When Clara made a beautiful flower garden over the plot where she had buried her murdered husband she didn’t realize what attention it would attract. Her husband’s as yet unannounced disappearance had greatly enhanced the funds available to Clara, and she had splurged out on some very expensive and exotic flower plants.
She hadn’t been able to dig a very deep grave and it was difficult to see things in the dark. So it was almost inevitable that the roots of some of the plants were drawing nutrients from a fertile source.
“How do you get your plants to grow so healthy?” asked Rebecca. “The answer lies in the fertilizer,” responded Clara producing an as yet unopened bag of fertilizer. “Would you like some flowers?” And Clara cut the loveliest large bunch of flowers and handed them to Rebecca.
A little later Clara thought she would like to sell the house. There were too many unpleasant memories, and she wanted to rid herself of the garden plot. But she couldn’t sell because the new buyers might dig the garden up and discover her secret. So Clara stayed in the same house.
About three years later a man called in to ask directions to the local Flower Show and he couldn’t help but notice Clara’s garden. “Goodness me!” he said, and within a few weeks they were in love. He suggested that Clara move in with him, but Clara, thinking of her buried husband, insisted that the man do the moving. He moved in.
These days (did I forget to mention it?) Clara is extending her garden.
How exciting it was after all these years of research to discover there were three murders in the family tree. Goodness! It had been staring Desirée in the face all this time.
Great grandfather Freddie was married to Irene and they had eleven children under the age of fifteen. During the census of 1918 Irene and her sister and mother were at an address at Brighton clearly having a break at the beach resort. The nanny looked after the children – according to the census records. Freddie wasn’t there. The address the census gave him was miles away from where he lived.
Irene, her sister, and her mother never returned from that beach address. They all died in the same weekend. A month later, Freddie remarried; to a widow called Fifi who lived at the address that Freddie had been visiting during the census.
Murder! It was so obvious. The death certificates of the three murdered women stated that they died of influenza. Yeah right! There was no inquest because every second person in that year died of the Spanish Flu. But clearly Freddie had poisoned them in order to marry the flirtatious Fifi.
Fifi was French. At least, the name looked French, which sent Desirée the researcher into a spin. She apparently was descended from the liaison between Freddie and Fifi. Not only murders in the family, but French blood! Let those who are not impressed eat cake.
Desirée shared her findings with her close relatives. How wonderful it was to be descended from a murderer with French connections.
And then something even more exciting happened. Desirée began to suspect the children’s nanny was doing a little more than cleaning up after the children. Desirée put her findings online.
History is so absorbing when people share the facts they find. The internet is riddled with such facts.
Steven and Cassie had been married for thirty-two years when Cassie died of breast cancer. At the time, their daughter, Annabelle, was thirty. She was happily married and had three children.
About two years later Steven remarried. To Mabel. Annabelle was outraged.
“That woman!” said Annabelle. “She’s just after the money. She’s using my father. She’s a conniving witch.”
Annabelle never visited her father. Not even with the children. She would have nothing to do with him. How could he love such a woman?
A few years after his second marriage, Steven died. Of a heart attack. In the ambulance. On the way to the hospital.
Then his second wife, Mabel, died. Annabelle paid to have the gravestone corrected:
In loving memory of STEVEN loved husband of Mabel Cassie