Mark had been delivering a knowledgeable commentary since their arrival at Prior Park and Belinda, recalling his historical diatribe at dinner recently, was not surprised at the extent of his knowledge.
‘1760,’ was his answer to Belinda’s question. ‘He was about forty-five when he created the gardens here at Prior Park. The first thing he would have done was restore the landscape to its natural regional features.’
Belinda nodded. ‘Jacob says that Brown expressed in his gardens the ideal English landscape.’
Mark looked askance at her. ‘Does he indeed? Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? I’m surprised you didn’t ask him to show you around here.’
‘Actually, I did.’
‘I thought as much. What happened? Did he stand you up?’
Belinda shot him a withering look. ‘Jacob is staying in Wells. I don’t know when he will be home.’
‘And he gave you his version of Capability Brown’s expertise, no doubt?’
Belinda was surprised at Mark’s caustic tone. ‘Do you mean he’s lying?’ she asked doubtfully.
Mark shook his head. ‘No, it’s just that he is so academic about his gardening. But he’s essentially right. Capability was a purist. He created landscapes that didn’t need to acknowledge anything other than the landscape itself. Their beauty was self-contained. He created a vista that his clients could never have imagined.
‘Does that apply to his small gardens?’ Belinda asked in an over-casual voice. Mark glanced at her.
‘So I’ve been told. I’ve never had the privilege of seeing one of his small gardens. He did so few.’
They made their way through the park and the sun, filtering through the lifting mists, shone weakly over the gently rolling contours of Capability’s vision. Mark opened the car door for Belinda and walked around to open the other. Belinda watched him over the roof of the car.
‘Tell me, Mark, you’re knowledgeable about historical matters. Did Michelangelo ever paint in England?’
Mark leant on the car roof and looked at her, an amused smile on his lips. Belinda gave an irritable shake of her head. ‘Oh come on, Mark. I admit it. I’m ignorant. Just keep your self-satisfied attitude to yourself and answer my question. Did he?’
‘Never in England.’ Mark could not keep his amusement from colouring his voice.
‘Well, did he paint at the same time, in 1760 or whatever.’
‘Same millennium, but two hundred years earlier.’ Mark could not contain his amusement.
Silently cursing him, Belinda took her seat in the car.
As they drove towards Milford in a strained silence, Belinda’s thoughts centred on the triangular scrap of paper she had snatched from Rosemary’s lifeless fingers. How did the word written on that fragment of parchment relate to Capability Brown and the mystery surrounding the garden? Silently, Belinda mouthed the name that tantalised her.
‘Michelangelo.’
But what was the connection?
***
Eleven
The press had shown great interest in Rosemary’s death and had labelled it with a lamentable but not unexpected lack of imagination, “The Milford Murder”.
Belinda had been startled to see a photograph of her cottage plastered over the front page of the morning newspaper. Photographers had besieged her when she’d arrived at the Coroner’s Court for the inquest.
The stuffy courthouse buzzed with speculative whispers when the forensic expert detailed the discovery of fingerprints on the murder weapon. Belinda shrank down in her seat as it was revealed that they were hers, and she instinctively rubbed her fingertips against the fabric of her dress. She wished that she had never taken the damned ice pick as protection, wished she had never seen it, let alone touched it.
Did the police believe her alibi?
After all, she had no witness to the fact that she was cleaning Mrs Mainwaring’s house at the time she claimed and her long walk home with a deflated bicycle tyre could be considered sheer invention. Jacob had been several miles away and no one in the village had seen her arrive home. Her eyes met Inspector Jordan’s; was there a suspicious glint in his eye? Laden with unjustifiable guilt Belinda forced her attention back to the coroner as he shuffled his papers and cleared his throat.
The local villagers were quizzed but no one had seen or heard anything unusual on the day. Jacob had returned briefly from Wells for the inquest and testified that he had been driving back from a job in Westbury and had arrived home shortly after Belinda discovered his sister’s body. He left the court immediately after the verdict of “murder by person or persons unknown”, and returned to his relatives in Wells.
Belinda was shocked by Jacob’s appearance. He looked shrunken and his healthy tan had faded, his voice was subdued and at times inaudible. He had avoided Belinda’s gaze and had looked only once in her direction as he told the court how she had broken the news of Rosemary’s murder to him. It was clear that he was suffering greatly from shock. Belinda knew that he and Rosemary had been very close, and he was obviously deeply affected by her sudden and unexplained slaughter.
After the inquest Belinda had accompanied Inspector Jordan to the police station to look through the photographic files of known offenders. As she was swept away from the Court in a police car, television cameras were thrust against the windows of the vehicle and Belinda had the conviction that she herself was suspected, at least by the news-hungry media, of being the murderer.
After ten minutes of peering at the little square photographs, all the faces tended to look identical. There seemed to be a particular type that specialised in breaking and entering and another who favoured violence tending towards murder. Her inability to recognise any particular rogue exasperated Inspector Jordan and with another lecture ringing in her ears, for not having advised the police earlier about the intruder breaking into her house, Belinda wearily hailed a taxi and headed home to Milford.
In the week following the inquest and funeral Belinda rested as best she could at the cottage. The weather, hinting at an early spring, had become warmer so she took the opportunity to open the windows and air the house. Time spent in the kitchen, with its memories of death, was kept to a minimum and Belinda roamed from room to room making a list of proposed alterations and repairs.
The young policemen assigned to duty outside the cottage proved to have various personalities, from morose and silent to garrulous and cheery. Belinda heard about their family problems, their children’s progress at school and the pros and cons of holidaying in the Lake District.
An application of oil to the garden gate had stilled the hideous shriek of rusted metal, vacuum cleaner and duster had removed quantities of dust, and gradually the cottage began to shed its gloomy atmosphere.
Late on Friday afternoon she retired to the long room with a steaming cup of tea. She withdrew the garden plan from its hiding place behind a watercolour of Cheddar Gorge and spread it out before her. Belinda knew, after her conversation with Mark, that what she saw before her was not only a plan designed by Capability Brown, but a plan he had drawn up for the garden of her own cottage. But a close inspection of the outline of the house on the map revealed the contours of a much larger building.
‘But this is my garden,’ Belinda said. Why was the house different?
A shadow fell over the plan and Belinda leapt to her feet in fright.
Facing her across the room was Mr Munro, his deformed hands turning his hat around and around in a circle before him.
‘Forgive me, my dear. I did not mean to startle you.’
His watery eyes were fixed upon the old plan unfolded on the table.
‘The front door was open and I’m afraid you didn’t hear me knock.’
Belinda knew that was a lie. They would have heard the huge doorknocker in the next village, if he had used it. Unfortunately the oiled hinges on the gate no longer gave a warning screech and Belinda mentally kicked herself for destroying that natural alarm.
S
he folded the garden plan over to conceal the contents.
‘That’s quite all right, Mr Munro,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘Please sit down.’
The old man sank with a wheeze onto the sofa. He seemed distracted and reluctantly swung his gaze towards Belinda.
‘I should have visited earlier. You will think me very remiss. I should have come … before …’ He hesitated and waved his hand in the general direction of the kitchen.
‘Before the murder, you mean?’ Belinda said shortly. The old lawyer flinched.
‘Quite so. Quite so.’ His eyes darted about the room as though expecting to find an assassin lurking in the shadows.
‘I’m glad you did call, Mr Munro,’ said Belinda, ‘I have been thinking about making my will, and I wanted to talk to you about it.’
‘Your will?’ Mr Munro peered over the top of his glasses at her with a queer expression on his surprisingly smooth face. ‘Do you not have a will?’
Belinda shrugged. ‘Well – no. I’ve never felt the need.’
Mr Munro shook his head sadly. ‘Oh, my dear. One should always have a will. If you were to die suddenly, er – unexpectedly, that is, and you had provided no will, your property would be disposed of against your wishes.’
Belinda looked thoughtfully at her visitor.
‘That’s what I suspected,’ she said slowly, ‘so, if I were to die, or if it had been me that was murdered –’
Mr Munro drew his breath in and raised his hands in horror at the prospect.
‘Do you mean,’ continued Belinda, ‘that if I’d been murdered, the cottage could have just been sold off? To anyone?’
Mr Munro nodded energetically. ‘Yes. I mean just that, if you die intestate. Unless you have a close relative?’
Her mind racing with new ideas, Belinda did not reply but offered Mr Munro a cup of tea. In the calm of the kitchen, muddled thoughts occupied her as she poured fresh boiling water into the teapot and mechanically placed the chipped china vessel on a tray. Adding a plate of biscuits, Belinda started back to the long room.
As she approached she saw Mr Munro’s reflection in a wall mirror as he scrutinised the garden design. He muttered to himself and as Belinda appeared at the door he hastily dropped the paper, feigning a sudden interest in a nearby vase of flowers. She placed the tray on the table and unfolded the plan. Mr Munro looked guiltily at her.
‘You may as well take a look, Mr Munro. You obviously know what it is.’
He blushed but this did not stop him from grasping the paper in his gnarled fingers. He held it close to his eyes and eagerly examined the design.
‘You’re quite right, my dear. I do indeed. There have been rumours for decades that Capability Brown designed a small garden at the same time that he laid out the gardens at Prior Park in Combe Down. Over the years the actual location of that small garden became lost and no one knew exactly which house it was. There had been …’
His voice trailed off as he discovered something of interest in the design and he muttered the names of English trees under his breath, nodding approval as he did so. Belinda gently took the paper from his reluctant fingers and, folding it, dropped it casually onto the table.
‘Did many people believe it to be this cottage?’
Mr Munro shook his head, his eye following the journey of the document. ‘No one knew anything for certain. There were three other houses in the area that could have sustained gardens the size of the one Brown designed, but as I said, no one had hard and fast proof.’ He hesitated. ‘Not until now, that is.’
Belinda considered this observation. ‘Mr Munro,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘if someone had a property once designed by Capability Brown and the plans for the original lay-out, would that be considered of any value?’
Mr Munro breathed excitedly. ‘Most certainly. To have discovered a new garden by Brown and be able to follow his plans to the letter – one could make a fortune. Why, people would kill for that …’ He choked over the words and his pale face went scarlet. ‘I mean … That is to say …’
Belinda smiled wryly. ‘I know exactly what you mean, Mr Munro.’
After tea, during which she proposed calling at his office the next week and making a will, Belinda escorted Mr Munro onto the terrace. As he left the long room, the lawyer cast a distracted look towards the plan as it lay on the table. He nodded at it and turned to Belinda.
‘One thing, my dear, I trust that you keep the garden plan in a safe place. Perhaps you would like me to hold it for you at the office?’
‘No thank you, Mr Munro. I assure you that it is quite safe here.’
‘You’ll have it under lock and key?’
Belinda did not reply, but continued leading the way from the house. Mr Munro cast a fretful glance back over his shoulder, then followed discontentedly.
‘Tell me, Mr Munro. You mentioned that this was once a school. It must have been a very small one.’
The old man chuckled. ‘Oh dear no. It was quite large.’ He gestured to the left of the building. ‘There was another wing which extended across to the far wall.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Torn down early last century, I’m afraid.’
Belinda opened the garden gate. ‘I’ll be at your office on Tuesday, if that’s convenient.’
The elderly man looked at her and Belinda was shocked by the expression of bitterness on his face. This was hastily replaced by a graceful smile.
‘By all means, my dear. Shall we say at eleven o’clock?’
Returning to the long room, Belinda unfolded the garden plan. Following the outline of the building with her finger, she saw where the existing house was defined and where the wing, which had been torn down, had stood.
There was no doubt about it. This was a map of her cottage and land.
And there is no doubt that it was not Rosemary who was meant to die.
With a shudder Belinda faced the awful reality:
‘It was me.’
***
Twelve
On Tuesday Belinda arrived at the office of Munro, Munro & Clarke. She shook her dripping umbrella and placed it beside a row of similar waterlogged implements. The young woman who had attended her on her first visit rose in greeting as Belinda pushed open the heavy wooden door of the office.
‘Good morning,’ said Belinda, ‘I have an appointment with Mr Munro. My name is Lawrence.’
The secretary looked bewildered and glanced down at her appointment book.
‘Oh dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘Mr Munro didn’t advise me of any appointment, and anyway, he’s not here.’
Belinda frowned. ‘Are we talking about the right Mr Munro? I mean the elderly gentleman.’
The woman nodded. ‘There’s only one. Young Mr Munro. The other Mr Munro has recently passed on.’
Belinda’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Young? If he was considered the junior, then how old had been the other Munro partner? She explained to the secretary how she had made the appointment.
‘Well, I’m sorry, Miss Lawrence. All I can tell you is that Mr Munro rang in this morning and said that as he had no other appointments until Friday he would be going away.’
‘Did he say where?’
‘No, Miss. I must say it’s a little unusual.’
Belinda tapped her foot irritably. She had work to do and was now wasting valuable time.
‘May I see his partner? I wanted to make a will and I need some advice.’
The assistant looked repentant. ‘I’m afraid Mr Clarke is visiting our office in Glastonbury at the moment. There were some matters that needed urgent attention.’
The secretary withdrew behind her computer, allowing Belinda to escape the building.
As she unfolded her umbrella and scampered to her newly purchased car, Belinda thought how irritating it was of the old man to forget the appointment, but it was something that could wait until his return on Friday.
She hoped.
After leaving the solicitor’s office Belinda drove to Mark
’s house. Gathering her basket of cleaning utensils, she made a dash for the front door. As she burst into the hall, water dripping from her headscarf and coat, a large brown dog came bounding and skidding along the polished floor. Yelping in delight at the prospect of a new playmate it forced Belinda against the wall.
Patting its head, she recognised it as the dog that pursued her through her garden the first weekend she had spent at the cottage.
‘Rusty.’ Mark’s authoritative voice rang through the hall.
Belinda looked up in surprise as Mark hurried down the stairs, struggling into his coat at the same time.
‘I’m sorry, Belinda. He’s quite harmless, I assure you. Just over-friendly.’ He took the dog by its collar and pulled it away.
‘Is he yours?’ she asked. ‘I’ve never seen him here before.’
Mark attempted to control the dog’s excitement. ‘That’s because he stays with some friends of mine who have a farm over near Norton St Phillip. I purchased him on the spur of the moment and then realised that this place was too small for him. Dogs his size need space.’ He shook the dog’s head roughly. ‘Don’t you, old boy?’ The dog barked his assent and renewed his attentions to Belinda by licking her hand. ‘I’m just about to take him back to the farm and then I’m due at the office.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Running late as usual.’
Mark and Rusty scrambled out the door and in the pouring rain ran to Mark’s car. Belinda stood at the window and watched as Mark herded the reluctant animal into the front seat and clambered in beside it. She recalled the terror she felt that day at Milford as she sensed, then heard, someone tracking her through the garden.
‘So it was you, Mark,’ she muttered softly. ‘Now why were you roaming around my garden?’
As she began her polishing she reasoned that Mark, as a real estate salesman, might have just been inspecting the property.
‘But he knew I was in the house,’ she answered herself angrily.
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