Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set

by Catherine Moloney

  ‘You do that, Constable. PDQ.’ Markham inclined his head in dismissal. Clearly relieved that the anticipated bollocking was deferred for the time being, the DC scuttled off to join his colleagues, footsteps crunching noisily on the gravel, their sound almost shocking in the serene stillness of the landscape.

  ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing us around, Mrs Dade,’ Markham said politely to the formidable neighbour. ‘As you and Mr Shaw are both familiar with the place, you can point out anything that particularly strikes you as being out of place.’

  With a mollified sniff, their gaunt guide preceded them into the cottage.

  Afterwards, Markham’s overriding impression was one of a profusion of styles, from charming Victorian clutter – tea-stained chintz and worn Aubusson carpets – to gloomy Jacobean bedrooms and the Gothic formality of the dining room, with its tapestries, medieval leather-covered furniture and bronze candelabra, like something out of Beauty and the Beast as the DS later told Mrs Noakes.

  Informed by Mrs Dade, who rapidly became confidential, that the long low conservatory was where Mr Baranov liked to sit chain-smoking and drinking vodka martinis, Markham found it easy to imagine the choreographer there, listening to music and projecting visions of filigree arms and Garbo-esque profiles – love-smitten heroines and swains – on to the backdrop of his darkening garden.

  ‘My charlady Doris did for Mr Baranov as well, and sometimes stayed the night if he was entertaining,’ Mrs Dade told them as they finally entered Baranov’s small red-papered study, crammed with Regency antiques and books, CDs, prints and statuettes of dancers on every available surface. ‘He used to take her to see his ballets. Put her in his private box. Can you imagine!’ Clearly, the good lady was piqued that a similar invitation had never come her way. In a tone which suggested there was no accounting for taste, she continued, ‘Quite doted on Doris… Mind you, he could count on her to turn a blind eye to any goings-on.’

  Markham noticed that Brian Shaw looked ill at ease. Had he been a participant in ‘goings-on’ at Tunstall Lodge?

  There was something endearing about the story of Baranov squiring his cleaning lady to the ballet, Markham reflected. Pleased to have an attentive audience, Mrs Dade became expansive.

  ‘Doris spoiled him, of course. Always baking him those lemon curd tarts he loved and helping him with the crossword, when she should have been getting on with the cleaning.’ She clicked her tongue impatiently, running a critical finger along the bay windowsill. ‘I’m not sure why he ever bothered with a daily in the first place. All that sitting around!’ Baranov’s neighbour clearly structured her own household along more feudal lines. ‘Whenever Doris asked if there was anything she could do, he would just make a joke. “Clean the silver!” he’d laugh, “And then scrub the kitchen floor!” But he didn’t mean a word of it.’

  She folded her arms with a censorious expression. ‘Oh, he was a charmer. But he could be very rude to his friends. Doris said he used to ask her if one of them had been fingering the silver – no matter that the poor man stood there cringing with embarrassment.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I remember coming to dinner.’ Markham doubted there had been any bacchanalian frolics on that occasion. ‘Mr Baranov said to one young chap, “You know, you’ve really taught me something.” I thought he was going to say it was something technical about ballet, or how to manage all those tricky ballerinas, but would you believe what he came out with? “You taught me always to pile up the dinner dishes in the sink and run water over them before the daily arrived.” The poor lad looked so crushed.’

  She paused, but only to get her second wind.

  ‘Doris was the soul of discretion, of course.’ Markham suspected this had proved something of a disappointment. ‘But she did say there was screaming and shouting at odd times of the day and night. Scared the living daylights out of her, she said.’

  ‘Did she ever tell you what it was about, luv?’

  Mrs Dade bristled at this lèse-majesté, but the invitation to gossip proved irresistible.

  ‘Oh, there were all kinds of histrionics … folk ranting about being fobbed off and taken for granted and Mr Baranov calling them leeches.’

  Her voice sank to a dramatic whisper. ‘Mr Baranov’s wedding ring finger was fractured, you know, when someone tried to wrench a ring off it… Doris said he used to sit there with the bent finger hovering against his lips, like he wanted to make them feel guilty.’

  ‘Who was it did that, Mrs Dade?’

  ‘Oh, it was just a story Doris heard. Something blown up out of all proportion, no doubt. You know what theatre people are like.’

  There was a restless movement, quickly checked, by Brian Shaw. Again, Markham sensed that Mrs Dade’s commentary was unwelcome. Why? Did it touch on something he preferred to forget?

  Surreptitiously, the DI observed Shaw – the sinewy, perfectly proportioned body which belied his bank manager’s appearance. Had Tunstall Lodge featured somewhere in the romantic hinterland of the ballet master’s past? Something in his almost painful air of self-constraint suggested such might have been the case.

  ‘Have you noticed owt amiss yet?’ Noakes’s tone suggested that when it came to country houses and antiques, you could have too much of a good thing. So far neither Mrs Dade nor Shaw appeared to have noticed any disturbance of the choreographer’s possessions.

  ‘Over there, Sergeant,’ said Brian Shaw in sudden agitation. ‘His writing desk – the lock’s been forced.’

  The four-legged roll top mahogany desk had indeed been plundered, its clover-shaped silver lock dangling uselessly from the splintered surround.

  Carefully, Markham lifted the lid.

  There was nothing inside.

  The DI turned to Shaw.

  ‘You would expect there to be correspondence?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The ballet master’s face looked grey. ‘He kept all his … special … letters and mementoes tied up in ribbons in those little dockets.’

  ‘So, this was just for personal stuff?’ Noakes asked. ‘Where’d he keep business papers an’ that kind of thing?’

  ‘He never brought paperwork back here. Iris Law at ENB took care of it. “Tunstall’s where I come to replenish my soul,” George always said.’

  Shaw stumbled across the room and gently stroked an inlaid ivory checkers board. ‘He loved draughts,’ he whispered as though to himself. ‘Said it reminded him of his art… He enjoyed the way everything got in a muddle and then resolved itself.’

  The ballet master wandered round the room, apparently in something of a daze, reminiscing.

  ‘George loved this place, really loved it.’ Gesturing to a dusty stereo system in the corner of the room, ‘As soon as he got here at the weekend, the first thing he’d do would be to play the first movement of Beethoven’s “Pastoral” Symphony… Sort of announcing his arrival. Then there’d be lots of pottering round the garden, followed by endless staring and dreaming.’ Shaw’s tone was rueful. ‘He didn’t really have a clue about ordinary country life … it was always idealized … more romantic than the Romantics. Everything in the grand style.’ Oblivious to his companions, Shaw continued. ‘Mind you, he was hardly a bon viveur. Haute cuisine was wasted on him really. All he ever wanted was scrambled eggs and bread and butter pudding. Eddie’d cook him a marvellous roast chicken lunch with all the trimmings, but he was always saying, “Fuck the food, let’s have another drink.”’

  ‘Ahem,’ Noakes interjected with a sideways glance at Mrs Dade. Nothing to worry about there, thought Markham. Those starchy types invariably turned out to enjoy a spot of mildly scabrous gossip.

  ‘Please excuse me, Mrs Dade.’ Shaw suddenly recollected himself. ‘This has been the most terrible shock,’ he said, looking suddenly pale and shrunken.

  ‘It’s quite all right, Mr Shaw.’ Markham detected genuine kindness behind the woman’s stately demeanour. ‘I know you and Mr Baranov were old friends.’

  ‘Hey, isn’t that the other ballet teacher
? The Norwegian one … or Swedish or summat…?’

  Noakes pointed at a picture in a silver frame adorning a nest of tables in the corner of the room.

  ‘Marguerite Aroldingen?’

  The DS picked it up for a closer inspection.

  ‘Nah, I must’ve got it wrong,’ he said. ‘This one’s got red hair.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Looks just like her, though.’

  ‘No, you were right the first time, Sergeant,’ Brian Shaw said quietly as they looked at the heavy-lidded Dietrich eyes. ‘That’s Marguerite.’ He hesitated. ‘Actually, she quite often wore wigs and headpieces … never much of a one for convention.’

  Mrs Dade was stiff with disapproval. ‘Oh, there were women in and out of here by the minutes,’ she observed acidly. ‘Quite a revolving door it was … like Mr Baranov was some sort of Casanova … and him with a little tummy on him…’

  ‘Must’ve been all them lemon curd tarts, luv.’

  Mrs Dade chose to ignore this contribution and assumed a pious air.

  ‘Of course, one mustn’t speak ill of the dead.’

  Bit late for that. Luckily, Noakes didn’t say it out loud.

  Afterwards, once they had seen Mrs Dade and Brian Shaw off to their respective homes, Markham and Noakes watched as the DC and uniforms secured Tunstall Lodge for the night.

  ‘Don’t reckon much gets past the old biddy,’ Noakes said laconically.

  ‘Well, thanks to her we know that someone jemmied that study window because they wanted to lay their hands on something incriminating…’

  ‘Letters.’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. The paper trail to a killer.’

  ‘Why d’you think he didn’t get rid of ’em the same night he murdered Baranov?’

  ‘Good question.’ Markham looked thoughtfully back at Tunstall Lodge, mysterious and inscrutable beneath the gibbous moon.

  ‘I think the killer may have acted in a frenzy … a sort of fugue state, Sergeant … so it was only later that he realized the danger.’

  ‘D’you think Sheila Bloom knew? Or did the killer have some reason to hate them both – her and Baranov?’

  The DI sighed, watching his breath steam in the night air.

  ‘Could be she tried blackmail … said or did something which flipped a switch…’ Markham stamped his feet, suddenly conscious that his legs were turning to ice. ‘Drop me back at the station, will you, Noakes, and then you can get off home.’

  ‘OK, boss.’ Despite the siren call of jam roly poly and Sky Sports, the DS felt some compunction about deserting his post. ‘I c’n stay an’ help for a bit if you like,’ he said, conscious that he was behaving heroically.

  ‘No need, Sergeant. I’m just going to take another look at those magazines and press cuttings Kate dug out for me.’

  In that case he was well out of it, Noakes concluded, and made no further resistance.

  ‘What’ll happen to this place, Guv?’ he asked with one last look at the choreographer’s former home.

  ‘I believe the house goes to the Baranov Trust … that’s some sort of choreographic foundation.’

  ‘Shame,’ the DS said unexpectedly. ‘It’d make a nice little ballet school.’

  *

  That night, Markham dreamed he was watching the ballet company in performance. But the principal dancers were wearing black masks and white gloves, while more gloved hands menaced them from the wings. When one of the principal men grabbed at a hand, a body fell dead at his feet. The rest then watched as though turned to stone while the corpse was carried across the stage in a mock funeral procession. The only sound was the tolling of a bell.

  It felt like a premonition.

  8. Gordian Knot

  THE NEXT MORNING, MARKHAM arrived early at the station.

  Early as he was, however, Burton was earlier – almost submerged by a snow drift of magazines, books, and assorted ballet memorabilia.

  ‘Morning, Kate, how’s it going with the research?’

  ‘Well, Guv, there’s some intel on Isobel Kent which could be relevant.’

  ‘Bring your drink into my office and tell me what you’ve got.’

  A rush of colour streamed into Burton’s cheeks. Clearly delighted at the prospect of a coffee klatch with the boss, she needed no second urging. Grabbing her notebook and styrofoam cup, she sat down opposite the DI.

  ‘What’s this about Isobel Kent, then?’ he asked, intrigued.

  ‘I found some stuff about her from a website on the Internet – one of those run by ballet fans who send each other gossip and information.’ She grimaced. ‘It’s like a secret cult, to be honest … quite obsessive and a bit creepy.’

  Perhaps the DCI’s crazy fan theory wasn’t so far-fetched after all. Markham made a mental note to keep a closer eye on Roger Miller.

  ‘There was a story on there about how a guest artist came to ENB a while back to partner Isobel.’ The DS frowned. ‘This is where it gets weird…’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, the guest artist – a Hungarian, I think – got very passionate … kissing her for real, which is something dancers normally never do in rehearsals.’ The frown deepened. ‘The strange thing was that Mr Baranov apparently loved it and taunted Isobel for being too cool when she didn’t respond with the same heat… He kept goading her to be more passionate – asking her if she’d ever been truly in love … if she had the faintest idea what sexual passion actually meant.’

  Markham raised his eyebrows. ‘Weren’t Ms Kent and Baranov involved at one point?’

  ‘Yes, but this happened round the time when they split up. Alexandra Fairlie had just come on the scene. She was fifteen – Baranov’s latest discovery – and Isobel twenty-three.’

  So, Isobel Kent was now thirty-two. Getting on for a ballerina.

  ‘Apparently, there was usually a time limit to Baranov’s, er, crushes… They followed a sort of pattern.’ Burton’s voice was disapproving. ‘He’d be fixated on female dancers between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five or so, and then move on to the next one.’

  The ages of the choreographer’s amours stayed roughly the same while he grew older.

  ‘Isobel was on her way out while Alexandra was the next hot ticket.’ The DS had a theory. ‘Taunting her like that in rehearsals was his way of ensuring she – and the company – got the message.’

  Markham was thoughtful. ‘She sounded well over Baranov when we interviewed her…’

  ‘Oh, she always raved about his genius, sir.’ Burton consulted her notebook. ‘“He knew how to send his ballerinas up like rockets, one after another, higher and higher. He knew how to ignite spirits and careers and send his chosen girls into ballerina space.”’

  ‘Hmm… Very poetical… Doesn’t mean she wouldn’t have hated his guts for making Ms Fairlie the next Lolita in his ballerina gallery.’

  ‘Well, there was no love lost between the two women, that’s for sure. Lots of one-upmanship and hissy fits.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Isobel’s quite tall for a ballerina – five foot seven – so the wrong partner can make her look ungainly, like a giraffe. She formed a good relationship with Ivan Plucis while Alexandra was away from ENB.’ Another check of the notebook. ‘When Alexandra returned to the company, her partner was a guy called Stewart Cassidy. But he developed an injury which kept him out of dance long-term.’

  Markham saw where this was leading. ‘So, Ms Fairlie needed to find another partner … did her eye fall on Ivan Plucis, by any chance?’

  ‘Got it in one, boss.’ Burton grinned. ‘He couldn’t rehearse and perform with both Isobel and Alexandra, so – no surprise, knowing the kind of guy he is – he hitched his wagon to the rising star.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Even worse, Baranov backed Alexandra when she poached Ivan… Must’ve been a bitter pill for Isobel to swallow, especially when she ended up with someone who didn’t make her look anywhere near as good as she should.’

  ‘While in the meantime, Ms Fairli
e waltzed off with all the plaudits.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, sir.’

  ‘Another reason for Isobel to hate Mr Baranov.’

  ‘Sheila Bloom was on her shit list too.’

  Markham was instantly alert. ‘Where does she fit in?’

  ‘Word on the Internet grapevine is that Isobel suspected Bloom was lobbying Baranov for Alexandra to get preferential treatment.’

  ‘Why would Ms Bloom do that?’

  Burton looked embarrassed. ‘Cos she had some sort of thing for her, sir.’

  ‘A lesbian relationship?’ The DI was startled. Then he remembered something.

  ‘Ivan Plucis told me and Noakes that Sheila Bloom was in love with Alex… “Liked to worship from afar”, was how he put it.’

  The DS leaned forward eagerly.

  ‘That fits with the word on the net, sir.’ She thumbed through her notebook once more. ‘Isobel and Bloom had a spat too… Oh yeah, here it is… Isobel was standing in the wings waiting to go on in Sleeping Beauty. She placed her hands on the waist of her tutu – just resting really. Anyway, Bloom came up to her and asked if she was comfortable. Isobel didn’t detect any undercurrents and just said yes. Apparently, Bloom suddenly exploded and started shrieking, “Well, get your hands off the costume then.” It gave Isobel such a shock she blew her entrance and made a total hash of the solo. The critics were in that night, so it was make or break for her and she was absolutely furious.’

  Markham recalled the intense way the wardrobe mistress had described her passion for costumes. Like a dope addict, she had said.

  ‘She saw the tutu as a sacred thing,’ he said musingly. ‘Something that would generate theatrical magic… So it didn’t matter to her about Isobel’s nerves being bad before a gruelling performance. All she cared about was fabric fatigue, not the ballerina’s.’

  ‘Well, after the performance they had some sort of screaming match… What made it worse was that Baranov wouldn’t hear a word against Bloom – just closed down the whole argument. It was a real put-down, in front of the whole company. After that, the temperature between Isobel and Baranov,’ Burton air quoted vigorously, ‘“might as well have been ten degrees below zero”.’