Free Dead Heading by Catherine Aird Page A

Haines,’ said Marilyn Potts. ‘To try to find out where I lived.’
    ‘It sounds as if he might have succeeded,’ observed Anthony Berra, ‘if he’s the one who’s dished your orchids. And Jack’s.’
    ‘Well, I haven’t tried to find him,’ added Marilyn acidly. ‘I’d be quite happy if I never set eyes on him ever again.’
    ‘Are you likely to?’ asked Berra. ‘I mean, is he local these days?’
    ‘Last heard of living in Berebury,’ she said, ‘somewhere near a pub called The Railway Tavern.’
    ‘Living off his ill-gotten gains, I daresay,’ observed Anna Sutherland.
    ‘She means half of our worldly possessions,’ explained Marilyn. ‘His and mine.’
    ‘Immoral earnings,’ said her friend Anna Sutherland trenchantly.
    ‘Yes, of course,’ murmured Anthony, a little embarrassed. He started to hand over the list of plants he had brought with him.
    Anna plucked it from his fingers and scanned it quickly. ‘Cercis canadensis – yes, we’ve got that; Photinia Red Robin – yes; Cotinus Royal Purple – lots of that; Lonicera etrusca – sorry sold out …’
    ‘You got a customer on lime soil, then, Anthony?’ said Marilyn.
    ‘Too right, I have,’ said Anthony Berra.
    ‘We can’t do you any magic potion for neutralising it. You’ll have to go to Jack Haines or Bob Steele for that,’ put in Marilyn, grinning.
    ‘I know, I know,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘What you’re saying is that Capstan Purlieu is a nursery not a plant centre. I haven’t forgotten. Now, what about a good Abutilon, Anna?’
    ‘We’ve got plenty. Take your pick. We’ve got a good line in lilies if you’re interested?’
    He wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t like the scent much.’
    ‘Remove the stamen, remove the smell,’ said Anna wryly. ‘I see you want a Cornus controversa Variegata too.’
    ‘That’s the Wedding Cake Tree …’ began Marilyn, looking again as if she was about to cry. 
    ‘I hear you’re getting married soon, Anthony,’ Anna Sutherland interrupted her hastily.
    He nodded. ‘In the autumn. In the Minster over at Calleford by the bride’s father.’
    Anna, looking solemn, said, ‘Don’t let the girl have any Aegopodium podagraria in her bouquet or you’ll never hear the last of it.’
    ‘Anna,’ said Anthony, throwing up his hands, ‘you’ve got me there. Explain.’
    ‘Bishop’s weed,’ cackled Anna.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    It was at much the same time that morning when the solicitor Simon Puckle welcomed Benedict and Mary Feakins to his office in Berebury. That the solicitor was sitting behind a desk as he did so and not in an easy chair alongside his clients or even sitting beside them at a round table was thought by the junior members of the firm of Puckle, Puckle and Nunnery, solicitors, to be old-fashioned – even perhaps the making of a statement. That the desk had once belonged to Simon’s grandfather only contributed to this image of antiquity.
    At this moment, though, Simon Puckle was more concerned about Benedict Feakins’ bad back than worrying about his own self-image.
    ‘I’m all right, really,’ said Benedict, nevertheless screwing up his face in pain.
    ‘Sure?’ asked Simon Puckle as his client lowered himselfinto a chair with great caution. ‘We could always do this on another day.’
    ‘No,’ said Feakins with unexpected vehemence. ‘We need everything wound up today, don’t we, Mary?’
    His wife nodded her head at this, her mind elsewhere. There had been a promise of coffee when they arrived and – her morning sickness having receded – she was now quite hungry. There might be biscuits with the coffee …
    ‘Just so,’ said the solicitor. ‘Now, as you know, probate has already been finalised – which was when you were able to take up residence in your late father’s house at Pelling.’
    ‘That means that everything is hunky-dory, doesn’t it?’ said Benedict Feakins. He essayed an uncertain laugh. ‘No last minute snags or anything like