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Fleur moved to the doorway to see Inspector Green stepping back into the hall, giving Irma no choice but to close the door, now trapped by the two policemen in her own home.

‘Hello again, Miss Appleby,’ Bowers said, catching sight of Fleur hovering. ‘Er, curious turn of events. Down at the station, we’ve got witnesses who attest that Mrs Appleby was planning the death of Henry Appleby, first through the use of rat poison and then more recently using rancid oysters.’

Fleur couldn’t believe what she was hearing and stepped up to form a trio of listeners, feeling light-headed with relief. Irma’s jaw had dropped open in shock.

‘Tell me,’ Green instructed.

‘It’s a father and son. Coffin-makers who have had dealings with the Applebys over the years, but more recently with Mrs Appleby.’

‘Bert and Jimmy?’ Fleur murmured in astonishment.

‘That’s right, Miss. Your young man encouraged them to speak up.’

‘Tom? But—’

Green sounded testy. ‘Let me get this straight, Bowers. The Coglins have admitted to knowing about Irma Appleby’s intentions?’

Bowers nodded. ‘Yes. Mrs Appleby told Bert of her intention to hurry along Henry Appleby’s death. She told him she was using rat killer in his coffee but it was taking too long.’

‘Wait, why would she share that?’ Green asked, as though Irma was not standing ashen-face just behind him.

‘Her intention, according to Bert Coglin, was that she was going to sell Appleby’s to him for a good price. They wanted to get into undertaking and funeral direction.’ Bowers pulled out his notebook. ‘According to the son, she’d suggested he marry Miss Appleby and I quote: “So you can control your wife, who is important to the business.”’

Irma gasped. ‘This is all rubbish.’

Fleur wanted to leap in and respond but Inspector Green shot her a warning look. He turned back to Bowers, frowning. ‘This was recorded during a formal interview?’

Bowers nodded. ‘Yes, sir. All done properly and by the book.’

‘What else?’

‘Bert Coglin was asked by Mrs Appleby to buy some oysters. Apparently just a few were required. She told him she was going to let them go off for a few days and then use their juice to taint the fresh oysters that she’d have the daughter – er, Miss Appleby, fetch. Coglin said she told him that it needed to be done this way so no one could attribute the purchase of oysters to her, fresh or otherwise. He went to pains to explain that he did nothing wrong. All he did was buy fresh oysters with her money and at her bidding. I quote again: “I knew her plan but she did all the bad stuff, not us. We’re not going to gaol on her behalf.”’

‘So the Coglins have come forward with this incriminating information. Why now?’

Bowers blew out his cheeks. ‘It’s hard to say. They both came in, sir. Perhaps a guilty conscience that they knew something about the matter? Word’s getting around about Mr Appleby’s passing. And, er, I gather Tom Catchlove strongly suggested they come forward.’

A look of understanding passed between the two men before Inspector Green slid Fleur a sly glance. She frowned, unsure of what that look meant, but she presumed she was meant to stay quiet.

‘They’ve signed their statements?’ Green asked.

Bowers nodded.

Inspector Green turned to the quaking Irma. ‘Irma Appleby, I’m arresting you for the murder of Henry James Appleby.’ He began to quote her rights as Irma began to shriek abuse at Fleur and the two policemen.

Fleur looked on, open-mouthed in surprise but trembling with vindication.

27

Fleur had been told to wait. The room was sparse, with only essential furniture of a small table and two chairs. The window was small, high and dirty enough to not let much light in. An electric bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling cast the room in yellow light, and the murky walls of drab grey did nothing to enhance her impression of this place.

She could feel the hard edges of the chair upon which she sat, and it seemed to speak of the whole building: spare, cold, unforgiving. She took the opportunity to escape into her thoughts, how she’d recently prepared her father for his burial. She’d kept the service private; it was held in the Appleby chapel, whose last grieving family had been the Wrens.

She recalled settling her father’s black tie for one final tightening beneath his collar. The last time she would touch the first man she’d ever loved. He looked splendid; that ashen pallor had been warmed up with her tender and skilful ministrations. It was hard to close the coffin and she had wept as the young helpers had checked it was fast.

‘We’ll take it from here, Miss,’ Robbie had said in his kind way. ‘You’ve done him proud.’

Had she? Couldn’t she have done more . . . maybe saved him?