Free The Will To Live by Tanya Landman

Not in the woods. Not anywhere.
    But deadly nightshade does. The berries are the same size. The same shape. The same colour. And it’s not called “deadly” for nothing.
    I dropped the glass I was holding and it shattered over the floor. I pelted along the corridor to the main staircase. I had no idea which room Julian and Joe were in, so I started yelling, “Don’t eat the—”
    It was already too late. From upstairs I could hear the sound of Julian screaming for help. And Joe retching.
    The Strudwicks and their guests woke that morning to the dreadful sound of Joe’s dying gasps.

A FAMILY AFFAIR
    IT was a horrible morning. Julian’s screams caused total panic and suddenly there were guests rushing along corridors and up and down the stairs, nearly trampling me in the stampede. As soon as Jennifer realized what was happening she had the presence of mind to yell for the vicar, but he was only a first aider, and despite his best efforts there was nothing he could do for the Canadian. And, hard as he tried, he couldn’t comfort Julian. Joe’s husband was distraught. His sobs echoed down the corridors while guests trailed miserably back to the drawing-room.
    Sally – being a chef – was convinced that food was the only solution to any crisis. She threw fresh logs onto the embers of the drawing-room fire, and as soon as it was roaring away began toasting slices of bread over it. Graham and I were dispatched to the kitchen for tea-brewing duty, which suited us just fine.
    The general view amongst the guests seemed to be that Joe’s violent death had been another dreadful accident. Major Huwes-Guffing had mumbled things about “Johnny Foreigner” and how Joe had been a “colonial who didn’t understand British ways” and that if people didn’t stay in their own countries where they belonged, well, these things were bound to happen.
    Graham and I, on the other hand, were pretty sure it was murder.
    “Whoever’s behind all this is fantastically clever,” I commented as we waited for the pans of water to boil. “I mean, it was Joe who went out and picked those berries. And I saw him frying the pancakes myself. He offered me one! But the big question, is why did he pick them in the first place? He’s from Canada – why did he think blueberries grew in the woods here?”
    “You think someone told him they did?”
    “Yes, I do. He was going on about the joys of blueberry pancakes yesterday to Julian. Anyone could have overheard him. It would have been an easy way of getting him to poison himself. Julian too, if he’d eaten any. I wonder why he didn’t?”
    Graham shrugged. “It was very early. Maybe he was too sleepy to eat.”
    “That would figure. I wasn’t hungry either.” I sighed. “It’s sick! Literally.”
    “But why would anyone want to kill Joe?”
    “I don’t know!” I thought about him reading out Camille’s postcard. “He made that remark about not seeing polar bears in the summer. It seemed innocent enough at the time. But if whoever killed Camille was there – and they probably were – they might have worried that he would work out that she didn’t die by accident. That someone took her there at that time of year simply to kill her. Joe probably died for the same reason Toulouse did – to cover up the truth about Lancelot’s supposed marriage to Camille.”
    “It’s a long shot.”
    “It’s all long shots! This whole thing is bizarre.” I grabbed a teapot and sluiced out the old leaves. “We need to start at the beginning – it’s to do with the will, right?”
    “Inherited wealth. Pursuing the Strudwick fortune certainly seems like the strongest motive anyone could have.”
    “OK. So nasty-Nazi Lord Albert dies, leaving the estate to his eldest son, James. Only James is missing so Lawrence takes over. James and Lawrence both die on the same day, which, assuming that the estate is handed down through the male line, means that either Julian or Lancelot inherit the lot.