12

After the brutal decapitation of the sunflowers, Humphrey had retreated to his greenhouse. It felt like the only place where he could find any respite. The lingering furore, or, more accurately, the couple of people and a stray dog who didn't seem willing to drift away, no longer threatened his peace, but he didn't want to take any risks.

The dog, eventually, gave a satisfied 'woof' and bounded away to Heaven-knew-where, as stray dogs were want to do. That 'woof' sounded familiar to Humphrey, as though he had heard it before, somewhere, but he couldn't quite put his finger on where. It didn't hold his attention for long, but the memory nagged at the back of his mind for a while.

He had far more important things to do than try to work out the movements of a dog that he may, or may not, have heard elsewhere. Flowers would not tend to themselves. That made him pause. They very much could tend to themselves. They were flowers. Drop a seed in a half-way decent clod of soil and they would grow without any human intervention. As he worked, he tried to think where that train of thought was taking him, but ended up thinking the destination was some long abandoned, overgrown branch line. In Wales, probably.

Moping around, mourning the loss of his sunflowers would help no-one, least of all himself. That was the main reason he had sequestered himself within his modest greenhouse. Well, the second-to-main reason. Certainly a reason high on the list of reasons, above the middle, for sure. He dug the small trowel into the soil of the seeding bed and extricated another growing plant, transferring it into a plastic pot and then filled the pot with fresh soil, tamping it down with his fingers.

Although the sunflowers were no more, it may not be a complete waste of the growing season. He had wanted to plant these late bloomers in various, carefully chosen, spots within his extensive flower beds, in order for the rush of colours to change as the weeks drew on. It would give the garden a vibrant, transformative wave of colour from the very beginning, to the very end.

Recent events had changed that plan, somewhat. He would now put the late bloomers in the spot where the sunflowers had lived, strived to reach the Sun, and then died at the hands and shears of one Cornelius Haughton. It wouldn't be anywhere near the same, but at least it wouldn't leave a large, gaping, bleak patch of nothing to blight his garden.

And, after the cessation of hostilities between himself and Cornelius, even though Humphrey had not actually engaged in any of those hostilities, Humphrey felt confident that he still stood a fair chance of winning the prize for most beautiful garden, in the annual Summer Flower Festival, still a number of weeks away.

Satisfied that he had collected the right amount of late bloomers, Humphrey transferred them to the nearby trolley and began to head back towards the sunflower plot. What was once the sunflower plot. As he turned to close the doors of his greenhouse, shutting away those wonderful smells that seemed to propagate within the enclosed space, he glanced towards his neighbour's monstrosity of a greenhouse, that seemed to loom against his own, like a bully extracting dinner money with threats of violence against a first year in Junior School.

Did they still have 'Junior Schools'? Probably not. No matter. The greenhouse next door offended his delicate sensibilities. Too tall. Too wide. The greenhouse appeared to have a complicated pulley system that would open the roof windows in specific orders, depending on the time of day and temperature outside and in. Humphrey had seen Cornelius trying to work those strings and pulleys, tugging at them, loosening them, tying them off on little cleat hooks, winding the strings around and around.

Tomatoes. Cornelius appeared to have more than his fair share of tomatoes within that greenhouse and Humphrey, making a quick calculation, worked out that over half the space within the greenhouse held tomatoes. He couldn't understand what Cornelius did with them all. He certainly never sold any excess to the neighbours within the village, or to the little shop. So many little, and not so little, tomatoes going to waste.

That was another point where he and Cornelius wildly diverged. Much of Cornelius' crops would never be eaten. His irritating, and irritable, neighbour either composted most of the crops or threw them away, as though he would prefer them to go to waste than have anyone dare to eat them. Humphrey's garden never had that problem. Beauty was never wasted and his flowers were always beautiful.

"That's a right fine greenhouse, and no mistake." Humphrey's back stiffened involuntarily at the voice behind him. "I reckon it's an accident waiting to happen, like as not."

"What do you mean?" He spun around to face Ursula and then had to search for her, finding her with her head inside his own greenhouse. "Please, if you would be so kind, if it isn't too much trouble, could you, for the love of everything Holy, bugger off!"

"I like thine better'n his. Too flashy. Too, what tha call, overcompensating, if I'm owt to judge." She slid the door of his greenhouse closed and bounced a finger in the direction of Cornelius' greenhouse. "All'a them strings and pulleys and whatnot. It's as likely to cause an accident as let air flow better. Nay, thy's better 'avin a little 'un, like thee."

Humphrey looked, again, at Cornelius' greenhouse, those strings and pulleys like a spider's web trailing up towards the roof glass above. He could certainly see it, if, say, all the roof windows were open and, somehow, the strings became untied. Those windows, falling back to their frames without a stout pair of hands arresting their descent. He could see it.

A hand rose to his mouth as the horrific possibilities dawned upon him. It would be a disaster. All those tomatoes, lacerated and slashed beyond all recognition by free-falling, shattered shards of glass. If anyone were inside at the time ... Humphrey didn't want to imagine it. He doubted Hitchcock would have dared to portray something so horrific.

"Stop! Just stop it!" He rounded upon Ursula. "That's enough! It was enough with the turnips and the cucumber. It was beyond enough with the carrots. But this? The very idea is criminal. Evil!"

"I'm sure as I have no idea what tha means, lad." She scrunched up her features, rubbing a wrinkled finger under her long nose. "I were just sayin' is all. Accident waiting to 'appen. Like as not. As I say."

Humphrey felt in a whirl of opposing thoughts. The old woman had as much as threatened to wreck Cornelius' greenhouse. For what possible gain he could not even begin to imagine, but she had done the same thing twice before, now, and both times what she had said had come true. He couldn't doubt or deny that this wicked woman had something to do with both of those incidents.

He needed to warn Cornelius. He had to put a stop to this before the old woman could act upon her threat. But ... He had tried that before, only to be met by scepticism and suspicion. A suspicion that, for Cornelius, had come to horrible fruition, finding Humphrey in the midst of a patch of ravaged carrots.

But Humphrey had to do something. He briefly considered hopping over the intervening wall between the gardens, making sure all the windows of Cornelius' greenhouse were firmly closed and then cutting the strings at a time when they could do no damage. That could work. That could put a spanner in the twisted works of the old woman.

Then again, if Cornelius came to his greenhouse and found the strings cut and missing, after recent events, the first person he would turn to as a possible culprit was Humphrey. At least that way, no-one would get hurt and no tomatoes would fall prey to this iniquitous woman's dastardly games. A least objectionable alternative.

Of course, he would still suffer further bouts of Cornelius' ire, but he could endure it. He had little reputation left to lose, despite Cornelius' half-hearted attempt at exonerating him. He didn't want to imagine what Audrey's next straw poll would show. He'd certainly lose what remaining friends he had, but he would lose them, anyway, should he let the old woman get away with it.

"I'll stop you. Somehow. I don't know how, but I will." He chewed upon his thumbnail, still trying to work out alternative ways of actually stopping the old woman's plans. "You won't get away with this. I won't let you. I'll find a way!"

"Has tha been getting enough sleep, lad?" The old woman took his arm in hers, patting his forearm several times, and began leading him down the path, back to his cottage. "I reckon as all this hullabaloo has got thee all befuddled. Old Ursula recommends a good night's sleep and plenty of hot, sweet tea. Come on, si'thee, let's have thee in bed."

Confused, Humphrey found himself allowing Ursula to lead him away from his and Cornelius' greenhouses. He didn't know what to do, no matter what he had said in the heat of the moment, and the old woman acted as though he were the mad one. What if he was wrong and it was all a coincidence? He glanced back at the trolley with the late bloomers arranged on the top.

"But ... but, my flowers. I need to plant them." A little resolve kicked in once again and he tried to shake his arm free from Ursula's. "No! You can't fool me! I will stop you!"

"Aye, I reckon tha might, were I doing anything, which I'm not." With an iron grip upon his arm, Ursula continued to lead him away. "I'll see to tha plants, don't thee pay 'em no mind. I'll put 'em back in thee greenhouse, safe and sound. Safe and sound."

Humphrey could do nothing. He couldn't tell what was real and what was not. Couldn't warn Cornelius even if his fears were founded. Couldn't make the greenhouse secure. Whatever game the old woman played, she had backed Humphrey into a corner with no moves available to him.

She had won. Check and mate. Whatever that actually meant.