There was no point in prevaricating. “I was flirting with Mrs Tennison. I was doing it to make Mr Tennison angry.”
Wilson looked at him keenly. “And why was that?”
“It was stupid. I was drunk.”
“I’m quite prepared to believe you were drunk and stupid, Mr McAlister. That still doesn’t answer my question. Or were you trying to make all the husbands angry?”
It was a reminder not to underestimate Wilson, however lazy and prejudiced he might be.
“I dislike Mr Tennison.”
“Because?”
Alfie didn’t want to tell the sergeant about the crash. “I just don’t like his type. You know, rich, over-privileged.”
“I wouldn’t have thought money would be a problem, what with you having a bob or two yourself,” said Wilson sarcastically. “And as for the over-privileged, you’re friendly enough with Mr Savile, and I understand your friend Mr de Linnet is here too.”
The Bunburry broadcasting service was working well.
“Do you know what I think?” the sergeant went on. “Mr Tennison’s known for sailing close to the wind in his business dealings. You’re a businessman. At least you were until – what would you say? - you took early retirement. I think you were involved in a business deal with Mr Tennison that turned sour.”
Alfie tried to look crestfallen and embarrassed. “Whatever the reason, I wanted to needle Mr Tennison. And I think it may have led to an argument between Mr Tennison and his wife.”
Wilson had a look of smug satisfaction on his face at having made a correct deduction. “That’s very helpful, Mr McAlister. Thank you for your frankness. And you’ve only confirmed what I already knew. In a case like this, it’s always the husband.”
He stood up and went into the library, not objecting when Alfie followed him.
The waitress was on a sofa at the far end of the room, clutching a brandy balloon, with Oscar at her side. Charlie Tennison was slumped on the sofa nearest the door, his head in his hands.
David, who was sitting by him, stood up when Alfie and the sergeant came in.
“This is your house, sir?” asked Wilson, despite knowing the answer perfectly well. He had the gift of making the honorific sound like an insult.
“It is,” said David quietly.
“And would you like to tell me what you know about the incident?”
Alfie looked to see what Charlie Tennison made of the question. The man seemed totally oblivious to what was going on. In shock, ridden with guilt, or trying to concoct a defence?
“I was out on the terrace, watching a firework display with the guests – most of them, at any rate. I heard a woman scream and came back into the house. Mr de Linnet and Mr McAlister were with me. I found Lucy – Ms Higgins – in a state of distress.”
“I’m Ms Higgins,” called Lucy from the other end of the room.
“I’ll get to you in a minute,” snapped Wilson. “Go on, Mr Savile.”
“Mr Tennison was at the bottom of the stairs with his wife.”
“Were they arguing? Fighting?” asked the sergeant.
“No.” David’s voice was slightly unsteady. “They were as you found them when you arrived. Isobel was lying on the floor and Charlie was holding her.”
“Was she alive?”
“I don’t know – I don’t think so – I didn’t know what had happened, I thought she might have fainted, and then I saw the blood.” His voice tailed off, and he closed his eyes as though trying blot the scene out.
Wilson shot him a look of derision, then sauntered down the long room towards an apprehensive Lucy. “What were you doing in the hall?” he asked.
She quailed, glancing nervously at David Savile. “I know I should have used the staff corridor, but all the casuals were finishing up, and I thought I’d be able to pick up my things quicker if I used the guest route.”
“And what did you see?” the sergeant asked.
“Same as the others,” she said. “I came round the corner and I saw the lady lying on the ground, and the gentleman over there trying to pick her up.”
Charlie Tennison seemed to grasp for the first time that they were talking about him. He stared across the room in a bewildered way.
Lucy gulped. “I could see the lady’s head was all blood and she wasn’t moving. I knew she was dead. I’ve never seen a dead person before. I just screamed, I couldn’t help it.” She gulped again. “Can I go? I’m supposed to be getting a lift back to Bunburry with the others.”
“I may need to talk to you again,” said Wilson. “Make sure I can get hold of you.”
Lucy fled through a door among the shelves of books which presumably led to the staff corridor.
Sergeant Wilson approached Charlie Tennison. “And would you like to tell me your version of events, sir?”
Tennison looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“I’d like to understand what you were doing in the hallway with your wife.”
Tennison frowned as though he was trying to dredge up a distant memory. “I – I had come into the library to watch the fireworks.”
“Really, sir? A strange decision, since you would get a much better view outside, wouldn’t you?”
“It was cold,” said Tennison. “And this is where Dave keeps his whisky.”
“You fancied a drink, sir. Yes, that sounds more likely. Would you say you were impaired by alcohol?”
“What? No.”
Alfie hadn’t noticed how much Charlie Tennison had been drinking, but he had seen no sign of him being drunk.
“So, you were fully in control of your faculties. Thank you, sir. And was your wife with you in the library?”
At the mention of Isobel, Tennison’s jaw sagged, and he began to cry in long shuddering sobs. “I – she had left to get her coat – I came out of the library, and she was lying there. I ran to her and – I could see it was bad.” His voice tailed off.
“You were angry because there was something going on between her and Mr McAlister here.”
Tennison registered that Alfie was sitting nearby. His mouth contorted. “He was all over her,” he rasped. “They didn’t even care that I was at the same table. They were laughing.”
Sergeant Wilson nodded. “Yes, that would make any man angry. Perfectly understandable. So what did you do? Did you hit her?”
“Hit her?” Charlie Tennison repeated in stupefaction. “Of course not. I would never hit Isobel.”
“Did you push her? Was she struggling? Why did she fall?”
“I don’t know why she fell – I just found her there – oh, Isobel! I’m so sorry!”
“Charles Tennison,” said Sergeant Wilson. “You are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of your wife. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
“Murder?” It was a cry of agony. “Why would I murder her? I love her!”
“Even when you saw her all over Mr McAlister? That must have been very difficult for you.”
“She was paying me back,” Tennison burst out. “That’s what she does. You think I don’t know what she’s like? Of course I know. I’m so sorry I hurt her.”
“All right, Mr Tennison, it’s time for us to go,” said Sergeant Wilson, taking a pair of handcuffs from his belt.
“Is that necessary?” David Savile protested.
Wilson shrugged. “I’m on my own.”
Tennison accepted the handcuffs meekly enough but turned pleadingly to his cousin. “Dave?”
“Don’t worry, Charlie.” David Savile was trying to sound reassuring, but his voice was shaking. “I’ll get on to the lawyers right away. We’ll get this sorted out. Sergeant, may I come to the car with you? It’s all right, I�
�m not going to attempt a rescue. Everything will be done through the proper channels.”
Alfie watched them go. He should be rejoicing, seeing the downfall of the man who had killed his grandparents. But it didn’t feel like sweet revenge. Charlie’s Tennison’s grief only reminded him of what he had gone through when he heard Vivian was dead.
He tried to be glad that Charlie of the charmed life was suffering at last, belated retribution for the lives he had taken, but he couldn’t. Tennison being led away in handcuffs was a diminished, broken figure. Alfie couldn’t forgive him, but neither could he hate him.
“Come on,” said Oscar. “Let’s go back to the room.”
“I need to talk to Betty,” said Alfie. “I need to explain. I said things to her – anyway, we need to tell her about all this. She must be wondering what’s going on.”
They went into the hallway to find the forensic team at work in their protective clothing, the staircase and virtually all of the vast marble hall cordoned off. They were directed round behind the staircase to an insignificant door, which proved to lead to the staff staircase, narrow and uncarpeted.
They found their way back to the bedrooms, and Alfie knocked gently on Betty’s door. There was no reply. He knocked again, more firmly.
“She’s either asleep, or playing hard to get,” said Oscar.
“Or perhaps she’s still downstairs,” said Alfie.
Uncertainly, he tried the door handle. A bedside light cast a faint glow over the room. The bed hadn’t been slept in. In fact, there was no sign that anyone had been in the room at all. There were no clothes or shoes anywhere, nothing on the dressing table, and Betty’s woven holdall was nowhere to be seen.
7. The Disappearance
“She seems to have gone,” said Oscar.
“Gone? Gone where at this time of night?” Alfie snapped. “Oscar, I don’t like this. What if Charlie Tennison didn’t kill his wife?”
“But he said-”
Alfie held up his hand. “If someone else murdered Isobel, what if Betty disturbed them, or saw something? What if someone’s hurt her?”
“Calmly, my dear fellow. Are they likely to have tidied up her room as well? Why don’t you ring her?”
Of course. He took his mobile out of his pocket and speed-dialled. It went straight to voicemail.
“No reply. Something’s wrong.”
“I don’t expect anything’s wrong, apart from her phone being on silent or needing to be recharged. As you said, she’s probably downstairs. Let’s go and find her.”
They discovered most of the guests in the dining room, being served coffee and liqueurs. There were Japanese bowls on each table, filled to the brim with Liz’s fudge. But there was no sign of Betty.
Alfie evaded all the questions about what was going on, and buttonholed one of the waiters, who knew nothing of Betty, but led them through the staff corridors to the pink drawing room where Alfie had first met Rosemary Savile. Rosemary was there, as was David, and Phoebe.
David looked paler than usual. He was still in his dinner suit but had taken off his bow tie and loosened his collar. “It’s a strange thing to see your cousin driven off in handcuffs, accused of murdering his wife,” he said.
“Darling, you’ve done what you can. You’ve organised a lawyer. It’s out of our hands now.” Rosemary was much more phlegmatic than her husband, and Alfie reflected that as a nurse, she was trained to cope with traumatic situations, not be overwhelmed by them.
“I can’t stop thinking about Isobel,” said David. “We all knew they had a stormy relationship, but I never imagined-” He sank back into the cushions, rubbing his eyes.
Rosemary gave Alfie and Oscar a rueful smile. “Please have a seat. And this is our daughter Phoebe.”
Alfie had last seen Phoebe in her Oxford University hall of residence while he was investigating Nigel Edwards’ death, and he wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to know her.
But she gave him a tentative smile. “Hello again.”
He felt he should explain. “I once met Phoebe at Oxford when Betty was showing me round,” he said to Rosemary. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for Betty right now. She’s not in her room.”
“No, she’s left,” said Phoebe, her brow creasing. “She was very upset. I helped her pack.”
“Upset about what?” asked Alfie, dreading the reply.
“She didn’t say. She just said she had to leave right away.”
Alfie felt his throat constrict. Why the sudden departure? Could Betty have anything to do with Isobel’s death? She had been furious with him, but what if she had also blamed Isobel? They could have argued, fought – Betty was strong, she might not have realised that Isobel couldn’t match her physically. And now she had disappeared. He knew in that instant that he was prepared to lie to protect her, to swear that they had been together whenever the accident had happened. Because he was also certain that it could only have been an accident – Betty was incapable of being a killer.
“Do you know where she’s gone?” asked Alfie, trying to keep his tone even.
“No, she just left,” said Phoebe.
“I’m going to go and look for her,” said Alfie. “Can you direct me to my car?”
Rosemary eyed him critically. “Are you sure you’re safe to drive? Haven’t you been drinking?”
“Not much,” he lied. “And it’ll have metabolised by now with all the food.” He felt suddenly sober.
David roused himself from his torpor. “I’ll get Pete to bring it round for you,” he said, picking up the walkie-talkie which crackled into life. “Pete? David here. Could you bring round Mr McAlister’s car, the blue Jag?”
“It’s gone,” said Pete through the static. “The lady who came with Mr McAlister took it. She said she had to leave urgently. She was crying. I thought there was family illness or something.”
David looked over to Alfie who managed to give him a reassuring nod.
“That’s fine, Pete,” said David. “No problem. Everybody else seems set to stay for the night, so go and get some sleep.”
Alfie seized the walkie talkie from David. “Pete, do you remember when she left?”
“Yes, it was in the middle of the fireworks.”
“Thanks, Pete. Goodnight.” He returned the walkie talkie to David and turned to Phoebe. “When did you see Betty?”
“Just after the fireworks started. I’d gone to check that the dogs were in their safe den.” She turned to her mother. “It’s okay, I made sure everything was fine – the shutters and the curtains were closed, and I switched on the radio to muffle the noise outside.” She addressed Alfie again. “I was going to watch the display when I met Betty. I helped her pack and walked her to the door.”
Alfie could have laughed with relief. Betty had a genuine alibi. She wasn’t involved in Isobel Tennison’s death.
“That was very good of you,” he said.
“I wonder what upset her,” said Rosemary. “I do hope it’s not some family problem.”
Scarcely, Alfie felt like saying. Why do you think she’s moved thousands of miles away from them?
“I tried ringing,” he said, “but I don’t think she brought her charger with her. I’ll hear in due course, and I’m sure it’ll be fine. By the way, Phoebe, was anybody else around when you went upstairs?”
The young student frowned. “I didn’t see anybody. They were all at the fireworks – no, I could hear some doors opening and closing upstairs, but there was nobody on the staircase. Why?”
“I was just wondering if Betty might have said something to somebody about why she was upset – sorry, I’m not thinking straight. If she didn’t tell you, she wouldn’t be likely to tell anyone else.”
That wasn’t the purpose of the question, but he was greatly relieved that Betty hadn’t confided in Phoebe.
She crooked a finger at Phoebe. “You too, young lady. Remember you’re on breakfast duty as well. You can’t be yawning and bleary-eyed as you hand round the croissants and bacon butties.”
David slumped back in his seat after they left, rubbing his hands over his face as though he was washing it. “God, what a night. I’ve never seen eye to eye with Cousin Charlie, he’s no saint, but it’s beyond belief that he could be accused of killing anybody.”
“Really?” said Alfie acidly. “I understood he had already killed two people.”
David stared at him in confusion for a moment, then said: “Oh, that. When he was a kid. It was just his bad luck to come up against a pensioner on the wrong side of the road.”
“Is that what you think happened?” Alfie could hear his voice rising. “Is that the family legend that gets passed down?”
“Alfie-” said Oscar.
“Stay out of this. I want to him to hear it.” He locked eyes with David. “Your ‘Cousin Charlie’ – he was given a sports car the day he passed his driving test. And he celebrated by driving like a maniac. He was the one on the wrong side of the road, not the other car. The other car that was being driven by my grandfather, with my grandmother in the passenger seat.”
David gave a muffled exclamation.
“Yes, just let that sink in. My grandparents were killed by a reckless teenager with an unshakeable sense of entitlement.”
“But-” David looked stunned. “He was acquitted.”
Alfie gave an unamused laugh. “Oh yes. The evidence proved that he was the one who crashed into my grandparents’ car, he was the one responsible for their deaths. But what does evidence matter when you’ve got a well-groomed schoolboy, son of a lord, no less, who lies through his teeth. And whose daddy makes sure there are character statements from upright citizens who are perfectly happy to perjure themselves.”
He could feel himself shaking with anger. “Just a shame my grandparents weren’t able to give their side of the story.”
Bunburry--Murder in High Places Page 6