like an embrace.

  ‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘I must just make sure that Ada has locked up at the back. You carry on and I’ll be out in a mo.’

  She joined him in the car a couple of minutes later, slightly breathless, clutching her handbag and jacket and still adjusting her hat.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ he said, laughing at her. ‘It’s a good three hours to Aunt Hetty’s. Throw those things on to the back seat.’

  Once they were settled and he had turned the car around in the lane and headed eastwards, she asked politely after Veronica and young William, and he in turn enquired regarding her mother’s state of health and also after Mo.

  ‘My mother is just as usual,’ Fran said with a little laugh. ‘Complaining of various aches and pains while giving every appearance of being as fit as a flea. Now that the business of the village war memorial is finally over and done with, she has turned her attention to the state of some cottages belonging to a local farmer, which she claims are an eyesore and a disgrace to the neighbourhood. I sometimes think my mother only exists to be outraged about something or other. As for Mo, she is extremely intrigued by the potential mystery at St Agnes Durley Dean, while warning me to be careful not to fall into the path of a homicidal maniac for the second time in the space of a few months.’

  ‘Sound advice,’ Tom said. ‘Jolly sensible woman, your friend Mo.
’

  ‘I assured her that I was not at any risk whatsoever in this particular case, since the victims, if there really are any, have all met their untimely end thanks to taking some kind of stand against the new vicar of St Agnes Durley Dean – and since I am not one of his parishioners and don’t entertain such strong religious convictions, I think I should be pretty safe.’

  ‘Do you …’ Tom hesitated. ‘Do you have any religious convictions at all?’

  ‘Oh, of course! But I don’t go to church very often and I don’t get het up about form, the way my mother would. I mean, if someone wants to swing a bit of incense around it’s all the same by me. And isn’t that part of the problem at Durley Dean?’

  ‘So I understand.’

  She noticed that Tom sounded decidedly relieved. Perhaps he had feared that she might be an atheist. It had become rather fashionable in some circles, ever since the war, which had claimed so many lives and involved such suffering and cruelty that it was perhaps hardly surprising if some people found it harder to believe in God.

  ‘So if I have this right,’ Fran said, ‘your Great-Aunt Hetty suspects that there may have been three victims so far? And though fairly ancient, she still has all her marbles.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. And she isn’t actually all that old – not much older than my mother, in fact. Mother comes from one of those vast families where there are a million and one uncles and aunts and cousins, and the different generations all get muddled up. Her grandfather outlived his first two wives and in the end he was married three times, always to younger women. Each wife produced several children and Great-Aunt Hetty was one of the youngest batch, whereas my mother’s mother emanated from the older offspring of marriage number two. I believe Mother has more than three dozen cousins at the last count.’

  ‘Goodness, how complicated! It must cost a small fortune in Christmas cards.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Remind me, have any of these suspicious deaths been investigated by the police?’

  ‘Apparently not. Or at least not seriously. According to Aunt Hetty – by the way, she doesn’t like “Great-Aunt”, she says it makes her feel ancient – they have all been classified as genuine accidents, or in one case as a fatal illness. So, rather like our first investigation, the killer will be thinking that he or she has got away with it.’