Nefarious Doings (16 page)

‘Pity you weren’t that smart yesterday, when you left it here.’

‘Pity you weren’t that smart when you handed it over.’

We lapsed into cross silence, methodically lifting each textbook and fanning the pages. Petra dropped to her knees and peered under the table, around the legs of the couch. I couldn’t believe how stupid we’d been, leaving it here yesterday in plain view.

‘Whatcha doing?’ asked Quinn from the doorway.

‘Looking for a little gold pin. It’s shaped like a sort of flower, with three little –’

‘Like this?’

Petra and I turned to stare at Quinn, who was pointing to her collar. Where the little lapel pin winked happily.

‘Yes,’ said Petra, getting to her feet with a groan. She brushed her knees.

‘It’s called a fleur-de-lis,’ said Quinn helpfully. ‘Can I have it?’

‘No.’ I went over and removed it from her collar. ‘Actually, where is Yen? And where’s Lucy?’

‘Lucy’s at the shop, I believe, and Yen is at the community centre, getting it ready for the Richard III Christmas dinner this afternoon.’ Petra yawned and stretched. ‘God, wouldn’t that be a barrel of laughs.’

I turned the pin over in my hand, thinking. ‘What time are you heading back?’

‘Oh, I’m flexible. Probably after tea.’

‘Excellent, that gives you heaps of time to partake in the barrel of laughs with me. We
need
to go to that function.’ I grinned at her expression and then held up the little gold pin. It caught the sunlight from the window and flashed, shooting beams of reflected gold from a kernel of brilliance. I paused for a moment, savouring the melodrama. ‘Because this is the one pin to rule them all. One pin to find them. One pin to bring them all and in the darkness find them.’

‘Not a chance,’ said Petra firmly. ‘No way in the world.’

LOVED your column on manipulative mothers. Every single word rang true. My mother is 86 and she STILL tries to interfere in almost every aspect of my life. I love her and I hate her – and I’m terrified that soon she might be gone.

The plan was to arrive at Sheridan House a few minutes after the function was due to start, thereby robbing our mother of any chance to use us for preparatory work. However this was foiled when she arrived home for lunch and, within three minutes of walking in the door, was asked by Quinn whether Richard III had been the prince who married Cinderella. This prompted a lively discussion (
What sort of propaganda are they teaching in school nowadays? I’ve a good mind to write to the principal
), during which Quinn managed to divulge the fact her aunt and I were about to grace the society with our presence.

Unsurprisingly, we were both briskly allocated a list of chores to be undertaken prior to the function beginning at three o’clock. What was a little more surprising was the obvious pleasure our mother took in our impending attendance. Clearly she thought that we had finally embraced the historical nature of our names and perhaps were even going to blossom forth into boon companions for her fading years. Nor could I tell her the truth: that we had narrowed our pool of suspects down to the Richard III Society via a gold lapel pin that I stole from the dead body of her neighbour, largely because I thought she, my mother, was involved in not one murder but two. And still wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t.

The first floor of Sheridan House was occupied by the community centre, while the third, with its individual domed rooms and spectacular views, housed a variety of not-for-profit groups such as the Citizens Advice Bureau and the Friends of the Library. (The latter always made me imagine there was an opposite number, like the dark and dastardly Enemies of the Library.) However, the second floor, divided into just a few spacious rooms, was used mainly for community events – meetings, forums, workshops and Christmas functions, like the one the Richard III Society was hosting today.

The members had already been busy, decorating our allocated room with tinsel looped around the walls and into the centre of the ceiling. Trestle tables had been set up, draped with white starchy tablecloths and topped with little vases of spiky-leaved holly. The front of the room now held a garland encircled lectern, for the guest speaker, and another trestle table, this one with a variety of gifts and awards. My job was to organise the tea and coffee stations, plus allocate carafes to each table, Christmas crackers to each place setting, and little green sticky-note numbers to the underneath of each chair for a lucky door prize.

An hour later Petra turned up with Grace June Rae’s thirty-six piece Queen Anne tea set, wrapped in an assortment of crocheted doilies. Shortly afterwards the foil-covered trays arrived from the bakery and Yen came bustling in, barking last-minute instructions.
Turn that urn up. Where are the teaspoons? Obviously that pattern should be roses
up,
Nell, not roses down. Where’s your common sense?

It was with a real sense of relief that I saw the first guests trickle through the door just before three. I straightened my last cake plate and retreated to a table towards the back, beside a spiral display of historical books for sale. Yen’s entrepreneurial instinct never missed a beat. Petra arrived to join me and I poured us both a glass of water.

‘Thanks, but I’m hanging out for the wine. I need it.’

‘Are they serving wine?’

‘They’d better be,’ she said with feeling. ‘So Yen’s back on the list, is she?’

I frowned, but then remembered why we were here. I scanned the room and found my mother by the door, talking to a portly gentleman. I leant to the left but still couldn’t see her lapel.

‘I’ll save you the trouble,’ said Petra. ‘She’s not wearing it.’

‘Damn.’

Fiona Ramage came up with an overloaded tray, from which she allocated a biro and a blank piece of paper to each place setting. ‘For the warm-up quiz,’ she said, beaming. ‘This is going to be
super
fun!’

I watched her bustle along and then looked down at my paper. ‘Super fun. Yes.’

‘And she wasn’t wearing hers,’ said Petra. ‘This is a waste of time.’

Having failed to check Fiona’s chest either, I was starting to get irritated with my ability to stay on task. To compensate I began scrutinising members as they entered, almost immediately being rewarded by the sight of little gold fleurs-de-lis winking from suit lapels and shirt collars and dress necklines. Even, on one sartorially challenged man, from the breast pocket of a flannelette shirt.

‘Edward Given isn’t wearing his,’ said Petra, clearly having decided to concentrate on who was not wearing a pin, rather than who was. ‘Neither is that guy in the brown suit talking with Yen.’

‘I think he’s the guest speaker,’ I said, following her gaze.

‘He certainly is.’ Sharon, dressed in a flowing purple velvet dress and lapel pin, slipped into a seat on the opposite side of the table. ‘Harold Ramsbottom, from our Melbourne branch. He’s going to do his “Profiling a Medieval Perpetrator” talk, where he uses an FBI-type profile to prove it couldn’t possibly have been Richard who killed the boys.’

‘What boys?’ asked Petra.

‘My sister’s joking,’ I said quickly. ‘Ha-ha. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t know about the princes in the tower and all that. Nice pin, Sharon. I noticed almost everyone is wearing one. Except Fiona and Edward and a few others. Why is that?’

‘Probably lost theirs or something. Grace June Rae got them last year, but she’s trying to order some more. They’ve been
very
popular.’

‘So he must have lost his too.’ Petra pointed to a middle-aged man seated at the next table, and then to his female companion. ‘And her.’

‘No, they’re new members. Joined after we got them.’

‘And the woman by the door?’

‘That’s Harold’s wife Rose, from the Melbourne branch.’ Sharon was beginning to frown. ‘Why the sudden –’

‘Just curious. We’re thinking of joining.’

‘Excellent! Oh, you’ll enjoy it so much! A new speaker each month, and outings, and –’

‘Can I have your attention, please?’ Yen was standing at the lectern. She waited a moment and then clapped her hands together, once, twice. Everybody quietened, with those still standing hurrying to find a seat. ‘Thank you. Firstly, I’d like to welcome you all to our Christmas function, in particular our special guests, Harold and Rose Ramsbottom.’ She smiled genially at the special guests. ‘Harold is our keynote speaker today, and we are looking forward to hearing his renowned talk. In the meantime, though, as a little warm-up, Fiona has prepared a fun quiz for us, which our mayor, James Sheridan, has kindly offered to facilitate. And I should mention that the council has also donated a handsome trophy for the winner. So get your pens ready! Over to you, James.’

There was an urgent shuffling sound as everybody rushed to grab pen and paper lest they miss the first question. Fiona, who had seated herself beside Petra, opposite Sharon, was beaming with pride. Beside her were Grace June Rae and a similarly aged friend whose long, dove-grey hair was plaited and then coiled around her head. Both were wearing pins. At the head of our end of the table, next to me, was an empty seat, which was typical. In fact, if there was an empty seat at
any
function I attended, then odds on it would be beside me.

I leant forward. ‘Beautiful Queen Anne tea set you have.’

‘Thank you, Nell. Though I’m a bit disappointed they didn’t use the doilies. I crocheted them to match.’

‘Ah. What a shame. Love your lapel pin too.’

‘You’re after one as well, are you? I’ll put you on the list.’ She looked pointedly towards the lectern, clearly concerned about missing the first question. The mayor, a dapper man in his mid-sixties, was now speaking.

‘– so good luck and play fair. No biting, gouging or rough conduct. And be warned, winners may be required to submit to a drug test.’ He paused to allow laughter and then smoothed out a sheet of paper on the lectern. ‘Okay, first question, and I’m told this one is easy. Match each of Richard’s three brothers to an alleged cause of death. Choices are (a) death by decapitation, (b) death by drowning in a vat of beer, or (c) death by suspected arsenic poisoning. That does
not
sound like a family one would join by choice.’

‘That’s easy?’ muttered Petra. She stretched and then peered at Sharon’s paper as she relaxed again. I’d forgotten about her competitiveness. I pulled my own paper closer and wrote
Lillian Forrest, Edward Given, Fiona Ramage, Grace June Rae (only because she is the source), weird guy with the alcoholic nose
.

‘Now for our second question. What was Richard’s motto? Was it (a) “Loyalty Binds Me”, (b) “In Vino Veritas”, or (c) “I’d better watch out for that Stanley chap”?’

There was a great deal of laughter at the last two suggestions, which made Fiona beam even more. I peered around the room, and then wrote
Elderly woman in wheelchair (?)
.

‘Question number three. What legal concept did Richard III introduce during his only parliament?’

I glanced across at Grace’s paper and watched her write
Legal aid
in small cursive script. She moved her hand to hide her answers. I flushed.

‘Question four. Which renowned female author said this of Richard: “I am rather inclined to suppose him a rather respectable man.” I’ll give you a clue, people – she was neither proud nor prejudiced.’

Jane Austen,
I wrote industriously, shielding my paper from Petra.

‘Last but not least, what was Richard’s weapon of choice?’

Grace June Rae’s friend snorted. ‘And they said he had a withered arm. Poppycock.
You
try wielding one of those with a withered arm.’

Having no intention of carrying out any such endeavour, I ignored her. Beside me Petra was still writing furiously.

‘Okay, everybody! Swap your papers with the person beside you!’

‘Nell?’ asked Grace June Rae, proffering her sheet of paper. ‘Do you want to swap?’

‘Sorry, I’ve already swapped with Petra,’ I said, doing just that. ‘Here, swap with hers.’

After a great amount of paper shuffling, during which my sister realised that she had to hang on to mine, everyone settled down to hear the answers. Petra leant towards me. ‘You’ve included Jane Austen on your list of suspects. I think she has an alibi.’

Instead of answering, I concentrated on marking Grace’s paper. Four out of five. I passed it back. ‘Well done, nearly perfect.’

‘Nearly?’ She scanned the sheet. ‘Here, a hatchet’s the same as a battleaxe!’

‘No, it is
not
,’ said her friend, who apparently had a personal investment in that particular question. ‘A hatchet could be used to chop wood. Are you suggesting Richard liked chopping wood?’

‘Fiona, what’s happened to your little gold pin?’ asked Petra, pointing to Fiona’s lapel area. ‘Did you lose it? Recently?’

‘No, I have it … at home. I forgot it.’ Fiona blushed a little as everybody looked at her.

‘Okay!’ called the mayor loudly. ‘Could we have all the perfect scorers down the front for the second part of the game? Come on, folks, don’t be shy. There’s a trophy at stake.’

Sharon rose, and so did the battleaxe expert, followed by Petra.

‘You have to be kidding,’ I said, grabbing her sheet of paper and examining the answers. Five out of five. With the table suddenly denuded, Grace June Rae looked even crosser. She rose, scraping her chair back across the floorboards.

‘A hatchet is so an axe. I’m going to get a second opinion.’

And then, just like that, I was left alone with Fiona. I swapped seats, sliding into Petra’s. ‘Actually I did want to talk with you, if you don’t mind.’

‘Was it about your husband?’

I blinked. ‘Ah, no. Why?’

‘I thought it might have been what we spoke about, at Dustin Craig’s funeral. You know, about me saying you needed to talk to him, in order to move on.’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘I had a dream about you last night.’

I blinked again, unsure how to respond to that revelation. Was she … flirting?

‘You were alone, in a dark place.’

‘Sounds about right.’

‘Having a picnic by candlelight. You were with this tall person but I couldn’t see their face so I can’t tell you who it was.’

‘That’s okay.’ I felt unaccountably pleased, despite my lack of faith in the prophesising capabilities of dreams. Besides, I always looked rather good by candlelight. ‘When it happens, I’ll let you know.’

‘Oh,
good
. Do you have my number?’

‘Ah, how about I drop into the art gallery the following day? Rather than whip out my mobile and risk spoiling the mood?’

‘Oh, Nell.’ Fiona smiled. ‘You’re so funny.’

‘I try. Okay, Fiona, this is a little awkward so I’ll just come right out and ask you.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Are you having an affair with Leon Chaucer?’

Fiona’s face paled. With her light blonde hair she now appeared leached of all colour, apart from her eyes. Noisy laughter came from the front of the room, where the remaining contestants had been seated as if it were a game show, fingers on invisible buzzers.

‘Please don’t think that I’m going to tell anyone. It’s clear the two of you want to keep it under wraps so I absolutely respect that. I just –’

‘It’s him who wants to keep it quiet,’ said Fiona suddenly, in a rush. ‘In the beginning it was quite fun but I thought it would move on, you know,
progress
. But nothing’s changed. Nothing. And you know why?’ She leant in closer, her eyes still bright. ‘Because of that Craig woman. That’s right. I’ve seen the way he
looks
at her. And she does it too. That
slut
.’

I was staring at her, taken aback by how rapid this had been. As if I had turned the key to a crowded closet, the contents now came tumbling forth. She had barely taken a breath.

‘She’s
supposed
to be in mourning. Did you see what she was wearing at her own husband’s funeral? Could that dress have been any tighter? And then draping herself all over him. She’s
had
her turn. He’s
mine
.’