The Seven Stars

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘He’ll be pretty busy, with more Stately Home burglaries.’

  ‘The latest ones won’t affect him; nothing valuable was taken from Buckhurst, and nothing at all from Beckworth — which, incidentally, is where we’re going on Saturday.’

  ‘It’s pretty horrid, though, all these places being broken into, not to mention the old boy getting bashed on the head. And did you hear about Randall Tovey’s? Pam’s mother was there when it happened. She said it was awful, everyone having to be searched and interviewed by the police — even the Duchess of Hampshire.’

  ‘She’s having quite a week,’ Helen said.

  *

  The Marlowe Playhouse was an intimate little place, resplendent with red plush and glinting chandeliers. Helen settled happily back in her seat, enjoying the rustling of programmes round about her and the general air of anticipation.

  Pen was right, she reflected, she’d been letting her imagination play tricks. In future she’d keep it in check, and no doubt sleep better at night. Having reached which sensible decision, she settled back to enjoy the play.

  *

  ‘Hannah? I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse!’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘You’ve not eaten yet?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Then let’s drive out somewhere, buy some fish and chips soused in salt and vinegar, and eat them in the car out of the newspaper.’

  ‘You’re out of date there; they come in paper bags nowadays. But what brought this on?’

  ‘A surfeit of the gentry. I’m awash with Lords and Ladies, Dukes and Duchesses and I need to go slumming. I’d like to take in some ten-pin bowling, but it wouldn’t help your image if you were recognised.’

  ‘With that I agree, but I’m game for the fish and chips.’

  ‘Great. I’ll be at your door in ten minutes.’

  *

  Friday morning brought the news that Lord Cleverley had died during the night without regaining consciousness. So now they had a murder on their hands. Furthermore, the weapon had been identified as one of a pair of silver candlesticks.

  Despite the seriousness of the case, the game of Cluedo kept impinging on Webb’s deliberations. ‘In the library, with a candlestick.’ All that remained was to name the perpetrator. Who was the real-life Colonel Mustard, Miss Scarlet or Professor Plum?

  He rubbed a hand over his face and reached for the telephone as it rang.

  ‘Someone’s reported seeing a car in the vicinity on Wednesday night, sir.’ It was one of the Regional Crime team.

  ‘Any details?’ Webb demanded.

  ‘Dark, saloon-type. Not much to go on.’

  ‘Who saw it?’

  ‘A young couple walking back from a disco. Thought it was some lovers parked for a spot of nooky, but when they glanced inside it was empty. We took them back to pin down the spot and got some shots and a cast of the tyre marks.’

  ‘Excellent, Bill. Perhaps their luck really is running out.’

  *

  Although Hannah knew from David that there was no news on the Randall Tovey theft, she rang Monica later that morning to ask how things were progressing.

  ‘They seem to be at a standstill.’ Her friend’s voice sounded strained. ‘Honestly, Hannah, I’ve hardly slept since it happened. I just can’t believe it. No one’s going to feel safe in the store ever again.’

  ‘Have the police been in touch?’

  ‘Only with more questions. There’s not so much as a whisper about the ring.’

  ‘How about a spot of lunch, to take your mind off it?’

  ‘I’d love to, but I’ve a rep coming at two-thirty so it must be a quick one.’

  ‘Fine. Twelve-thirty at the Vine Leaf ?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  That Monica hadn’t been exaggerating her anxiety was apparent as soon as she arrived. There were shadows under her eyes and fine lines at their corners, which Hannah hadn’t noticed before. She joined her at the corner table, glancing through the glass doors to the courtyard which, in summer, was a favourite eating place. Now, the chairs and tables were stacked under canvas and a few desultory leaves skittered over the paving stones.

  ‘I hate January,’ Monica said.

  ‘When winter comes —’ Hannah quoted rallyingly. ‘I was studying the blackboard before you arrived and the chef’s choice today is lasagne al forno. How about that? With salad and a rather better wine than usual, to cheer us up?’

  ‘Fine.’ Monica waited while Hannah went to the bar to give the order. When she resumed her seat, she said quietly, ‘Thanks, love. This is just what I need.’

  ‘These things happen, and you just have to roll with them. Think of the problems I had last term.’

  Monica nodded gravely. ‘At least no one was hurt, thank God. But Hannah, I keep going over and over the guest-list, considering each in turn as a potential thief. And I know them all so well, either socially or professionally or both. I just can’t believe any one of them would have taken it.’

  ‘And you’re quite sure about the attendant?’

  ‘As sure as I can be. She’s always seemed scrupulously honest. Now, the poor woman spends most of her time in tears threatening to leave because she’s convinced we think she’s to blame.’

  ‘It was such a short space of time,’ Hannah mused. ‘One minute the ring was there, the next it was gone. It’s not as though some time had elapsed, which would give a wider range of suspects.’

  ‘Did you see anyone go into the cloakroom?’ Monica asked despairingly.

  ‘Afraid not. I was down at the far end most of the time.’

  ‘And I was so busy chatting to everyone, I never even glanced in that direction. But those who were there seem to have corroborated each other’s presence and you’d think would have noticed if one of them had grabbed the ring.’

  ‘It’s easily done. Someone could have dropped a hanky over it and scooped it up without anyone seeing.’

  The wine came, rich, fruity and bracing, and by unspoken assent no more was said on the subject. They talked instead of mutual friends and holiday plans, and by the time the meal was finished, some of the strain had left Monica’s face.

  ‘We should do this more often,’ she said as they parted outside the wine bar. ‘Sandwiches at your desk have a limited appeal.’

  Hannah smiled agreement. ‘We’ll fix another date in a few weeks. And by then, I’m sure, all the problems will be resolved.’

  ‘In the meantime, thanks for taking my mind off them. Bless you, Hannah.’ Monica lent forward to kiss her cheek, and Hannah watched her cross the road and start down the short street that led back to East Parade. Then, with a small sigh, she went to reclaim her car.

  9

  Saturday morning dawned the brightest of the week. There had been a heavy overnight frost which covered the cars with a sparkling mantle, and overhead the sky was a cloudless blue.

  ‘I presume you’re free today?’ Michael asked Helen at breakfast.

  ‘No, actually, but it should be fun. We’re having a talk on Beckworth House, then going along to visit it and have lunch there. And this evening there’s a competition followed by dinner, so I shan’t be back till late.’

  ‘Busy, busy. A pity you’ll be indoors, though, on such a lovely day.’

  ‘We have the afternoon free, to look round the gardens.’ She paused. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I shall go and see how the house is coming along. Actually, I was going to invite you to join me. You might find it quite interesting.’

  ‘Oh, Michael, I’m sorry. I should have loved to.’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll give my daughter a ring, on the off chance that she’s not fully booked up for the weekend.’

  He sounded lonely, Helen thought, and wondered suddenly if Andrew was, also. But no, she told herself almost at once. He’ll be off playing golf and won’t miss her at all, except perhaps when he has to thaw and reheat his own supper.

  She said, ‘H
aven’t you any friends in the area?’

  ‘Not really. I’m not a clubbable man and though they’re pleasant enough at the office, there’s no one I’d particularly like to spend my spare time with. Once I’m in the house, of course, there’ll be plenty to do.’

  She folded her napkin. ‘Well, I’d better be on my way. Tell me about it tomorrow.’

  He nodded and, feeling she was deserting him, she collected her things and set off for Melbray.

  The group had gathered in the usual lecture room, and Melissa Tidy was ticking off new arrivals on her list. It was she who was responsible for the overall running of the course, to whom Helen had originally spoken on the phone and who had confirmed her booking. She was a small, neat woman of about forty, with smooth dark hair tucked behind her ears.

  The chairs, normally arranged in rows, had been grouped more informally round the room and coffee was being served. Helen sat, as usual, with Miss Chalmers.

  Once they had all arrived, ‘Melissa’, as she asked them to call her, began to outline the day ahead. ‘A coach is collecting us at ten-thirty for the drive to Beckworth, which takes about an hour and a half. We’ll be driving through some of the loveliest countryside in the area, and up into the Chantock Hills. I shall, of course, point out places of interest as we go.

  ‘As you know, the House isn’t open to the public at this time of year, so we’ll have it to ourselves. The tour will be conducted by one of the official guides and will take about an hour, after which we shall have a private lunch in the Orangery at approximately one o’clock.

  ‘You will then have roughly two hours to look round the grounds. Do try to see the lily pond; it’s in a lovely setting and well worth a visit even without its flowers. It also has the dubious distinction of having featured in a murder case last spring, as you might have heard. Then there’s the folly and a maze and some very interesting statuary.’

  She lapsed into what Helen considered ‘brochure-speak’. ‘Beckworth House has been the country seat of the Dukes of Hampshire for the last five hundred years, though the original building was destroyed by fire in 1680. The present one took over forty years to complete and is an early example of the great Palladian country houses. It has many fine antiques and an enviable collection of Louis XV furniture.’

  A brief description of the contents of the house ensued, followed by a potted history of the Hampshires, who had had their share of eccentrics over the years. One duke was apt to hide in the shrubbery and take pot shots at visitors; another cast a too-familiar eye at the Virgin Queen and only just escaped the Tower.

  The coach arrived promptly and they filed out to it. Helen took a window seat and was keeping an eye open for Miss Chalmers, who’d gone back for her camera, when to her startled surprise Valentine Perry plonked himself down beside her.

  She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. It would please him to know he’d disconcerted her and he was unlikely in any case to vacate his seat. But an hour and a half of him! she thought despairingly.

  The first part of the trip was familiar ground, and a few minutes later they were passing the Seven Stars. Perry, seeing her glance at it, said reflectively, ‘An odd bloke, Cain. Fancies himself as an astrologer. Did you know?’

  Unwilling to encourage him, she merely nodded.

  ‘Not much good, if you ask me. I have a pal who works on the Evening News and he says the man’s a pest, always wanting to add things at the last minute. If he wasn’t in with the editor, he’d never have lasted this long.’

  Interested in spite of herself, Helen turned her head. ‘How do you mean, add things?’

  ‘Well, he has to submit a month’s supply of horoscopes two weeks ahead of the first publication, i.e. halfway through the previous month. He manages that all right, but then can’t leave well alone and keeps wanting to embellish bits.’

  Helen frowned. ‘In what way?’

  ‘By sticking sentences on the end. Dick says that what really bugs him is that it’s never anything earth-shattering, just more of the same drivel — Someone is waiting to hear from you and suchlike. I mean, what the hell difference does it make? It’s not as though anyone believes the things.’

  Helen felt a prick of excitement. She said carefully, ‘But doesn’t it alter the setting of the column, adding something at the last minute?’ And waited tensely for his reply.

  ‘No, because for some reason it’s always “Tomorrow’s Birthday” he goes for, which is in a separate box.’

  She slowly released her breath. She’d been right, then. There was something peculiar about the horoscope column. Was it being used to send coded messages? But that was ridiculous: this wasn’t wartime, with the country full of spies, and what was wrong with the telephone? Penelope’s voice repeated in her head, ‘Frankly, Mum, I think you’re overreacting.’

  But the phrase Perry had quoted as a typical addition was the very one she’d challenged Gordon with at the dinner table, with such uncomfortable results. Coincidence? Or had she unwittingly stumbled on to something?

  The switching on of the tannoy made her jump. Melissa was beginning to describe the market town of Marlton which they were now approaching and which had been mentioned in the Domesday Book. Everyone dutifully looked out of the windows at the old market cross, the thatched cottages and cobbled streets, and heard how it had been held in siege by Cromwell’s men because the King was thought to be hiding there.

  Perry had lapsed into silence, either listening to the spiel or busy with his own thoughts, and Helen was grateful. Her own mind was only half on the history of Broadshire which was being recounted for her benefit. The other half worried at his revelations about the horoscopes. If a message was being passed on, who was it intended for, and how was a reply received?

  Deciding finally that the whole thing was much too farfetched and that she was once again letting her imagination run riot, Helen put it all firmly out of her mind and determined to enjoy her day.

  *

  Webb was sitting in his office, dispiritedly reading through the negative information gleaned by the SOCOs at Buckhurst Grange, when the phone rang and he lifted it to find Chris Ledbetter on the line.

  ‘Just to let you know we’ve nabbed the driver of the hit-and-run vehicle. As we suspected, a lad in his teens who nicked the car for a dare.’

  ‘Did he know he’d hit her?’

  ‘Yep, but he panicked and drove on.’

  ‘He could at least have phoned for an ambulance,’ Webb said disgustedly.

  ‘That’s what’ll count against him, but at least it confirms the death wasn’t deliberate.’

  ‘Never really thought it was, did we? How did you get on to him?’

  ‘His father brought him in. He’s been in a state, apparently, ever since hearing the girl was dead, and his dad finally wheedled the story out of him. I reckon he’s had a good thrashing, though nothing was said.’

  Webb grunted. ‘Well, we’ve another death on our hands now, and there’s no doubt this one was deliberate — or at least, the GBH was.’

  ‘No leads, I suppose?’

  ‘Not that you’d notice. All SOCO came up with were a few minute hairs. The DNA doesn’t tie in with any of the family, but until we have some to match them with, we’re no better off. God knows, Chris, we’ve been getting enough stick for not sussing out these robberies, but now a murder’s thrown in, the heat’s really on and we still have damn-all to go on.’

  ‘Regional Crime helping out?’

  ‘Yes, they sent a team over, but though we’re awash with statistics and comparisons, they’ve not done us much good. The only light on the horizon is that a car was spotted nearby, but the description’s pretty vague and it’ll take a hell of a lot of finding.’

  ‘Well, good luck. I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘We’ll need it,’ Webb said under his breath, and returned to his papers.

  *

  In his sunny studio in the stable block, Gordon Cain was also experiencing frust
ration, compounded by a growing sense of unease. Depressed by general negative influences, he’d called up his own chart, only to be reminded that Venus and Mars were in opposition. Strained relationships all round, no doubt, which recent events had already foreshadowed.

  He stood up, running his hand distractedly through his hair. It was one of his most basic beliefs that astrology gave warning of difficulties ahead so that evading action might be taken. The trouble was, he’d not the remotest idea what action he could take. It was as though bad luck — or, more technically, inauspicious influences — were bearing steadily down on him like an avalanche and there was nowhere he could hide.

  Not that it had come out of the blue, he reminded himself. He progressed his own and Stella’s charts regularly, and this period of strain had been approaching for some time. But things had been going so well for so long now that he’d become complacent, confident he could ward off its more serious implications. Now, his confidence had evaporated and for the first time he felt afraid.

  *

  The coach decanted them in the car park alongside the western wall of the estate, and in twos and threes the party made their way to the entrance. A small gate, inset in the huge ornamental ones, stood open and a smiling woman was waiting inside.

  ‘Welcome to Beckworth House,’ she greeted them, as they filed in. ‘I’m Alison Carey, and I’ll be your guide on the tour.’

  Under the tall cedars frost still rimed the grass, but it had melted from the drive which wound up to the house. Helen noted the various paths that led off, signposted ‘Maze’ and ‘Folly’ and ‘Walled Garden’. This place would be gorgeous in summer, she thought. Then, as they rounded the last curve of the drive, the house lay before them, its honey-coloured stone glowing in the winter sunshine.

  ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ she exclaimed involuntarily, and Mrs Carey smiled at her.

  ‘Yes, it is. Even though I live at the Lodge and see it every day, it always gives me a lift. Now,’ she turned as the last stragglers caught up with them, ‘if you’re all ready, we’ll go inside. Since we’re such a small number, we can be quite informal, so do please ask me as we go round, if there’s anything you want to know.’