Murder Your Darlings

by Mark McCrum

  When they’d finished, Moretti turned back to Francis. So what did he think? she asked. About this sudden revelation of Sir Duncan’s?

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Both. But mainly, I think, that he doesn’t get the beautiful house.’

  ‘Or so he says.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s true?’

  ‘We only have his word for it,’ Francis said. ‘It will be interesting to see what his daughter says.’

  ‘But if it isn’t true, we would soon know, because he would be staying on at the house.’

  ‘Are you going to check up on him? From out here? In six months’ time? I’m not – and I live in the same country. So maybe he thinks that if he can get away with this story for now, it will put you off suspecting it’s him, and then once you’re investigating someone else, or have given up on the case, it will be too late.’

  Commissario Moretti laughed, then spoke in Italian to her colleagues. ‘That would be a crazy risk,’ she said to Francis. ‘Would he really think we would investigate some innocent on no evidence?’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s not true. It probably is. It’s a bold claim to make and, as he well knows, a game changer. He’d hardly murder his wife so as to have to leave the house he loves, would he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Even if he hated her,’ Sabatini added.

  ‘I don’t think he did,’ Francis said. ‘That little defence of her struck me as sincere.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Marta. ‘We are going to have to look elsewhere for our culprit.’ She called to the uniformed young policeman standing silent by the door. ‘Giacomo, puoi chiamare la Signorina Fiona per favore?’

  Duncan must have spoken to her, Francis thought, because Fiona looked self-assured to the point of smugness. Once again Moretti was super-courteous, apologizing for having to do such an interview in this time of grief.

  Fiona nodded respectfully in return, though she gave Francis a sneaky look which seemed to say, You know the score.

  Preliminaries over, Moretti got stuck in. It was perhaps a stupid question, she said, but she had to ask it: had Fiona ever met any of the other guests on the course; did she have anything in common with any of them, however remote?

  ‘No, I’m sorry to say, they are all strangers to me.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, please. This only makes it easier for us.’ Marta explained what Sir Duncan had told them about Framley Grange. ‘It will be a little sad for you, I think, to have to leave this beautiful place.’

  ‘It will. Though sadder for Daddy than for me. It wasn’t a home for me, or even a home from home. Francis knows, and it’s no secret, that I never got on that brilliantly with Poppy.’

  Moretti nodded.

  ‘You preferred your own mother?’ Francis asked.

  ‘I did. I do.’ Fiona smiled broadly, as if relieved that her mother was still alive.

  ‘So on the odd weekend away from London, you would be more likely to stay with her than with your father?’

  ‘I stayed with both of them. Don’t get me wrong, Framley was lovely in the summer. I often went there. But I didn’t go there to hang out with Poppy.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Francis, looking over at Marta to hand the conversational baton back. She nodded and gave him a slightly guarded smile. Next to her, Lorenzo Ricci pursed his lips; he clearly wasn’t happy with Francis’s intrusion, even though, Francis thought, I’m being as helpful as I can here, just trying to remind them that Poppy was Fiona’s stepmother and what that might mean.

  ‘Thank you, Francis,’ Moretti said. She turned back to Fiona. ‘And yet, you were the one to fly out immediately once you’d heard of her death?’

  ‘Of course. I’m here to support my father. He loved her, whatever we all thought.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt again,’ said Francis, ‘but when we spoke before, you pointed out that you were Duncan’s only child, so—’

  ‘We know this,’ said Ricci impatiently.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Francis. ‘But I think that perhaps explains why Fiona was so quick to come out here. It would be fair to say that there was no one else to support your father, was there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your mother would hardly be wanting to come out here, now.’

  Fiona laughed, as if at a private joke. ‘As I told you, she has another partner. I’m afraid she gave up on Daddy a long time ago.’

  ‘She’s not a fan of Poppy’s either?’

  ‘To put it mildly, she hates her. Blames her for breaking up the marriage. Which she pretty much did, I have to say.’

  Had Francis been alone with her he might have continued. Instead, not wanting to annoy the others more than he already clearly had, he nodded at Moretti, as if to say, Nothing more from me. Sabatini now took the floor, with a string of questions that didn’t add much to the picture, in Francis’s humble – and obviously unspoken, especially with Ricci glowering away in the background – opinion. What did Fiona do for a living? She was a solicitor, she replied. Where did she practise? In London. Was she married herself? No. Did she have a boyfriend? Yes. What was his name? Nick. Did he live in London too? Yes. How long had they been together? Five years. What did he do? He was a television producer. Did he have much money? Yes, he was quite successful and made a good living. Were they planning to get married? At this point, Fiona balked, quite understandably in Francis’s opinion. Had he been the judge in a court hearing he would have ruled such a question inadmissible. Even more personal than those that had preceded it, and surely irrelevant. Where was this going? Was Sabatini still holding on to the idea that Fiona might somehow be involved in Poppy’s death, when it was now obvious that she had nothing to gain whatsoever? Not Framley, nor even any money.

  ‘You don’t need to answer that question if you don’t want to,’ said Moretti, butting in.

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Fiona, looking over at Francis. ‘It’s really no skin off my nose.’

  ‘Non è un problema per me,’ Moretti glossed.

  ‘Nick hasn’t asked me,’ Fiona continued, ‘and even if he had, I’m not sure I’d be that bothered. We’re perfectly happy as we are.’

  ‘So you live together?’ asked Sabatini.

  At this, Fiona looked at Francis, as if to say, Do I have to answer this? Francis was sorely tempted to interrupt but, clocking both Sabatini and Ricci’s faces, decided it would be wisest not to, if he wanted to stay in the room. He shrugged, smiled and nodded discreetly.

  ‘Not technically,’ Fiona replied, with a smile. ‘Nick has a flat of his own. But he spends most nights at mine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sabatini with a strange finality, almost as if this answer had solved some tricky problem for him. ‘Per me, va bene,’ he added to Moretti.

  ‘Anyone else have any questions?’ Moretti asked.

  Now it was Ricci’s turn. As she must know, he told Fiona, until her father had explained that the beautiful house, Framley Grange, would pass direct to his sister, they had had some suspicions of both Duncan and her. Now, it would be fair to say – he looked round his colleagues rather grandly – that those suspicions had ‘been erased’. But did she have any suspicions herself? Coming out here to this place, meeting this collection of strangers. Was there any one of them that she thought might have been responsible for this foul deed, this double murder?

  Fiona looked taken aback. ‘That’s hard for me to say. I’ve only been out here for three days. Most of that time I’ve been with my father, trying to sort things out. Making arrangements for Poppy’s funeral. I hardly know these people.’

  ‘Is there no one person who stands out to you?’ Ricci insisted. ‘As someone who would be capable of this?’

  Fiona shook her head. ‘Really, I’m the wrong person to ask.’

  They had reached, it seemed, the end of the road with Fiona, and shortly after that she was dismissed and they broke for coffee. Moretti led the other three into the little side room where they lined up by the Gaggia mac
hine and made themselves cappuccinos. When they then sat down at the marble table to drink them, Francis left them to it. He didn’t want to impose.

  He took his own coffee outside to the courtyard where, incongruously, the sun still shone. The sky was blue and it was a perfect late September day: soft, mild and warm enough, yet not too warm. Sitting there with his frothy cappuccino cooling between the palms of his hands, it was hard to believe that he had landed in the middle of another murder inquiry. Who would they interview next? And what would be the line of questioning now? He was going to take a back seat, he decided. Resist asking any more questions himself. Surely the intriguing thing for him was to observe how the police and the prosecutor worked together. If he got involved, he was changing that dynamic. But then again, it was frustrating when they asked the wrong questions; when they followed up on some line of attack that was clearly going to lead them nowhere, as Sabatini had with Fiona. Why had he been so interested in her home circumstances? With the revelation about Framley, she was off the hook. Even if his questions had revealed that she was penniless, that was still not going to help with a motive now. As it happened, she was clearly fine. Well off enough even without her TV producer boyfriend.

  His reverie was interrupted by Marta Moretti, standing over his deck chair with her coffee. ‘Francis, may I have a word?’

  ‘Of course.’ He jumped to his feet and stood facing her.

  ‘Thank you so much for your help in there.’ This sounded ominous.

  ‘Not a problem. It’s good of you to include me. I hope some of my questions were helpful?’

  ‘They were. I definitely found them useful.’

  ‘Who do you plan to get in next?’

  She smiled, her charming film star smile, totally disarming. ‘We have a little list. The thing is, I hope you don’t mind, but the others feel that it would be best if we keep it just us from now on.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, Francis. It’s a question of protocol as much as anything else. Because you are going to be staying here with everyone, and everyone is basically a suspect, we don’t want to put you in a position where you have to keep difficult secrets. Or where you’re put under any pressure from the others to say what went on in this or that interview.’

  Surely you would have considered this earlier, Commissario, was what he thought. But: ‘Obviously I’d be totally discreet,’ was what he said.

  ‘I appreciate that. I’m personally certain that you would. And will be, about the people we’ve just seen, Sir Duncan and his daughter, in particular.’

  ‘Of course. My lips are sealed.’

  ‘I know that. Anyway, that’s the decision Sabatini has made. I’ll let you know if we need you again. Many thanks.’

  She turned, quite brusquely, and went back inside. Francis was not convinced by her explanation. He found himself wondering which exactly of his interventions had caused the problem. Or perhaps it was just Ricci’s all-too-obvious antipathy.

  Ah well, what had he told himself? He didn’t want to get involved. Let the police solve it. It was their problem, their legal system.

  He returned to his deckchair and closed his eyes.

  ELEVEN

  The interviews continued for the rest of the morning. One by one the guests were called in, to re-emerge with their take on what they had been put through. The police had been terribly intrusive, Zoe told Francis, particularly that younger one with the ’tache. ‘I really don’t see how my private life is relevant to this situation. Some of the questions they were asking! About things that happened years ago.

  ‘And they’re fixated on this idea that I recommended Villa Giulia to Poppy. I did, yes, but the idea that I knew her at all well is ridiculous. We were on a course together. It was a stimulating weekend and we circulated emails at the end of it. When Stephanie asked us last year to be kind enough to tell anyone who might be interested about Villa Giulia, I sent the details round the group. I wanted to help Stephanie.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper, though there was really no need, given the circumstances. ‘Sod’s law, of all the lovely people on that weekend, I got the one I couldn’t stand. To be honest, I was feeling a bit embarrassed she’d come. She was so ghastly, wasn’t she? If people had known I’d recommended her, they might have thought I liked her.’

  ‘But you did tell us that you’d never met them before, didn’t you?’ Francis said.

  ‘I didn’t say “met”, Francis, I said “known”. There is a difference. Apart from noticing her as an embarrassing presence across the room, on one weekend in King’s Cross, no, I hadn’t known her.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, I thought you were going to be in there with them.’

  ‘No. As you can see, I’ve left them to it.’

  ‘Did they kick you out?’

  She didn’t mince her words, this one, did she? ‘They did,’ he replied with a smile.

  ‘I rather thought they might have done. Fair enough. It’s their investigation. Doubtless they wanted something from you and once they’d got it you were redundant. Used and abused.’ She chuckled. ‘As we all are.’

  Zoe nodded towards her memoir, which was stacked up in his lap.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ she asked.

  He had reached the point where she was in her early twenties, going to London parties, being taken out by various young men, very much part of a Jewish circle but flirting with the idea of stepping outside it, particularly with this one man, a talented composer, who was goy, but very attractive to her. Their love affair was well-described, and the aftermath also, when he left her abruptly for a younger woman. Now quite gripped, Francis had the mischievous thought that if the police wanted to know about Zoe’s past, they could do worse than read her memoir.

  ‘I’m enjoying it. But I’d like to finish it before I say any more.’

  ‘Of course.’ She gave him a satisfied little smile. ‘But I’m glad you’re enjoying. I’ve had quite a life, haven’t I?’

  ‘You have.’

  Tony was taciturn when he eventually emerged from the interview room.

  ‘How was it?’ called Roz.

  ‘They’ve certainly upped their game,’ he replied. He was holding a glass of white wine, Francis noted, which he now took a hearty gulp from. It was twelve forty-five, almost lunchtime, so a drink was understandable. But it was the first time Francis had seen the counter-intelligence officer (if that’s what he really was, or had been) look in any way rattled.

  Lunch was served as usual – ‘Il pranzo!’ called the lovely Benedetta – on the dot of one p.m., but in the library the interviews continued. Roz had been summoned in after Tony and emerged wiping her brow theatrically. ‘I see what you mean,’ she said to Tony. ‘Hardcore. And that young one …’

  ‘Ricci,’ said Francis.

  ‘Is that what he’s called?’ asked Tony.

  ‘Was bordering on the offensive. Ve haf ways of making you talk,’ she said in a German accent.

  ‘Now you’re making me nervous,’ said Belle, with a laugh.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they’ll be gentle with you,’ said Roz. There was an unspoken thought here which rippled silently down the table: if one of them sitting here in the sunshine was a murderer and had locked Poppy in the sauna before strangling poor Sasha, it wasn’t either of the arty pair from Yorkshire. Not that Francis himself would ever rule anybody out. What had happened at Mold-on-Wold and then subsequently aboard the Golden Adventurer in West Africa had taught him that the least likely people can turn out to be the culprit. But even with that experience he wasn’t putting the Yorkshire ladies very high on his list of suspects.

  ‘Belle Thompson,’ came the voice of the young policeman, as if on cue.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ she said, smiling nervously as she put down her knife and fork with a clatter and headed off inside.

  When he’d finished his lunch and washed it down with a short sweet espresso from the Gaggia, Francis decided to absent himself from the unr
avelling psychodrama. He nipped upstairs to his room, switched on his laptop, then made his way to the cast-iron bench halfway down the stairs where you could get the best Wi-Fi signal. Even here, it wasn’t great, but it was enough. He did a search for Framley Grange, and within a minute or two had got Poppy and Minty’s maiden name: Pugh-Smith. Uncommon in every sense – perfect. Then it was on to the gov.uk website to look for wills. If Poppy had had Framley for ‘about twenty years’, that probably put General Pugh-Smith’s death in the late 1990s. He tried 1998. No results with the name PUGH-SMITH and the year of death 1998, the website read. There was nothing in 1997. Or 1996. 1995 required him to switch to a previous record system.

  But then – bingo!

  PUGH-SMITH GEORGE WILLIAM FREDERICK OF FRAMLEY GRANGE FRAMLEY SALISBURY DIED 19 JUNE 1995 PROBATE WINCHESTER 27 OCTOBER £538477 9552425977K

  He paid over his ten pounds and bought himself a copy of the will. He wouldn’t get to see it for ten working days, but hey ho, you never knew. At least he had checked up on the surname and had the probate figure. £538,477. A tidy enough sum, but not a fortune, even in 1995. Did that include the house, or had the general done some clever work and handed it over to his elder daughter well before his death? Thus avoiding inheritance tax, a hefty forty per cent above the threshold, which with a place that size might even have involved selling it.

  Francis had some thinking to do, but as it was a fine afternoon, it was thinking he would rather do under the shade of a parasol than in the gloomy shadows of his bedroom. He picked up his swimming trunks, went and got himself a brightly coloured towel from the neat pile on the chest in the basement, then walked down the corridor past the now locked and sealed changing room and sauna, marked off with red and white police tape, and headed out into the sunshine, across the sloping lawn to the pool.

  Even though he had decided not to get involved in this case, he needed to get his thoughts down on paper, otherwise he’d go quietly crazy. Not that he thought he personally was in any kind of danger. But who knew? Sasha had probably had that idea too. One thing was for sure. They might not traditionally use keys at the Villa Giulia, but he was going to lock his door tonight.