* * *
Mike got back to the Abbey in a towering rage and needed someone to take it out on. As usual, he went in search of his sister and ran her to ground in the stables where she was grooming her favourite horse, Moonlight.
“Leave that bloody nag alone, I need to talk,” he said.
Delma’s fingers tensed in the horse’s mane and Moonlight turned his head, showing the whites of his eyes. He stamped and shifted in his stall.
“Mike, let me go,” she protested, her voice quiet but urgent. “Ssh, boy, ssh,” she said to Moonlight, stroking his neck to soothe him. She went on in the same deliberately quiet tone. “You’ll have to wait until I’ve finished, or you’ll have him lashing out at you.”
Mike stepped back with a resentful look at the horse. “Be quick about it. I’m not going away, understand?”
He paced up and down the stable yard, his shoes echoing on the cobbles. A couple of the other horses poked their heads out over their stable doors as if wondering what the row was about. Mike ignored them. After about ten minutes, Delma finally emerged from Moonlight’s stall, her eyes wary and fearful.
“You took your time,” he said, glowering at her.
“I was as quick as I could be. I had to calm him down. You just don’t understand horses.”
“Bugger the horses.” He grabbed her wrist and, ignoring her protests, dragged her across the stable yard into the small room that served as an office. The walls were covered in photos of horses and rosettes from various events. Delma leant against the desk, as if she needed its support. Mike stood in the doorway, blocking her escape.
“What is wrong with you?” she demanded. “The police let you go, didn’t they?”
“Oh yeah, they let me go, with a strong suggestion that I don’t leave the area. They’ve been following me around, recording my business meetings, snooping bastards, and they’re coming after you too.”
“What do you mean?”
“They know you’re planning to sell some of the family jewellery, they said it would be theft if you did it without getting your father-in-law’s permission.”
“No, it wouldn’t! How did they know?” Delma’s voice shook as she gazed up at him. “Did you tell them?”
He wouldn’t meet her eye. “No, but I did mention it to some of my pals in Swansea; said that you could help with the funds and stuff. How was I to know the pigs had infiltrated the group with one of their undercover buggers? He took photos, recorded some of the conversation. I told that stuck up chief inspector it was entrapment, but he couldn’t care a fuck. I’d like to smash his smug little face from here to kingdom come.”
“How could you tell them that?” Delma demanded, her anger giving her courage. “You could ruin everything, and that would mean you’d lose out as well.”
“Do you think I don’t know that? But it’s not my fault.”
“No, nothing ever is,” said his sister furiously. “That’s one of your problems. Anything that goes wrong, it’s always someone else’s fault, not yours.”
“Crap.” He glared at her for a moment and Delma slipped around the desk and sat down. She felt safer having it between her and Mike.
“You were the one who came up with the idea of disposing of some of the valuables.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he didn’t give her the chance. “They don’t appear to know about the other stuff yet, but it’s only a matter of time. You said no-one would notice, and now look where that’s got us.”
“Mike!” It was a panic-stricken gasp.
“Don’t worry. I’m on to it. I think I can sort it, damage limitations.”
“What do you mean?”
He tapped the side of his nose. “I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open. I’ve found out a thing or two about the people round here, stuff they’d much rather others didn’t know. The old man’s death is a mystery, is it? Well, I don’t think so, and I could make a tidy little packet out of what I know.”
“What do you know?” she exclaimed, her voice rising.
But before he could answer, they heard what sounded like footsteps on the cobbles outside.
“There’s someone there,” Delma whispered.
“Quiet,” he hissed at her, and slipped out of the door, but he was back in no time at all.
“Who was it?”
“No-one. You’re jumping at shadows again.”
Delma wasn’t so sure, but she didn’t push it. “Mike,” she said, keeping her voice to a whisper, “you have to tell me what you mean.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “Not a chance. I’ll deal with it in my own way. Just you keep shtum, understand?”
She nodded. What else could she do?
Chapter 10
At breakfast on Sunday morning, Fabia suggested to Anjali that they should get out of the house and do something to distract them from the events of the last few days. John had confirmed the meeting with Rodric would go ahead the following afternoon and Fabia felt it would be a good idea to take Anjali’s mind off it. Dwelling on what might happen would do Anjali no good at all. What was more, much to Fabia’s annoyance, Matt hadn’t phoned to let them know what was going on; so the distraction would help them both.
Fabia had gone through all the places they could visit within easy driving distance. They decided against a trip to Cardiff, neither of them felt like wandering around the usual shops. They’d considered the Roman Baths at Caerleon and talked about Tintern Abbey, which was a bit further afield, but in the end they decided on Tredegar House just outside Newport.
“It’s always been one of my favourite places,” Fabia said. “The Morgan family, who built it in the seventeenth century, I think, used to own vast parts of South Wales. I suppose the Mansells could be thought of as similar, although on a much smaller scale.”
“It sounds interesting, do the same family still live in it?”
“No, it’s run by the National Trust now and the house and gardens are open to the public. The way they’ve set it up gives you a clear idea of what a stately home was like, in Edwardian times particularly. I think you’ll love the fabrics.”
Anjali’s eyes lit up. “That sounds perfect, but what about you, Fabia? Haven’t you got work to do?”
“Nothing I can’t postpone,” Fabia said, and grimaced ruefully. “To be honest I’m a bit stuck. The exhibition is nearly finished and, although I’ll have to go and take it all down next week, Paul Hewitt says there’s no hurry. As to the commissions I got, well, they’ll just have to wait. And I really don’t think I can talk to Megan about the book in the present circumstances. I should imagine it’s the last thing on her mind.”
“I see what you mean. Ah well, let’s go, and, thank you.”
They’d had a thoroughly enjoyable day. By mutual consent they’d decided not to talk about Caradoc’s death and all the problems associated with it, and by the time they got back to Pontygwyn they were both much more relaxed. Having picked up fish and chips in the High Street, they sat in front of the television and ate their meal. But, by the time they’d finished, the shadows had returned.
Anjali straightened after loading their plates into the dishwasher. “I haven’t told my mother about Caradoc. I think I should, don’t you?”
Fabia didn’t quite know what to say. “I don’t know, only you can decide.”
“I think I must,” Anjali said, as if she’d come to a decision after much thought. She glanced at her watch. “It’ll be quite late at home, but I don’t think she’ll mind. She was expecting me to skype her yesterday and she’ll probably be wondering what’s happening.”
Fabia watched her as she left the room, a look of concern on her face. Poor girl, she really had been dumped into an awful situation and, so far, she was dealing with it very well.
* * *
Matt yawned, almost cracking his jaw. Mondays were never his favourite, particularly after having worked through the weekend. The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up. “Lambert,” he growled.
“Well, if that’s your attitude–”
“Sorry,” he said, suddenly alert. Dr Pat Curtis, the pathologist, was a notoriously touchy individual and dealing with her was never easy, but he hoped she’d be answering a question that had been nagging at him since he’d spoken to Hari Patel.
“The preliminary report on the Caradoc Mansell post-mortem – I’ve just completed it. I’ve e-mailed it to you. I’m waiting for the results of a couple more tests, but I’m pretty sure of my findings.”
“Which are?”
“I’m ninety percent sure he was poisoned but I can’t pin-point exactly what was used, which means I’ve got to wait for those test results to come in.”
“So, how long will these tests take?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve had to call in some expert advice.”
“From whom?”
“From a vet.”
Aha, thought Matt, that chimes with what Hari said. “So, you do have an idea of what was used?”
“An idea, but that’s all so far.” There was a strained little silence then she gave in. “I think he was injected with a hefty animal tranquiliser, but that’s what I’ve got to get checked out. It surprises me that Dr Patel picked up on it.”
“He’s a bloody good doctor, sharp as they come,” Matt said defensively.
“Did I say he wasn’t? But, let’s face it, he’s no expert.”
Matt decided to change tack. “And you don’t think it was an accident?”
“I don’t know yet, Chief Inspector.” She snapped. “There was a puncture mark under the arm, just below the armpit, and if that was how a drug was administered, it makes an accident unlikely.”
“Yes, Hari mentioned the underarm thing.”
“Did he? Well, maybe he’s sharper than I thought.”
“Maybe he is,” Matt said. “I’d be grateful if you could get the report to me as a matter of urgency. If it turns out to be murder, we need to start on this without delay.”
“I realise that,” she said, completely unsympathetic. “I’ll do my best.”
“You do that,” Matt muttered and slammed the phone down.
He got up and opened his office door, looked across at Dilys who was sitting at her desk clicking away on her keyboard. “Dilys, got a moment?”
Dilys came in and settled herself in the chair opposite his desk.
“I’ve just had a call from the dreaded Curtis – God she irritates me – anyway, she says she thinks Caradoc could have been murdered.”
“By what means?”
“Poison.” He told her what Dr Curtis had said. “Interesting, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say,” said Dilys.
“But she’s not sure yet, there are more test results to come in.”
“Right.” Dilys sighed, then said, “But shall I brief the team anyway?”
“Yea, go ahead, that way we’ll be able to hit the ground running.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll have to apply for a search warrant. The chief isn’t going to like that, but tough. And one of the first things on the list will be a thorough search of those stables – that’ll mean a couple of officers who’ve got experience with horses, any ideas?”
“Well, there’s Glyn Evans, he rides. He was brought up on a farm up the valleys, and I expect I can find someone else.”
“Do that, would you?”
“Consider it done,” Dilys said as she got up and left his office.
Matt sat for a moment, deep in thought, then grabbed his mobile from the desk muttering, “Sod it, why not?” and scrolled down to Fabia’s number. She picked up almost immediately.
“Hallo, Matt, you just caught me.” She sounded pleased to hear his voice. “We were about to go into Newport.”
“Are you on your own?”
“Ye-es. Why?”
“You know you said your visitor has a connection with the Mansells.”
“I did.”
“Can you tell me how close a connection?”
There was a pause. “What’s this about Matt?”
“Fabia! Just tell me. I need to know.”
Fabia gave in to the urgency in his voice. “She’s his granddaughter, from a relationship he had when he was in the army, in Mauritius.”
“Is she now?”
“They’d only just discovered each other, so Caradoc’s death has been a bit of a blow, to put it mildly. Come on Matt, what’s up?”
“Pat Curtis thinks he was poisoned.”
“Oh lord.”
“She needs to get the results of a couple of tests before she’ll confirm it, but it seems pretty certain. Of course, I can’t move until I’ve got confirmation. As usual she sounded pleased about that.”
“T’was ever thus with Pat.” Fabia had worked with the pathologist in her days as a police officer.
She sounds as if she’s still in the force, Matt thought, with a wave of regret that she wasn’t.
“Things are going to kick off here if she’s right. I’ll have to interview the whole family, obviously, including your visitor. Remind me of her name?”
“Anjali Kishtoo. Look, Matt, we’re about to go into Newport at John Meredith’s request.”
“Ah, John again,” Matt muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Matt said.
“Anyway, he’s seeing Rodric Mansell today, that’s the eldest son, about Caradoc’s will,” Fabia went on. “Apparently, Caradoc made changes to it with Anjali in mind, and John wants us to stand by in case Rodric agrees to meet her. I really don’t want to give her anything more to worry about, not yet, so I won’t mention all this to her now.”
“Changes to his will? That’s interesting.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Fabia said, then added quickly, “but Anjali couldn’t have had anything to do with his death, she was in London.”
“You’re very protective of her, given you’ve only just met her.”
“I suppose I am, but I like her, she’s a lovely girl, and anyway, she’s a fellow artist.”
“Of course, that explains everything,” Matt said sardonically.
“Shut up, Matt. But do you agree I should keep this to myself for now?”
“Absolutely. As to the others, can you give me an idea of how many people might be involved, however tenuous?”
Fabia listed everyone who lived at White Monk Abbey. “And there’s their neighbour, Ted Marsden. He’s a right thorn in Caradoc’s side apparently. Then there’s Garan Price and his wife Sheryl, they run the Mynach Arms, which is part of the estate. Garan is Caradoc’s illegitimate son and his mother, Bella, lived in the village until recently, but she’s living in Bangor now. I know her quite well, since I nicked her for possession of cannabis when I was a lowly sergeant.”
“What?”
Fabia grinned. “She’s something of a gypsy, and a talented sculptor and potter. It was a very small amount of cannabis, for her own use, so I only cautioned her, but we ended up talking about art and that, although I wasn’t painting professionally then. Anyway, we’ve stayed in touch and have been friends, off and on, ever since.”
“You never fail to amaze me, Fabia,” Matt said, but he soon got back to the matter in hand. “Mansell certainly spread it around a bit, are there any other children lurking in the woodwork?”
“Not that I know of,” Fabia said.
“So, who else is there?”
“Well, there’s David Harris, he’s the estate manager; he and Megan are an item, but I don’t think Caradoc knew.”
“Would he have disapproved?”
“I’m not sure. He was something of a control freak, probably would have wanted a say on any man friend she may have.”
“What a household, all a bit gothic, isn’t it?”
Fabia laughed. “It is a bit.”
Matt gave a gusty sigh. “I must get on.” But he didn’t want to end the call quite yet. “I– er– I missed having Sunday lunch with you. It’s been a bit of a habit lat
ely, hasn’t it? Maybe next Sunday?”
“That’d be nice,” was all she said, but he could tell she was smiling.
“Anyway, let me know how the meeting with John goes. I’ll keep you posted on our progress.”
“Thanks, I’ll speak to you soon.”
As he ended the call, he was feeling easier about his relationship with Fabia than he had in a while. He hoped she felt the same.
* * *
John Meredith was not looking forward to his meeting with Rodric. And, what was more, the damn man was late. They’d arranged it for half past ten and it was now nearly ten to eleven. At last he heard sounds of arrival in the outer office and a moment later his secretary, Stephen Powell, ushered Rodric in.
“I’ll bring coffee,” he said as he left the room.
“Thank you, Stephen,” John said, and, coming forward to shake Rodric’s hand he said, “Please, sit down.”
“I’m sorry I’m late. Delma was nagging to come with me and it took me ages to persuade her not to. You seemed pretty definite you didn’t want anyone else in on this meeting.” Rodric, eyebrows raised, sounded a bit resentful.
“Best just you at the moment,” John said, looking across at his visitor. What he saw was a pale replica of Caradoc, the chin weaker, the mouth not quite so firm. He wondered what on earth would happen to the estate now the old man was gone, but then remembered how reluctant he had been to take advantage of more modern methods and wondered if Rodric might actually succeed where his father had failed. He pulled himself together, speculation was pointless.
John pulled some papers towards him and took a deep breath. “Had your father mentioned that he was going to make some changes to his will?”
“He’d hinted at it a couple of times,” Rodric said, frowning, “but it was a threat he often made when he thought he wasn’t getting his own way.”
“Well, this time he’s actually gone ahead. There’s no point in beating about the bush; the changes, I’m afraid, are substantial.”
“What do you mean, substantial? What’s he done now?”
The poor man has no idea, John thought, no idea at all. Before he could go on, the coffee arrived and John distributed cups, offered biscuits, glad of the opportunity to collect his thoughts. But there came a point when he could put it off no longer. He took a deep breath and launched into a slow but clear explanation, reading out the passages from the will that contained the major changes.
Murder at the Old Abbey Page 10