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Tom Barnaby and DS Scott were sitting by a roaring fire in the Feathers, congratulating themselves over a pint. It had been a long week (still only Thursday) but today had brought an unexpected solution linking two open cases, and Midsomer's finest were enjoying a well earned pint of Best before a cosy evening in. Joyce would be out, but Cully Barnaby was expected by the 7.05 train, and Tom looked forward to spending time with his daughter. It was an unusual state of affairs. Even when Cully was at home 'resting', she shared many of her mother's interests, spending little time in the family home. Police officers rarely kept regular hours, and for once it seemed like the only business he had to look forward to was an evening in with his daughter, a nice bottle of red, and whatever they could find in the fridge. Life, thought Tom Barnaby, was good.
Joyce Barnaby was equally happy as she joined the throng entering the village hall. Spotting Margot Finch, friend and neighbour, she eased her way over past a group of staff and volunteers from the local museum, peeled off her coat, and dropped onto the seat beside her. Joyce felt very strongly about the cluster of villages surrounding the town she had called home for so long, and enjoyed taking part in community events. The Midsomer Mycology Society, reformed after several years of stagnation, was no exception.
Taking the chair this evening was Millie Wright, WI stalwart and parish councillor. The display table beside her was piled with books and specimens, and Joyce sighed in envy. This was her third meeting, and she had failed to anything of note so far. Her most recent offering, reposing in her bag, was possibly of interest, but had been picked a couple of days before and was looking limp and ragged. Still, she was determined to get to grips with this hobby before the season ended. Her shining pocket knife was permanently in her handbag, ready for every possible fungus.
When they broke for coffee, Joyce edged over to the book corner and tried to take a surreptitious attempt at identification using one of the encyclopaedic volumes. She had acquired two books herself, but one was fairly basic with black and white illustrations and the other, written nearly thirty years before, was a lyrical journey praising the beauty of the woodlands and raving at length about the light dappling through the trees. It was a good read and had surprisingly accurate hints about where to find fungi, but as an identification tool it was not terribly practical.
Opening her Tupperware box she almost groaned over the wet mush. Still, there might be enough distinguishing features to identify them... thumbing through the Collin's Field Guide she tried to decide whether it was a Milk Drop Mycena or a Garlic Fairy Cap.
"Oh dear" a deep voice behind Joyce startled her from her contemplation of the book. Turning round she saw Rebecca Moore, white hair in its usual wild and woolly state, coat lopsided with a rippling hem, at least three jumpers visible, each pattern contrasting wildly with the others. Everyone in the village knew their local eccentric, notebook permanently in hand, who had been about eighty since Cully was small. Joyce had a flash of her daughter, dressed in her Brownie uniform and terrified because Miss Moore had scolded them roundly for breaking tree branches in the woods. The older woman had arrived at the next pack meeting to teach Cully's six the correct way to climb trees without damaging them, and had been held in high esteem ever since, but she did have a habit of appearing unexpectedly.
Leaning over Joyce's box, Miss Moore prodded at the mushrooms. "Kept these in a plastic bag, did you? Never a good idea. Don't agree with too much picking myself, enough to study and enough to eat. You've not overdone things, I'll say that for you. What book are you using?" Joyce pro-offered the Oxford Field Guide to Fungi and was met by a nod. "Looked at any other texts?"
Noticing Margot giving her a sympathetic look from across the room, Joyce turned her full attention back to Miss Moore and explained her attempts. The Johanna Foster title was met by a sniff, but the other received grudging approval. "Sound for a basic level, but you'll want to be looking at something with a bit more depth. Proper equipment too. Wouldn't bother with the Foster claptrap myself, her books are all drivel. Do you know your trees?" Joyce, once an enthusiastic Girl Guide, assured her she did and was met by another nod. "Know your trees and you are in with a chance." Millie was clapping her hands for the group to reassemble, so they parted, Joyce murmuring her thanks to a departing back.
As they left the hall half an hour later, Joyce felt a hand grip her elbow, and almost jumped out of her skin. Rebecca Moore stood behind her, looking wilder than ever.
"You asked some sensible questions. Have a proper look for some specimens, come to my cottage tomorrow evening and I'll give you some tips to identify them. You'll need a basket, give them space to breathe. Here, take mine. You can return it tomorrow, and mind you do for I'll need it on Tuesday." and she thrust the large and unusually shaped basket towards the younger woman. Joyce Barnaby, onetime Chair of the Pageant Committee, choir member, mother, wife, took it meekly and, feeling like she had received a piece of rather difficult homework, headed off into the night. As she passed the edge of the woods her scarf blew off, and scrabbling to keep hold of the precious basket she chased it into the trees. It was dark and damp, and the thick layer of leaf mould muffled her footsteps. She stre-tch-ed – but no, the wretched scarf was just out of grasp. In the end she had to put the cumbersome basket down to use a branch for leverage to reach up and pull the scarf off a bramble bush. As she turned back to the road she heard a noise and spun round sharply. A shadow moved. A strange scrabbling sound. A creak from the opposite direction. A crunch. Joyce gathered up her belongings and fled.
She arrived home to find Cully and her dad pleasantly engaged in finishing the wine. Remains of a Chinese takeaway were scattered across the kitchen surfaces, and Billie Holiday was oozing from the stereo. Dropping the basket on to the worktop she turned away from all thoughts of fungi, and joined her family
The next morning Tom disappeared to the office, and Joyce, leaving a note for Cully who was sleeping the sleep of the mildly hung over, gathered the basket and notebooks, and went to run some errands before fulfilling her instructions. It was early evening when she knocked on the cottage door. Getting no reply, she left the basket on the step with a note, transferred her specimens to a paper bag from her shopping bag, and headed home.
--
Twenty four hours later, DCI Barnaby and DS Scott were picking their way through police tape to enter a thatched cottage on the outskirts of Causton. Millie Wright, who had made the call, and Joyce Barnaby who had been with her at the time, sat pale and shaken on the sofa in the crowded living room. New member of the team, WPC Linda Markham, was with them, notebook in hand.
The body was sprawled across the stairs. Rebecca Moore had not died easily. Her face was contorted, and her hands clenched into fists. She had been violently ill, and the result of this made Scott turn away, arm raised to block out the smell. The basket Joyce had left the previous evening still sat on the front step, and it was this which had alerted the two women that something might be wrong. Glancing across at the WPC, Tom raised an eyebrow and nodded towards the kitchen.
Linda Markham felt very young as she stood in front of her boss, explaining how his wife and her friend had come to discover the body. The two women had been driving past when Joyce noticed the precious basket still outside. Knowing Miss Moore didn't use her front door often, but also concerned that she was elderly, they had stopped. Millie, nosier than Joyce, had slipped around the back to look through the windows, and screamed as she saw the shape in the hall.
On the surface it looked obvious. A plate lay on the floor in three pieces, the splattered remains of the meal being bagged by an officer. An overturned dining chair, a small table, and a shattered vase tracked the path the woman had taken. Saucepans lay on the stove, and from the evidence of their eyes it looked as if mushrooms had been on the menu.
"Accidental poisoning?" said Scott, nodding towards a handful of fungi remaining in the pot. "I'd heard she was a bit of a forager and who knows what she had eaten. Surprised it didn't happen earlier, really..."
"That can't be what happened." Joyce had come up behind him and looked fierce. "Rebecca Moore knew more about plants and wildlife than anyone else in the area. I cannot believe that she would make a mistake over something poisonous. If that was the cause of...death, someone else must have given them to her." Taking his wife by the arm, the Chief Inspector guided her back to her friend, muttering to her under his breath. Scott didn't bother to conceal his smirk. He wasn't laughing when presented with a composting bin and informed that he was to look for evidence that mushrooms had been prepared in the kitchen that evening. Two hours later he had seen every tea leaf and wilted carrot in the area, and found no signs of mushroom trimmings.
--
Cully sighed and dropped the play she had been attempting to read. It was no good. Her parents were going to be late, and she was ravenous. None of her friends were home this weekend, and she couldn't face the pub. In the fridge she found tomatoes, cheese and mushrooms, and set about concocting a large bowl of pasta, which she consumed while taking advantage of some of the weird and wonderful channels which her parents counted as useful for work or research. It was warm in the house, she had been working hard for the last few weeks, and the meal had been filling. It didn't take long before Cully Barnaby was asleep.
She was walking through the woods near the churchyard. She could hear singing, and felt a delicious sense of light and energy. It was so warm and sunny, and when she saw the stream she just had to jump in. The water was warm, like a bath, and she rose from the depths letting the reeds brush her body. Looking up, she saw she was being watched. Gavin Troy stood on the bridge looking down with a smile on his face. Smiling back, she reached up to him, and he floated towards her. Pulling him close, she felt his body close to hers, his hands reaching and stroking, hers pulling his shirt away, their skin warm together, his hands...
Cully woke with a gasp, and shook her head to try to clear it. Sergeant Troy of all people! She felt a little dizzy and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. There, to her surprise, stood DS Scott who greeted her with a warm smile. She threw herself at him, laughing in delight, and he kissed her. She sank into the warmth and the scent of him – he smelt amazing – and kissing and kissing and sinking to the floor and kissing, until suddenly a movement from the back door distracted her. Gavin Troy stormed in, pulled Scott away and turned to her himself.
"Cully, I needed to say, to tell you...Cully?" he held her arm and was shaking it, "Cully!"
Cully Barnaby opened her eyes and looked up into her parents' anxious faces.
"Cully? You fell asleep." She felt her face flush, scrambling to her feet.
"Sorry, I was...I think I was dreaming. I...I think I'll go to bed." And she fled, much to her mother's concern.
"She looked rather warm; I wonder if she is sickening for something."
Tom was puzzled. His daughter had looked – no, he really didn't want to think about it. A cry from the kitchen made him jump to his feet. Joyce was standing in front of the hob, looking at the remains of a pasta sauce.
"Tom? What did you do with those mushrooms I gave you?" Her husband was sure he had the right answer:
"You said they needed to be fresh so I put them in the fridge..." he paled as he realised the implication, knocking over a glass as he grabbed for the phone. "I'll call an ambulance, you go and check on Cully. Keep her awake, and..." Joyce was starting to regain the colour in her face and she reached out and removed the telephone.
"It's all right Tom. They weren't poison. They weren't supposed to be eaten, but they shouldn't harm her. Liberty caps, I think they were," Eyes screwed shut she thought for a moment, "Psilocybe semilanceata. Non-toxic, but hallucinogenic...oh! I'm going to take her up some water. You should...throw the rest away. I don't want to risk..." and she was gone. Tom picked up the saucepan and raised an eyebrow at the contents. The cat, a recent addition to the household and known to Tom purely as That Cat, heard the rattle of the pots and ran to thread its way around his legs. He looked down at it, and looked at the contents of the pan. Oh, so tempting... But no. He scooped the remains into a plastic bag just in case, sealed it, and followed his wife upstairs.
Cully came down to breakfast somewhat gingerly the following morning, just as her parents were finishing their coffee. As she sat down, she suddenly flushed scarlet. They both followed her gaze but could see nothing but the kitchen door. Shaking her head as if to clear a thought, she took the proffered mug and buried her face in it.
At the cottage, DI Scott had made a discovery. A small bolt-on room to one side of the cottage had been opened up to reveal a workshop, where test tubes and other equipment jostled for space with pages of script. High on the wall was a shelf of books in pristine condition, so unlike the well thumbed volumes which covered every surface in the cottage, that he took a closer look. They were all by the same author, and a drawer revealed letters from the publisher. A pile of typescript covered in handwritten notes made in the householder's distinctive writing dropped the final piece of the puzzle in place. There was no doubt. Rebecca Moore was Johanna Foster. Here they had the answer to why she was always clutching a notebook, why she spent hours in the woods and fields, and why her books had seemed strangely familiar to local readers. He reported this eagerly to his boss when he arrived late morning, and hesitated a moment. He had caught sight of Cully Barnaby walking past an hour earlier, and she had gone out of her way to avoid him, crimson faced and stuttering when he called a greeting across to her. He wondered whether to say anything to her father, but decided to steer clear.
Tom Barnaby had news of his own. Although the stomach contents had been analysed and was found to contain traces of amanitine the toxin found in a number of deadly fungi, there had been no remains of the mushrooms themselves. Dr Bullard had expressed his surprise at this, as the rest of the meal had been quite recognisable. Thanking his stars that he was a good couple of hours either side of a meal, Tom asked his friend whether the poison could have entered the food through another source "Deliberate ingestion? Dirty pan?" but George Bullard thought the latter unlikely.
"The quantity is too great for it to just be a trace. This was a deliberate act Tom, suicide...or murder."
--
The solution, when it came was unexpectedly easy. Police officers scouring the woods located a clump of Funeral Bell mushrooms on a dead tree, with a raw patch where a large lump had been hacked away. Some freshly disturbed ground nearby revealed something completely unexpected: several large fragments of pottery marked with string-like patterns. It was clearly ancient, the edges crumbled to the touch, and part was labelled with a string of letters and numbers in a more recent hand. When WPC Markham took them into the museum for identification (the soil was so fresh that the link could not be ignored), the curator took one look and broke down.
"The beaker...I knew it. Did she write it down in one of her notebooks? I knew I should have checked, but I didn't know where she kept them, didn't want to stay in that house any longer." Eyes like saucers, Linda radioed for help, which appeared in the form of DCI Barnaby and his mostly-trusty sidekick. She didn't think she had ever been so glad to see anyone in her life.
It had started with an accident. Joe Redmond had been in the museum's store, and had managed to knock a box off an overcrowded shelf. The dull crunch had almost made him sick. The label explained that the prehistoric beakerware urn had been excavated by an antiquarian-loving vicar in 1892, and bequeathed to the museum by his daughter. It was an unusual find, in near complete condition. It had been removed from display when the old archaeology gallery was redeveloped, some five years previously, and had been languishing in a box awaiting a new case ever since. Discovering the damage and horrified having destroyed something which had survived thousands of years, Joe had attempted to hide the evidence by burying it in the woods.
"And she saw me. It was dark, but I'd recognise her basket anywhere. She looked straight at me, she must have seen. She would have said – would have told. I couldn't let her ruin me. If she hadn't seen exactly what I was doing, she'd have come back, dug it up, found the damage. She wrote everything in those little notebooks, I had to get to her before she had a chance. I had to get her out of the way. I couldn't lose this job, I'd lose my reputation, everything. I found the mushrooms, stewed them, and collected the juice. I took it to her house in a bottle, poured it into her pan. She thought I'd come round to borrow a book for some new interpretation panels; she left me alone in the kitchen. I waited outside while she ate, heard her..." he showed the first hint of horror "It was horrible. I left the cooked mushrooms in the pan so that everyone would think she'd cooked them herself. She was always making strange things. She was mad, everyone said so. Mad! Oh, what have I done!"
So that was that. The door of the police car slammed and Scott accompanied Joseph Redmond to the station. Tom walked back past the small crowd to join his wife, explaining to her as they walked how the area had lost yet another local professional.
Joyce stopped in her tracks. "But that wasn't Rebecca Moore in the woods that day. Don't you remember; she made me borrow her basket that night, the night of the last meeting. I took it home but on the way my scarf blew off and I had to chase into the trees to catch it. Joe Redmond saw me, not her. And I didn't see a thing."
Two days later, the family were preparing to drive their youngest member to the station for her return to London. She entered the room, lugging her suitcase. "Oh Cully, I forgot to show you this," Tom Barnaby picked up the newspaper cutting resting in the fruit bowl. It was a headline from the Middlesbrough Gazette and described a heroic rescue made by Inspector Gavin Troy. There was a photo of him awkwardly shaking the hand of a local dignitary, and a blurry shot, taken on a mobile, showing him plunging through the river to reach the stranded child. Cully read it through, her face slowly turning scarlet as she made out the soaked man.
"That's really impressive, Dad. I just need to... I have to... I'll be back soon." And she was out of the door. Joyce picked up the paper dropped by her fleeing daughter.
"What on Earth was that about, Tom?"
Tom Barnaby chuckled. "I can't say for certain." He thought back a couple of days to the unfortunate mushroom incident before adding cryptically, "Cully always did talk in her sleep."