Wolfsbane and Witches - a murder mystery in Crete

“A curse upon both your houses,” muttered Anneth as her left heel twisted to one side for the third time. Why had she bought these contraptions of torture? She was old enough now to know that high-heeled shoes looked wonderful but were best appreciated on other people’s feet. Not to mention the idiocy of squeezing feet into them that were hot and slightly swollen from a day sightseeing in Heraklion. At least the food should be good at tonight’s gala dinner. So far, the Greek cuisine had definitely not disappointed. She had already bought a Cretan cookbook to take back home to Norway.

She sighed, wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, then set off again carefully, walking slowly into the hotel’s function room which had been set up with tables to seat the hundred and fifty speakers and conference attendees. She stopped briefly to examine the seating plan then made her way to a table at the far end of the room.

As she arrived, she saw a dowdy, middle-aged woman already sitting in the place she thought was allocated to her. She stopped, unsure whether to say something or go back and check. Her feet urged her to speak.

“Oh, I’m in your place, aren’t I?” said the woman, while Anneth was still debating. “Bertram thought it best we swapped. Mix things up a bit, you know? He doesn’t approve of husbands and wives sitting together at these sorts of events.”

The woman sounded so unsure of herself that Anneth couldn’t help but smile reassuringly.

 “No problem at all. Where am I now?”

“Why, next to Bertram of course.”

The woman gave no indication who at the table might be Bertram, but Anneth needed none. Bertram Sinclair, Professor of Archaeology at Bristol University, was the keynote speaker of the conference, and his photograph was plastered all over the hotel. Anneth made her way to the empty seat on his left and sat down.

The great man was deep in conversation with the young woman sat on his right, but the man seated to her other side greeted her warmly.

“I’m John Metcalf, Archaeology, Bristol Uni,” he told her, offering her a hand. “Assistant, gofer and general dogsbody to Prof Sinclair.”

“Anneth Karlsen, Medieval Studies, University of Oslo. Pleased to meet you.”

“Of course, Professor Karlsen. You gave that talk on witches yesterday.”

“The role of fairytales in the witch-hunts of the 17^th century,” she corrected. “None of those women were witches.”

“No, of course not. It was a fascinating talk. I’d never thought about the influence of children’s stories on adult perceptions before.”

Anneth beamed. “You came to my presentation?”

“Oh yes. The best thing about these conferences is being exposed to different specialities and fresh outlooks.”

“I quite agree.”

“Did you catch Bertram’s talk this afternoon?”

Anneth hesitated. She’d been walking around the Minoan Palace at that time, drinking in the sunshine and the scent of oregano. “I’m afraid not,” she confessed. “This afternoon was my only time to sightsee, so I was visiting Knossos. Sorry.”

“Oh that’s alright,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You probably learnt as much there as here.”

Anneth laughed. She slipped her shoes off, confident of having a significant period of time before needing to put them back on, and revelled in the sudden comfort.

“Did I hear mention of Knossos?” said a suave, British accented voice beside her. She turned to Bertram Sinclair with a slightly guilty heart. Had he heard that she’d missed his presentation?

“I visited there today,” she said, carefully. “I’d heard about your new theories around the destruction of the empire so wanted to see it for myself while I had the opportunity.”

“Ah yes,” he said and launched into a long monologue, most of which Anneth tuned out while smiling and nodding at polite intervals. He didn’t appear to notice her disinterest.

She spotted a carafe of water on the table and helped herself, her eyes drifting around the room. She smiled when she spotted an older woman making her way between the tables. She was quite distinctive in burgundy dungarees with an electric pink blouse underneath.

Anneth recognised her as a latecomer to her talk the previous day. The woman had been very loud in her apologies, both to the people she had to squeeze past to get to her seat and to Anneth herself. Her questions at the end, though, had been quite insightful. She came to a halt at the next table and checked a scrap of paper in her hand before taking her seat.

“That woman completely disrupted my talk with her inane questions,” said Bertram, bringing Anneth’s attention back to him. “Seemed to think living on the island meant she knew more about the Minoan civilisation than someone who’s spent his lifetime studying it.”

“Really? I found her quite intelligent and thoughtful.”

He gave her a look of disdain. “Perhaps when it comes to witches and fairytales, she is.”

Anneth felt a flush of anger rise up her neck. It wasn’t what he’d said – her talk had been about fairytales and witches, after all – it was the way he’d said it. Fortunately, the waiters chose that moment to appear with the first course, the smell of garlic and hot tomato wafting ahead of them.

“No, no! No prawns for me,” said Bertram, holding his hands up in apparent horror. “My assistant should have arranged an alternative.”

Anneth felt, rather than saw, John Metcalf grow tense beside her.

“Your usual fruit cocktail should be coming,” he said.

“They definitely have it,” said Bertram’s wife from across the table, sounding almost as worried as John. “I double checked this afternoon.”

“And the sugar? You know I can’t abide fruit without my spiced sugar.”

“Of course, dear. They had it all ready. I promise.”

She started to rise from her seat but sat back down as another waiter swooped in with a glass bowl containing what looked like a mix of different types of melon, perhaps with some added peach. He put it in front of the disgruntled man and placed a smaller bowl to its side.

“Hmm, that’s better.” He picked up the smaller bowl and spooned brown-flecked sugar liberally over the fruit.

Anneth gratefully settled in to enjoy her own dish of prawn saganaki. Food was always a good excuse not to have to talk. Clearly the rest of the table agreed as a comfortable silence descended, broken only by Bertram calling the waiter over to demand more sugar. She briefly wondered if his teeth were all his own or an expensive set of dentures. A giggle escaped her, but she managed to turn it into a cough.

Then she heard Bertram cough beside her. And again. She glanced his way to see him loosening his tie and coughing again. Sweat started to bead on his forehead. He coughed once more.

“Are you ill?” asked Anneth. “Can I get you something?” She took the carafe and poured a glass of water, but he waved it away and started struggling to his feet. Anneth rose and helped move his chair back to give him room to exit.

“I am a doctor, I can help?” asked an elderly man from the next table, his accent Germanic.

But Bertram didn’t seem able to speak. He grabbed Anneth’s arm and gestured vaguely to the fire exit behind them.

“I think we should get him outside,” said Anneth. “The fresh air might help.”

“Of course,” said the doctor, taking Bertram’s other arm.

They managed to get him to the fire door at which point the woman in burgundy dungarees swooped round them and pushed open the door, holding it open for them to manoeuvre the sick man through.

As soon as they were outside, he fell to his knees and threw up onto the grass. Then he collapsed and started clawing at his throat. The doctor knelt by his side and took hold of his wrist. Anneth wasn’t sure why; the man didn’t seem to be having a heart attack.

Bertram turned suddenly onto his side and curled into a ball. He threw up a second time and gasped for air. Then he went completely limp. A rasping breath escaped him and then silence.

“Nooooo,” shrieked a voice from behind her.

“Come back inside, Mary. You don’t need to see this.”

“He’s dead,” wailed the woman.

“Let the doctor deal with it.”

Anneth looked back to see John Metcalf leading Bertram’s wife round the side of the building.

“Well at least he’s not taking her back through the dining room,” said the woman in the dungarees. “I’m Sheila Jones, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you. Anneth Karlsen.” The response had been automatic, but nothing about this situation could be described as nice.

Sheila turned to the doctor. “Will you be calling the police, or should we ask the hotel to handle that?”

“There is no need for police. I will call the health authorities to close the kitchen. I’m afraid there will be no more dinner tonight. This is an obvious case of salmonella poisoning. People do not realise how dangerous unwashed fruit can be.”

“Salmonella? With those symptoms?” Anneth looked at him in disbelief. “I would say Aconite poison is much more likely.”

“I was going to say Wolfsbane,” said Sheila with a smile. “Latin name Aconitum.”

Anneth couldn’t help but smile back. It looked like she’d found a kindred spirit. “Also known as Monkshood,” she said.

Sheila beamed but then her smile dropped, and she shook her head. “A nasty way to go, if blessedly quick.”

“Ladies, please. Try to restrict your imaginations. I assure you this is nothing more than salmonella. Now, if you would kindly remain and try your best to keep people away from the body, I will make some calls.”

He walked off, leaving the two women alone. Anneth took off her shawl and put it over the dead man’s face.

Sheila put a hand on her now bare arm. “I’m so sorry. Were you very close?”

“No,” said Anneth in surprise. Then she realised how her face must look. “No. It was my favourite shawl. I got it in India when I did my yoga teacher training. I don’t think I’ll be wanting it back.”

“Ah, yes.” Sheila gave her arm a little pat. “Yoga teaching, you said?”

“Oh, it’s just a hobby.” She felt herself start to blush. “I don’t actually teach. I just wanted to learn more and that seemed the easiest way.”

“But maybe you will, one day.”

It seemed more of a statement than a question and Anneth wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “You live on the island?” she asked, eventually.

“Yes, a little village in the south called Sivas.”

“But you’re not Greek?”

“Oh my goodness, no. I’m English through and through. But then the Cretans will tell you they aren’t Greek either. Cretan first, Greek second.”

“What brought you to Crete?”

“A broken heart would you believe? But I stayed for the community. And the sunshine, of course.”

“Ah yes, the sunshine.” Anneth thought back to her home in Norway. The rain, the clouds. She understood it to be a lot like England, weather wise. The two women stood in comfortable silence for a while.

“Salmonella indeed,” muttered Sheila at last.

“Letting our imaginations get the best of us,” said Anneth with a derisive snort.

“He all but said ‘don’t worry your pretty little heads’, didn’t he?”

“Typical male doctor. Simply dismisses anything that’s not in his textbooks.”

“I expect, back in the day,” said Sheila slowly, “he’d have called us witches for even suggesting he was mistaken.”

Anneth looked and caught the twinkling in her eyes. She gave a short laugh. “I expect he would.”

They were still smiling at each other when the doctor returned with two of the waiters. He gave them a look but said nothing. The two waiters unfolded a sheet and covered the body with it.

“Thank you, ladies,” said the doctor. “We can handle things from here. The bar is open, but the kitchen is obviously closed. The manager has called out for some food to be brought in but says that, on a Saturday night, it will probably be a long wait.”

Sheila linked her arm through Anneth’s. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get a drink.”

The bar was fairly packed, but they found an out-of-the-way table and Sheila caught the eye of a passing waiter. Unusually for her, Anneth found herself ordering a Metaxa, the Greek equivalent of brandy. She felt relatively calm, but her emotions had definitely taken a knock. Settled with their drinks, the conversation returned to the subject of poisoning.

“I can’t believe he died right in front of us,” said Anneth with a shiver. “I was only speaking to him minutes before. Well, he was speaking, I was listening. More or less.”

“Not a charming dinner companion?” asked the older woman.

“No. I got the impression he may have been more charming to the pretty young woman seated on his other side.”

“Ah. Wife seated elsewhere?”

“Oh no, she was at the same table. She seemed fairly submissive though. When he made a fuss about his starter, she seemed almost scared of him. Made me glad I never married.”

“Really? How interesting. And you didn’t know him before tonight?”

“No,” said Anneth. I knew of him, of course. We frequented quite a lot of the same conferences and so on, the world of academia is like that, but we’d never actually spoken.”

“So they mixed people up at the tables? No one knew each other except husbands and wives?”

Anneth took a sip of her Metaxa. The fiery liquid warmed her and calmed her emotions slightly. “I wouldn’t say that. His assistant was also at our table.”

“Ah yes, the young knight, whisking the maiden to safety. And what was he like?”

“He seemed nice. He had a sense of humour.”

“He liked his boss?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Anneth paused and looked at the woman sat opposite her. “You’re wondering if he might have committed murder.”

“Well someone did. And I don’t think it was you.”

Anneth blinked in surprise. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be implicated. She felt a sudden wave of grief. Her grandmother would have recognised that possibility right away.

“Not to worry, dear.” Sheila patted her hand reassuringly. “It’ll all be alright in the end. These things usually are.”

Anneth nodded and swallowed down her feelings. Strangely, this woman she’d only just met did reassure her. Just like her bestemor always had.

“Now. Why did Mr Sinclair have fruit instead of prawns? Do you know?”

Anneth thought for a moment. “Allergic, I assume. But that is just an assumption. He seemed almost desperate not to get close to them.”

“And who arranged for that?”

“His assistant. And his wife double-checked the order with the kitchen this afternoon.”

“Good,” Sheila said with a smile. “So we need to speak to the chef.”

“Oh no, no,” said Anneth in alarm as Sheila finished her drink and got to her feet. “We can’t go interrogating people; that’s a job for the police.”

“And where, pray tell, are they?”

“Yes, I know they’re not here, but we should call them. Tell them what’s happened. Not go rushing about investigating by ourselves.” Anneth was feeling much less reassured now.

“Phooey. They probably won’t believe us and even if they do, they’ll take an age to get here – and all the evidence will be gone.”

“But…”

“Think of it as a puzzle. We’re just going to ask a few questions, take a look around. No one will realise what we’re up to. We’re just a pair of batty witches, remember?”

Anneth couldn’t help but laugh. Her grandmother would often make her do that, too. She rose to her feet. “All right. But after the chef, we call the police. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The two women walked unhurriedly out of the bar and then came to a halt, realising neither knew exactly where kitchen was.

“Let’s go through the function room,” suggested Anneth. “The waiters wouldn’t be walking through reception with plates of food. There must be some way in from there.”

“Oh well done. Good thinking. Lucky the police aren’t here, or they’d have made it a crime scene already.”

Anneth wasn’t sure she’d call that lucky, but she followed Sheila into the function room. She looked round and spotted a double set of doors not far from where she’d been sitting. The top table, she supposed. It made sense that would be near the kitchen – no cold food for the VIPs.

They paused by the table and Sheila picked up the bowl of sugar, giving it a tentative sniff.

“Cinnamon,” she said. “And maybe some nutmeg.”

“That would be enough to cover the taste of the Aconite.”

“Yes. I think we’ve found our method.”

They went over to the doors and Sheila gave them a push. But they didn’t move. She gave another try but it was no use. She reached on tip-toes in an attempt to see through one of the small windows set in the doors, but she was too short.

“If only I were wearing high heels,” she said, looking pointedly at Anneth’s feet.

Anneth glanced down in confusion and realised her feet were still bare. In all the chaos of Bertram falling ill, she’d not taken the time to put her shoes back on. She so often walked around in bare feet at home that it hadn’t felt at all unusual here. She decided to ignore Sheila’s comment and peered through the window instead.

“I can see two other entrances. It looks like it’s been locked down, but the kitchen’s fire door is open and someone’s standing outside. Smoking, possibly. He’s dressed in chef’s whites.”

“Well, come on then,” said Sheila and dragged Anneth by the arm to the fire door where they had earlier helped Bertram outside.

“Now, casual,” said Sheila as they paused by the door. “We’re just two women taking the air and looking for some gossip.”

“I don’t gossip,” said Anneth.

“But he’s a man. He’ll expect it of us and won’t suspect a thing.”

“Isn’t that slightly sexist?”

“Of course. Now come on.”

Sheila pushed open the door and stepped outside. Anneth shrugged and decided to follow the older woman’s lead.

“And this is where it happened, I understand,” said Sheila, a touch theatrically.

“Really? How dreadful,” said Anneth, staring at the ground and playing along.

“It’s the wife I feel sorry for.”

“Yes, I do too.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Sheila, turning to look at the chef. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t realise anyone was out here. What must you think of us?”

“Eh, it’s human nature,” the man said. “Curiosity and death – hand in hand.”

“Yes, quite,” said Sheila moving closer. “You’re the chef, I take it?”

“I am. Loukoumi?” He held out a small paper bag. So not smoking then. Anneth and Sheila both took one of the sweets. Anneth popped hers into her mouth and left the talking to her new friend.

“They’ve shut your kitchen, I understand. Salmonella, I think someone said.”

“Pah! No way. All our fruits are washed and washed again. No bugs here. Ever.”

As they spoke, Anneth inched her way closer to the open fire door. When she was sure the man was engrossed in the conversation, she turned and peeped inside. Everything looked spotlessly clean. They had clearly been interrupted while dishing up the main course, as plates full of moussaka were lined up on one countertop – the bechamel tops all the perfect shade of brown atop the creamy white. Some had a side of green beans in tomato sauce, and a large saucepan stood abandoned midway down the line. Anneth’s stomach growled. She had skipped lunch to fit in her trip to Knossos and had only eaten half of her saganaki before Bertram had fallen ill.

She idly licked powdered sugar from her fingers. The loukoumi was delicious. Then she remembered their conclusion about the spiced sugar that Bertram had been served before he died, and her appetite vanished.

She let her gaze wander over the rest of the work surfaces but saw nothing out of place. Indeed the whole kitchen looked spotless, even the floor. No, wait. A small smudge of pale brown marked the floor just by the counter where the food was being plated. As if something had been spilled and then kicked under the counter rather than swept up. Anneth bent forward, trying to get closer and squinted her eyes. Yes. It definitely looked like the spiced sugar served to Bertram. But she had no idea what it might mean.

She moved away from the kitchen and tuned back into the conversation.

“Yes, yes,” the chef was saying. “She came to check for him.”

“And you were there all the time? She wasn’t alone at any point?”

“Of course not. I no allow strangers in my kitchen by themselves.”

“So you didn’t leave the kitchen at any time from then until the dinner started” pressed Sheila.

“No. Wait, yes. It was a phone call. They call me out to take it.”

“Really? How interesting. And who was it calling?”

“No one. Wrong number.”

“I see. Well, we mustn’t keep you. It was lovely talking to you.” Sheila turned and walked back towards the function room.

“Thank you for the loukoumi,” said Anneth as she followed. “It was delicious.”

Back in the bar, Anneth told Sheila what she’d seen in the kitchen. To her surprise, the older woman seemed to know exactly what the smudge of sugar meant.

“Of course,” she said. “That’s clever.”

“It is?”

“Yes, indeed. Now, my dear. We really need to get the police involved. I notice your name is third on the conference program, exactly how important are you?”

“How important? Oh, I see.” She took a deep breath while she considered. “Important enough, I think. Your turn to come with me.”

Anneth led the way to the hotel reception and asked to speak to the manager.

“I’m so sorry, but the manager is not available at the moment. I’m sure you understand.”

“I’m afraid I must insist.”

“I am sorry but, as I said, he is not available.”

“You realise that because Mr Sinclair is… no longer with us, I am the most well-known participant of this conference?” Anneth cringed inside but forced herself to continue. “My word counts. If you want future conferences to be held at your hotel, and if you don’t want this whole unfortunate business to be splashed across the entire Greek press…”

The receptionist frowned but then nodded. “I will speak to him. Please wait here.”

In just a few minutes, a silver haired man in an impeccably cut suit appeared and asked the women to come into his office.

“Professor Karlsen, I do not appreciate being threatened,” he began, once they were seated. “This death was an unfortunate incident, but I am sure the hotel will be fully cleared of any wrongdoing.”

“An unfortunate—” began Sheila before Anneth placed a calming hand on her arm.

“I completely understand,” she said. “And I apologise for using such heavy-handed tactics. But we have information that will prove Mr Sinclair did not fall victim to a poorly run kitchen but to murder. We thought it best to bring this information straight to you but your receptionist, quite properly, was trying to protect you from distractions to your work.”

The man blanched. “Murder, you say?”

“I do.”

“And you have proof?”

Anneth hesitated, just fractionally. “Information that will prove it, yes. But someone must call in the police, and I think that someone must be you.”

The manager seemed to ponder for a moment, then he shook his head. “Dr Kaufmann was very definite. I don’t think I should—”

“Katrakis?” said Sheila, abruptly. “You’re name plate. Are you by any chance related to Melani Katrakis?”

“Of Sivas?” he asked. Sheila nodded. “Yes, I am. You know my cousin?”

“Oh, very well. I live in Sivas you see, and we often have coffee together.”

A smile transformed the manager’s face. “You are Sheila, of course, I should have guessed.” He got up from his seat and walked round the desk to clasp Sheila’s hand. “Welcome to our hotel. You are here for the conference? Of course you are. What can I do for you? No service is too small for a friend of Melani.”

Anneth stared at them both in shock. She didn’t feel important now. In fact they seemed to have forgotten her existence as they grinned at each other. She cleared her throat and gave Sheila what she hoped was a significant look.

“Ah yes,” said Sheila, her face composing itself into a sombre look. “We really do need you to call the police I’m afraid. There’s no doubt about that poor man’s murder.”

“Of course, of course. I will call them immediately. Please wait here. Can I have some coffee brought to you? Or tea?”

“No thank you. You’re very kind.”

Rather more quickly than Anneth expected, the manager returned with a stern-looking man dressed in a rumpled linen suit. Both women rose to their feet, but he motioned them back into their chairs.

“Thank you,” he said to the manager, then waved the man out of the office, shut the door behind him and came to sit on the edge of the desk.

“So. It is Saturday night, and my wife has cooked my favourite dinner. Which is growing cold as we speak. As is my wife. What do you have for me?”

Anneth looked to Sheila, thinking she would start talking, but the older woman just smiled back at her. She decided to grab the bull by the horns.

“I was sitting next to Bertram Sinclair when he was taken ill,” she started. “I helped him outside and I was there when he died. It was clearly poisoning of some sort.”

She paused, but Sheila still said nothing, so on she went. “I’m a herbalist in my spare time and I enjoy researching the use of plants throughout history. It relates quite nicely with my professional studies actually and, well, that’s not important. The point is that Professor Sinclair’s symptoms were classic for poisoning by Aconite, or Wolfsbane to use its common name.”

To her surprise the policeman threw his head back and laughed. “So someone thinks our victim was a werewolf?”

Anneth sighed. Classic horror movies had a lot to answer for. “The name relates to the use of the plant to poison wolves, and sometimes other predators, in the 18^th century.”

She paused, unsure where to go next. Finally, Sheila spoke. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“That would be because I didn’t say it.”

“Quite.”

There was a long silence. Anneth held her breath, but finally the man shrugged. “Ach. I am Chief Dimitrius Makris. Now, please go on.” He held up a hand as Anneth drew breath. “And, no, I do not need to know your names. Not until you tell me something important.”

Sheila gave Anneth a small nod, so she composed her thoughts and continued. “In that same period, Aconite was also used, in minute amounts, to reduce fever or relieve the symptoms of neuralgia but, in ancient times, it was used to execute criminals, so we know the effects it has. Pliny called it ‘the most prompt of all poisons’.”

“Well, our victim’s death was certainly quick,” said the chief.

“We both saw it.” She turned to Sheila who nodded enthusiastically. “Bertram had a different starter from everyone else – fruit salad with spiced sugar. The spice in the sugar would have been enough to cover the bitter taste of the poison. And you wouldn’t need much.”

The chief gazed out of the window for a few moments. Anneth once more looked to Sheila but she just shrugged and waited. Finally, he turned back to them.

“And you have a suspect?”

“Well, two actually.”

“No,” interrupted Sheila. “It can only realistically be one person.”

“It can?” said Anneth.

“The assistant, what was his name?” asked Sheila.

Anneth frowned. “John something. Michaels? Mitford?”

“Metcalf. John Metcalf,” said the chief. “Yes, I did do a little homework before I came to speak to you Ms Karlsen.”

Sheila chuckled. “John Metcalf, thank you Chief Makris. He ordered the change of food, which obviously puts him under suspicion, but he had no opportunity to add the poison. No, it can only have been Mrs Sinclair, I’m afraid.”

“His wife?” The chief looked horrified. Perhaps thinking about his own wife and the dinner she’d lovingly cooked for him that evening. Anneth couldn’t help but smile at the thought.

“But where would she get this Wolfsbane?” he asked. “Surely you are not going to tell me she is a witch?”

Anneth was impressed with the stern stare that Sheila gave the man. He almost seemed to wilt under it.

“Of course not.” Sheila’s arch tone matched the stare. “That would be ridiculous. But Wolfsbane is a common flower in an English cottage garden.”

“And finding how to extract poison from the roots would be easy on the internet,” added Anneth.

“I see, please continue. Why do you suspect the wife?”

“Someone had clearly interfered with the sugar. Anneth spotted a small amount on the floor near the serving area. Mrs Sinclair visited the kitchen.”

“But the chef was there,” said Anneth, confused. “He said he never left her alone.”

“That’s right. But once she ascertained that he was the only person working in the kitchen, it was easy to put a call in to reception and ask to speak to him.”

“The wrong number,” said Anneth, realisation dawning.

“Exactly. Then, while he was away, she re-entered and added some extra spice of her own.”

“Spilling some of the sugar in the process.”

“Spilling or deliberately discarding.”

The chief’s head turned from woman to woman as they spoke like a man watching a tennis match.

“I think she emptied some of the sugar,” continued Sheila, “so that Bertram would use it all and call for more.”

“But why?” asked the chief.

“To get fresh mix into the bowl. If anyone were to be suspicious and test it, there would be no trace of poison.”

“Clever,” said Anneth.

“Not so clever,” said the chief. “The remains of the fruit have already been sent for testing. If there is this poison, it will be found.”

“She most likely wouldn’t have known how quickly it would work. She probably thought he would eat all the fruit,” said Anneth. She surprised herself at the sadness in her voice. Knowing someone intimately for years and then deliberately causing them harm; she couldn’t imagine how you could get to that point.

There was a pause as they all contemplated the nature of the crime. Then the spell was broken by the chief rising to his feet. “Thank you, ladies. I will take things from here.”

They were once again sitting in the bar, this time with a coffee, as Mrs Sinclair was led away by uniformed police officers. Chief Makris glanced across and gave them a small salute as he passed.

“Well, that cleared that up quite satisfactorily,” said Sheila. “What’s next for you now? Jetting off to another big conference or back to the office?”

“Neither. I’m on sabbatical. This conference was in the diary for over a year, so I had to honour the commitment.”

“Oh.”

There was a silence that stretched out between them. Anneth took a sip of coffee, trying to think of a way to change the subject, hoping Sheila would do so. But the older woman simply took a sip of her own coffee and waited.

“My grandmother died,” she said, when she could stand the silence no longer. “I took some time out to travel back to my hometown and sort through her things. It was too far from Oslo for just weekends.”

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”

Anneth felt the familiar tears prick at her eyes. “She raised me from the age of ten.” She halted, could speak no further.

“Do you know,” said Sheila, slowly, “my biggest fear about dying is upsetting my grandchildren, yet not being able to apologise to them for it.”

A snort of laughter burst out of Anneth. “I’m sorry. It’s just I can imagine my bestemor saying the same thing.”

She wiped her eyes as Sheila gave her an affectionate pat on the arm.

“You said you took some time; you’re finished? With the sorting I mean.”

“Yes. And truth to tell, I’m not sure what to do now. A holiday of some sort, I suppose.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic. Could you go back to work? A familiar routine to take your mind off your loss a bit?”

Anneth paused before deciding to confide in this woman who reminded her so much of her bestemor. “That’s the problem, actually. I don’t think I want to go back.”

“A new start, how exciting.” The older woman’s eyes seemed almost to glow as a smile lit up her face.

“Well, I’m not sure about that. I simply feel I’ve done all I can in my field, and I want to do something more…” She trailed off. More what? Creative? Challenging? “…Maybe just something different.”

“Different is good. And you have your holiday to think it through. Where are you going?”

“I… I have no idea.” To her horror she started crying. This wasn’t her. She was strong, self-contained. But the tears wouldn’t stop.

Sheila searched through the pockets of her dungarees and pulled out a tissue. She opened it out and examined it. “Yes, clean, I’m sure. Here you are dear. You have a good cry.”

“Thank you,” said Anneth as she took the tissue and blotted her eyes.

“And tomorrow, why don’t you come home with me. I’ve plenty of room for two and you can take your time deciding what to do next.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly.”

“Of course you can. You’ve just told me you’re your own boss for a while.”

“I suppose you’re right. Yes, why not. Thank you, I will come.”

“Good. I’ve a feeling you’ll like Sivas. And you’ll be pleased to know shoes are optional.”

~~~~~

If you've enjoyed this tale and would like to read more of Sheila and Anneth's adventures, why not head over to my shop to get your copy of Murder the Old-Fashioned Way. It's the first in the Cozy Cretan Mystery series.