The Seven Stars

by Anthea Fraser

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve never been one for stately home visiting. With all due respect, the thought of traipsing slowly along a drugget with a crowd of gawping tourists fills me with horror.’

  Helen joined in the general laughter and let the subject drop, but her mind still circled round the button. It must have been lost fairly recently, since it was too shiny to have lain there since the end of last season. But the house was not yet open to the public and no one in their group had had such buttons. Perhaps another private party had been there, but it was certainly a coincidence if it had included someone from the same yacht club as Dominic.

  The meal ended, and he declined the offer of a brandy. ‘I think I should be getting back,’ he said, and they all moved into the hall.

  Stella hovered anxiously. ‘Our love to Caro. Tell her we’re thinking of her.’

  Dominic nodded and, gripping the sleeves of his blazer to stop them riding up, let Gordon help him on with his raincoat. But not before Helen, with a queer little jerk of her heart, had seen the empty space on one sleeve where a second gold button should have been.

  *

  She did not sleep well that night. The mystery of the button, the meeting with Andrew, even Pen’s comments about Michael being her admirer, circled endlessly in her brain, making her restless and wide awake.

  Was Andrew having an affair with that woman? Was that why he’d stopped her approaching them? What was he doing in Steeple Bayliss anyway? Should she tackle him about it when she got home? She’d been hoping her homecoming would be a time of reconciliation, not renewed hostilities, but their marriage stood no chance until these questions had been answered.

  Her overactive brain veered to another problem. Why had Dominic lied about visiting Beckworth? There was little doubt that he had; coincidence couldn’t be stretched indefinitely and the remaining button on his cuff exactly matched the one she had found, even to being slightly smaller than those on the front.

  So when had he been there? Recently, certainly. Yet if he so disliked visiting stately homes, he was unlikely to have joined a private party for that purpose. Perhaps he knew the Hampshires? But if so, why deny having visited them?

  There could be only one reason for the lie; he did not want anyone to know he’d been there. Again, why?

  A voice in Helen’s head stated flatly, There was an attempted break-in at Beckworth on Monday, and the would-be thieves escaped across the grounds.

  A wave of heat washed over her and she immediately dismissed the idea. Dominic a thief ? Whatever reason could he have, with his apartment at St Katharine’s Dock and his highly paid job in the City?

  Then an even more preposterous thought encroached. If he was involved in the Stately Home burglaries, was he also responsible for Lord Cleverley’s murder?

  She sat up abruptly, swung her legs out of bed and paced agitatedly about the room. If this fantastic scenario were true, did the Cains and Warrens know of Dominic’s activities? Did Terry? Did Michael? And what of the horoscope column — how did that fit into the puzzle?

  She stood in the middle of the cold room, her hands to her head. All at once the little niggling queries that had worried her had swelled into one great, overriding question mark, and one which she could no longer keep to herself. She dared not confide in Michael, nor, in the present circumstances, could she approach Andrew, even if she knew where he was. There was only one course open to her: she must go to the police.

  The seriousness of the step appalled her. Would they, like Pen, think she was overreacting? But even if they did, at least she’d have handed over responsibility.

  The decision reached, Helen took a deep, steadying breath. Then, suddenly aware of the cold night air on her sweating body, she climbed back into bed and determinedly closed her eyes.

  *

  Helen was heavy-eyed the next morning and it took an effort to dress, go down to breakfast and behave as though nothing were wrong.

  But it was quite possible nothing was. The lucidity with which she had viewed the situation in the night had dissipated, leaving her muddled and confused as though it had all been a bad dream. She even began to wonder whether she would, after all, go to the police. She’d simply make a fool of herself, pouring out half-baked suspicions like a neurotic middle-aged housewife.

  Warily she watched them under lowered lids — Stella, pale but composed with her coffeepot, Michael behind his newspaper. It was a normal Monday morning, she told herself; everyone was preparing for the start of the week. Michael would go to his office and Terry Pike would be on his way back from Blackpool. She thought of his searching eyes and the persistence of his questioning about Andrew and his work. Why was he so interested? Was he working with Dominic?

  Her eyes followed Stella as she moved about the room. Dominic was a family friend; surely the four of them must know what he was up to?

  If, Helen reminded herself carefully, he was up to anything.

  ‘Helen?’

  She started and turned to Michael.

  ‘I said, are you all right? You look a bit under the weather this morning.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep too well,’ she admitted.

  He nodded gravely, no doubt thinking she’d been fretting about Andrew. As, in part, she had.

  ‘Remember I’m here, if you want to talk about it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She pushed away her uneaten roll and stood up. ‘What are you tackling today?’

  She stiffened, then realised he was referring to the course. ‘English watercolours in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.’

  He smiled. ‘That should keep you busy. You’ll be back for dinner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  What would have happened by dinner-time? She had decided to attend all the day’s lectures, since to miss one would cause comment, and to drive into Steeple Bayliss at the end of the afternoon. No doubt someone would direct her to the police station — if her nerve had not failed by then.

  Michael pushed back his chair and accompanied her out to the car, waiting while she unlocked it.

  ‘You’re sure you’re all right to drive?’

  She forced a smile. ‘Of course I am!’

  ‘You look decidedly shaky to me. Take care, then.’ And he bent and kissed her cheek.

  Hardly knowing what she was doing, Helen clambered inside, her hands fumbling at the controls. The engine started with a surprised whoosh, the wheels spurted gravel and the car shot forward. Frantically she spun the wheel just in time to make the turning into the narrow passageway leading to the road. A supreme example of how not to drive, she thought, furious with herself. It would have convinced Michael she was in no fit state — unless he attributed her performance to his kiss.

  Cheeks flaming, she put her foot down hard on the accelerator and sped towards Melbray.

  *

  Somehow, the day crawled by. At one point, Rose Chalmers startled her by saying suddenly, ‘Did you remember where you’d seen that button?’

  ‘I — yes, on someone I met at the digs.’

  ‘I’m sure he was glad to have it back.’

  Helen smiled and made no reply. Would he have been? What would have happened if, at the dinner-table, she had unzipped her purse and handed Dominic the button she’d found? He could hardly have denied it was his, with the space on his cuff. Would she have met with an ‘accident’, like Molly?

  She shuddered and, at Miss Chalmers’s raised eyebrows, gave an embarrassed little laugh. ‘Someone walking over my grave!’ she said, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

  Valentine Perry joined her again at lunch. ‘Did you compare notes on Beckworth with your hosts?’ he asked her.

  ‘I told them about the visit, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Cain did a feature on it last year. I remember him saying he’d lugged the whole family along with him.’

  Her flicker of interest died. Neither Gordon nor Nicholas belonged to Chardsey Yacht Club.

  The hour between three-thirty and four-t
hirty was the longest she could remember. Countless times, despite the interesting lecture, her eyes wandered to the grandfather clock that ticked the day away. Once or twice she was sure it had stopped, but four-thirty came at last and Helen, excusing herself from the usual questions and chat, hurried out to her car. There was a heavy weight in her stomach and she felt slightly sick at the prospect ahead of her. Suppose she was entirely wrong? Could she be charged with false accusation? Would her comments be treated as confidential?

  On the outskirts of Steeple Bayliss she drew into a garage, filled up with petrol, and as casually as possible asked where the police station was.

  ‘Maybury Street, duck,’ the mechanic told her cheerfully. ‘Turn left off the High Street opposite the Pickwick, then right at the T-junction and the nick’s on your right.’

  She knew the Pickwick wine bar; she and Pen had lunched there. Helen thanked him and returned to the car. The rush-hour traffic was starting, but most of it was in the opposite direction and did not delay her until she reached the High Street, which was congested with traffic. With two solid lines of cars, it was as well she did not need to make a right turn. Following the directions she’d been given, she found the police station without difficulty, halfway along Maybury Street.

  Even then, if there’d been nowhere to park she might have driven past it and gone home; but fate didn’t let her off so easily. As she approached, a motorist drew away from a parking meter and Helen slid into his place. The die was cast. She dropped coins in the meter, crossed the road and went up the steps to the swing doors.

  The foyer was warmed by large radiators along the wall. Several people were milling aimlessly about, among them a woman with a crying child. As Helen passed, she was saying soothingly, ‘Someone’ll hand him in, pet, don’t you worry.’

  A uniformed sergeant was making notes at a desk and Helen went over to him. He looked up. ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘I want to speak to someone in authority,’ she said, feeling foolish.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘We’re all in authority, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘It’s —’ She seized on something he would know about. ‘It’s to do with the hit-and-run the other week.’

  ‘Well, that was a CID matter. Perhaps Sergeant Hopkins could help you.’

  As he was speaking, a handsome, fair-haired man who was passing stopped and came over to them.

  He smiled at Helen, seeming to sense her nervousness. ‘Perhaps I can help? I’m DI Ledbetter and I’ve been dealing with the hit-and-run.’

  She said gratefully, ‘Then I’d very much like to talk to you.’

  He nodded. ‘Send some tea in to Interview Room 2, will you, Bob?’ He glanced at Helen. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Just milk, please.’

  He guided her across the tiled floor to a small room, followed her inside and closed the door.

  ‘Now, Mrs —’

  ‘Campbell.’

  ‘ — Mrs Campbell, if you’d like to sit down, you can tell me all about it. Have you any objection if I switch on the tape? I’ve no writing equipment with me and it saves having to remember.’

  ‘None at all.’ But she was aware that her voice had become stilted.

  ‘Just try to forget about it,’ he advised. ‘The time is sixteen-fifty, I’ve told you I’m DI Ledbetter, so if you’ll just give me your address we can get on with it.’

  Helen did so, and he looked up in surprise. ‘You’re a long way from home.’

  ‘I’m attending a course at Melbray, and staying at the Seven Stars.’

  ‘Ah yes, the girl worked there, didn’t she?’

  There was a tap on the door and a policewoman came in with a tray and two polystyrene mugs.

  ‘Not quite the Ritz, I’m afraid,’ Ledbetter said with a grin. ‘Right, Mrs Campbell, what’s troubling you?’

  She hesitated, then said in a rush, ‘You’ll probably think I’m mad, Inspector, but quite a lot of things are.’

  ‘You mentioned the hit-and-run?’

  ‘Yes. I was there that evening, at the Seven Stars. I’d brought my daughter back to university and got caught in the fog, so I spent the night there.’ Her hands tightened on her lap.

  ‘I drove round to the back, following the sign to the car park, and drew up at the far end by the other cars. But before I could get out, a girl came running out of the house, followed by a man shouting at her to come back. She didn’t, and after a minute he went back inside and slammed the door.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think any more of it then. But later, when I came down to dinner, I overheard someone say, “I thought she’d gone. God knows how much she heard.”’

  ‘And you thought he was referring to the girl?’

  ‘I didn’t really think anything, except that I hoped he wouldn’t think I was eavesdropping and I moved quickly away.’

  ‘Who was speaking, Mrs Campbell?’

  She gave a little shrug. ‘It’s funny, but I hadn’t met any of them then, and since I have, I’ve found it hard to reproduce the voice in my head.’

  ‘So you’re not sure?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Was it the same man that ran after the girl?’

  ‘I assumed so at the time.’ She paused. ‘Yes, I think it was. Anyway, later a young man came knocking on the door saying there’d been an accident, but of course I didn’t connect it with Molly, who’d left much earlier. That’s all that happened then, except that I read about the Melbray course in the local paper. A week or so later I decided to apply for it, and since it wasn’t residential, booked in again at the Seven Stars. And it was on my return, last Sunday, that I heard Molly had been killed.’

  There was a brief silence. Then Ledbetter said, ‘And you’re wondering if it was deliberate?’

  She nodded, sipping her tea and not looking at him.

  ‘Well, I can set your mind at rest on that score, at least. We found the hit-and-run driver; he’s a seventeen-year-old youth who was out joy-riding. So whatever Molly heard or didn’t hear, you can rest assured she wasn’t killed because of it. Her death was an accident.’

  Helen drew a long breath. ‘Then perhaps it’s not worth bothering you with the other things. They’ve probably got an equally rational explanation.’

  ‘You’re not bothering me, Mrs Campbell. It was public-spirited of you to come along, though if I may say so, you took your time about it.’

  ‘I thought I was just being neurotic. But when things began to build up —’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘This sounds ludicrous, I know, but do you see the horoscope column in the Evening News?’

  ‘My wife does.’

  Stumblingly, Helen told him of Cain’s connection with it, about the repetitions that came under ‘Tomorrow’s Birthday’, the tension with which her comment had been received, and finally Valentine Perry’s remarks about the changes made to the forecast.

  ‘As he said, it’s not as though it’s anything important, but the point is the added sentences are always similar: “Someone is waiting to hear from you” or “A friend would like to hear from you”. Do you see what I mean? As though it’s asking someone to get in touch.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘It sounds like something out of Bulldog Drummond, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Have you any idea who this message, if it is one, is intended for?’

  ‘None, nor how any reply’s received. It’s probably nothing at all, and I’m just wasting your time. In fact, if it hadn’t been for what happened at the weekend I should never have come here.’

  ‘And what happened at the weekend?’

  She told him of her visit to Beckworth House, of finding the button, and noticing Dominic had one missing after he denied having been there. And suddenly the inspector’s interest was more than mere politeness.

  ‘Have you got this button with you?’

  She opened her purse and handed it over. Ledbetter studied it in his palm. Helen said, ‘The lette
rs stand for Chardsey Yacht Club. I asked him. It’s in Surrey.’

  ‘Who exactly is Dominic Hardy, Mrs Campbell?’

  ‘A friend of the family, who was at school with Nicholas Warren. Michael Saxton, who’s been at the Seven Stars for some months, says he comes quite often. He has an apartment at St Katharine’s Dock.’

  ‘Why does he keep coming here?’

  ‘Because his girlfriend’s parents live nearby and her father’s dying.’

  ‘What’s the girlfriend’s name?’

  ‘Caroline. I must have heard her surname, but I can’t — oh yes, I think it’s Budd.’

  ‘Do you know where her parents live? Or their initials?’

  ‘Not their address, but Dominic spoke of her father as Roderick.’

  Abruptly he changed the subject. ‘You wouldn’t know what car Hardy drives?’

  ‘A blue Saab nine thousand,’ she answered promptly. ‘My brother has one, so I recognised it.’

  Ledbetter leant forward, his eyes gleaming. ‘Now that is helpful. Where does he park it?’ Please God, not where half a dozen cars had been since.

  ‘At the front of the house, almost blocking access to the rear. Michael says he always parks there.’

  ‘Mrs Campbell, you’re a wonder!’

  ‘You think he’s tied in with the Stately Homes?’

  ‘We’ll be taking a good look at him.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure I needn’t ask you to say nothing of your visit here.’

  She gave a little shiver. ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know where Hardy is now?’

  ‘I think he was going back to London, but Caro’s staying on because her father hasn’t much longer to live.’

  ‘I want you to think carefully. Has anything else happened at the Seven Stars which struck you as strange, even if it seemed unimportant?’

  ‘Well, Terry Pike, who’s also been there a while, was very interested to hear my husband’s a loss adjuster working on some of the Stately Homes claims.’

  Ledbetter raised an eyebrow. ‘That interests me, too. We might have spoken on the phone.’

  ‘Oh? I suppose you wouldn’t know why he was up here yesterday?’ Was it really only yesterday? It already seemed days ago.