“You did what?”
“Neil dropped round here just now ... that’s why I’m late this morning. He was asking me about Sebastian, my opinion of him. Because, you see, they’ve checked on him in Oxford, and he didn’t have a satisfactory alibi for that morning. So ... well, in the circumstances I could hardly conceal what I knew, could I?”
There was a pause. Then, “How did Grant react?”
“He really laid into me for not passing the information to the police immediately. And ... and I’m afraid that he’s going to do the same with you, Ralph. In fact, he’s on his way over right now.”
“God Almighty.” There was another pause, then Ralph muttered, “I suppose I can always make out that I was planning to phone him about it this morning, and ...”
“No that’s no good. Neil knows that you intended to talk to Sebastian, and say nothing if he could give you a satisfactory explanation for being near here on Wednesday morning.”
“You seem to have gone out of your way to put me on the spot,” Ralph said furiously. “What the hell did you think you were up to?”
“I had to tell him everything, surely you can see that. Not to have admitted it straight out would be tantamount to lying, and that would have made matters a lot worse. I’m sorry, Ralph.”
He started to say something else, but broke off for a moment to speak to someone in the office. “I gather that Grant has arrived. I’ll have to go now.”
Now I was thoroughly in Ralph’s bad books, and Grace wouldn’t be any too pleased with me, either. Work, I told myself, was the best remedy for depression, and there was plenty to be done. So I took off for the Coach House.
First, I called the carpet firm in Kidderminster and found to my relief that the specially woven broadloom for the Golden Peacock job was being put on rail this morning. A letter had arrived in the morning’s mail which promised delivery of the equipment for the Myddleton Manor kitchen next Monday, and I fixed with the contractor about installing it. So far, so good.
Then I turned to something new. Oliver had rough-sketched some ideas for converting an old thatched barn into a pool-side bar and games room, and I tried to concentrate on making a series of coloured visuals for the client’s approval. I was getting absorbed at my drawing board, with photos spread out all around me, when the phone rang. As I scooped it up my worries came rushing back in a flood. It would be Ralph to report how he’d got on with Neil.
“Hallo, Tracy, it’s Tim. Look, about having a meal with me,” he said, “how about tonight?”
His call had come at just the right moment. I was beginning to feel like a social outcast. “Yes, I’d like that, Tim.”
“Great. I’ll pick you up ... at seven. I thought we might go to the Lamb Inn in Gilchester.” He suddenly sounded diffident. “Er ... how’re things going with you?”
“So-so. By the way, I’ll be staying on here and running the Design Studio on my own. Sir Robert suggested it.”
“That’s wonderful news, Tracy.” His obvious pleasure further boosted my morale.
“I’ll tell you all about it this evening,” I said happily, and rang off.
I drove home at lunchtime, collected together a tray-snack of cheese, a chunk of cucumber, crisp bread, an apple, plus a glass of milk, and took it into the garden to relax in the shade of the weeping ash tree. The job I’d lined up to do this afternoon I didn’t fancy at all, but it had to be faced.
Dodford was a village three miles to the south of Steeple Haslop, enfolded in a specially lovely little valley. The Old Rectory, a largish early-Victorian house, stood adjoining the Norman church opposite the village green.
Cynthia Fairford opened the door to my ring and gave me a startled look. She was one of those women who, though still attractive, lived in dread of looming middle-age. Two sons away at boarding school and a prosperous civil-engineer husband who spent half his life dashing off to far-flung regions of the word, left her with too much time on her hands. In a word, she had to be categorised as the perfect target for Oliver’s attention.
“Hallo, Mrs. Fairford. I thought I ought to come along and see you.”
“Yes,” she said vaguely, pushing back her ash-blond hair. “Come in, Miss Yorke.”
She led the way across the hall to her drawing room, for which the Design Studio was planning a face-lift. As I stepped across the threshold it struck me suddenly that Oliver’s proposed treatment was quite wrong in here, altogether too gimmicky. This graciously-proportioned room, with long windows that opened out onto a canopied verandah and looked across sweeping lawns to a vista of the church tower framed between giant copper beeches, needed something more in keeping with tradition.
Oliver had become much too daring and flamboyant. Suddenly I understood why every now and then the final result had been greeted with less than the whoops of delight that Oliver expected from his clients.
I felt a sneak of disloyalty for doubting Oliver’s judgment now, but I also realised that responsibility for work carried out by the Design Studio would be mine alone in future. So it must reflect my ideas.
Cynthia Fairford was, I realised, in a severe state of shock. I trod warily, half afraid that I would precipitate an outburst of grief, half wondering if I should encourage just that to release some of her pent-up tension. She murmured a few conventional expressions of horror, clearly walking a tightrope win her emotions. After a few minutes she offered me tea, and was away for twice too long getting it ... dragging herself together, no doubt.
Though I could see that she didn’t care one way or the other what happened to her drawing room now, she readily agreed to my suggestion of a colour scheme of greens and golds. I had a feeling that it would be therapeutic for her to be forced to take an interest, so I elaborated at some length.
I was about to leave, and we were in the rather splendidly ornate entrance hall with its high lantern dome, before Cynthia’s tight self-control showed signs of cracking.
“The police have been here, asking questions,” she said, darting a nervous glance at me.
I said blandly, “I gather that they’re interviewing everybody who had any connection with Oliver.”
Her gaze as it met mine was shadowed with fear. “He and I ... we quarrelled.”
“Oh?” I said slowly. “Oliver didn’t mention it to me. When was this?”
A blackbird singing just outside the window nearly drowned Cynthia’s breathy whisper. “The same morning he was killed, early on. He ...he was here, you see.”
Now it was out in the open. But still not to be put into bald, unequivocal words.
“Did you tell the police?” I asked cautiously.
“They knew that he’d been here with me,” she muttered indistinctly. “That’s why they came. I ... I didn’t tell them that we’d quarrelled, though.”
I thought for a moment, then came to a decision.
“Best to leave it that way,” I said. “It would do no good for them to know. It would only ... complicate things.” Shaking hands, I pressed her fingers. “I’m sure you’ll hear no more from the police, Mrs. Fairford.”
I meant, and she knew I meant, that her husband wouldn’t need to hear of the affair. As I drove away, I wondered how Neil had found out that Oliver had spent the night at the Old Rectory. Fred Sparrow ... did his milk round extend to Dodford? Had he spotted the red Alfa-Romeo tucked away under the copper beeches early that morning? And had he, taking the pious advice I’d given to his wife, finally volunteered the information to the police?
And here was I, now, daring to advise Cynthia Fairford to conceal relevant information. But I’d be ready to bet my last penny that Cynthia hadn’t been the one to kill Oliver.
What could their quarrel have been about? Not the ending of the love affair, it was too new for that. Another woman, most probably. There was always another woman in Oliver’s life for his current flame to be jealous of.
* * * *
When Tim called for me at seven I invited him in for a quick drink. Li
ke Neil, not having seen the inside of Honeysuckle Cottage for years, he made some nice comments on my work. We finished our drinks and I suggested that we get going. But then Tim couldn’t find his car keys. He patted his pockets and glanced around in a lost sort of way.
“I’m always doing this,” he acknowledged.
“Is that them on the mantelpiece?”
“Oh yes, good.”
In his car, as we headed for Gilchester, he said, “It was great to hear that you’ll be staying on in Steeple Haslop, Tracy. You said it was Sir Robert who made the suggestion?”
“Yes, it came as a big surprise. He sent for me, and asked if I’d like to stay on and run the Design Studio. He said I could have the premises virtually rent free, and he’s going to provide capital for me to keep going until I’m on my feet. It’s very generous of him.”
“Or very shrewd.”
“I suppose I’m meant to take that as a compliment?”
“What else? Sir Robert approves of enterprise, and he can be quite a farsighted old boy, as I have reason to know. He listened to me when I went to him with a crazy idea about starting a vineyard.”
“And now you’ve proved how right you were?”
“To some extent. But there are still problems.”
“Such as?”
“The dear old British climate, chiefly. Wine grapes can be grown successfully in this country. But the quantity and quality is entirely at the mercy of the weather—as wine growers have learnt from bitter experience these past few years. A bad July can ruin not only the current year’s vintage, but the following one as well because the new growth suffers. I’ve been damn lucky myself, and I’m still convinced that wine growing is commercially viable here. But I realise now that a run of bad seasons could bankrupt me. What I’d like to have is a definite understanding that in such an event the Haslop Hall estate would help me ride out the storm. In the long term, it would be a very worthwhile investment for the Medways. I’m absolutely convinced of that.”
“Have you discussed this with Sir Robert?” I asked.
Tim didn’t reply at once, seizing the chance to pass a farm tractor that was towing a loaded hay wagon. Then he said, “It would hardly be fair to expect the old boy to give his attention to business matters right now.”
“No, I suppose not,” I agreed, aware that he hadn’t really answered my question.
Tim drove another mile or so before he spoke again. “Have the police got any theories about the murder yet?”
“I’m not likely to be told if they have.”
“Not even by Neil Grant?”
“Not even by Neil Grant.”
Perhaps it was the result of a conscious effort on both our parts, but as Tim and I entered the Lamb Inn we were in a mood to enjoy a pleasant evening. The food was super, as English as it possibly could be. Steak and mushroom pie, with spinach, strawberries and thick yellow cream, then a ripe Stilton cheese. The surroundings were unostentatiously comfortable. Oliver would have scathingly denounced the Lamb Inn as lacking the faintest spark of originality—food and decor both. But for us, this evening, it was exactly right.
After dinner we sat with our coffee on a balcony overlooking the old coachyard, garlanded with fairy lights and hanging baskets of flowers. From somewhere inside came a soft drift of piano music.
Tim linked his fingers into mine. “This is good, isn’t it? I’ve been such a workaholic since I started the vineyard that I’ve managed to forget what it’s all about.”
“That’s easy to do, I suppose.”
“You won’t let it happen to you, Tracy?”
I smiled back at him. “I’d be a fool to, wouldn’t I?”
When we finally reached Honeysuckle Cottage Tim didn’t attempt to come in, but kissed me good night at the gate. Then he lingered, wanting to make plans for the weekend. Unfortunately, he and the two men who helped him had scheduled a full working day tomorrow, even though it was Saturday.
“Alas, summer pruning and spraying waits for no one,” he said ruefully.
“If you like,” I offered on an impulse, “I’ll come and lend you a hand.”
“I do like. But I warn you, working among the vines is a bit of a mucky job. Your hands ...”
“My hands,” I said, “are not exactly lily-white. And I’ll wear some old jeans.”
He kissed me again, and lingered still longer. We might have been a pair of romantic teenagers. When Tim finally left, my glow lasted while I prepared for bed and drifted off into a happy, untroubled sleep.
I was straightening up the cottage after breakfast when the doorbell rang. My caller was a man I vaguely recognised, but couldn’t place ... middle height, middle build, middle age.
“Miss Yorke?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Willis. Inspector Grant sent me.”
“Oh yes. Come in, won’t you?”
Even a man of his modest height had to stoop slightly through my low doorway. I led him into the living room, and gestured to him to sit down. He chose an upright chair.
“What can I do for you, sergeant?”
“I’ve brought something to show you, Miss Yorke. An anonymous letter. Inspector Grant thought you should see it.”
Something in his tone made me acutely uneasy. I waited for him either to produce the mysterious letter or say something more. He did neither, but just sat there observing me.
In the end, I said, “Well, hadn’t you better show me?”
Unhurriedly, the sergeant reached into his inside pocket and produced an envelope which was unstamped and had just a name on the front. He withdrew the sheet of folded paper it contained and handed it across.
The letter was formed from a paste-up of words and individual letters clipped from a newspaper or magazine, a jumble of different sizes. Wondering, my heart thumping painfully, I read it through.
Whatever she says, Tracy Yorke drove through the village just after half past eleven that day. I ought to know, because I saw her with my own eyes. And if she makes out there was nothing between her and Oliver Medway, that’s a laugh. What do you think they got up to when they were alone together in that Coach House place?
The sheet of paper rattled in my shaky fingers, and I could feel sweat on my palms. Glancing up, I found the detective sergeant’s gaze fixed on me.
“This ... this isn’t true,” I stammered. “It’s somebody who ...”
He waited in silence, still watching me.
“Who could have sent it?” I asked foolishly. Then, “How did it come into your hands?”
“Someone dropped it through the letterbox at police HQ during the night. It’s addressed to Chief Superintendent Blackley, who is in charge of this enquiry.”
“But surely no one could believe that... ?”
“Inspector Grant wanted to have your comments on it, miss.”
My eyes flooded with sudden angry tears. “Why couldn’t he bring it himself, instead of sending you?”
“The inspector is a very busy man.” It was said in a reproachful tone.
“I realise that, but something like this ...” I faltered to a stop. Was I asking for, expecting, special treatment from Neil Grant because of a long-past friendship when we had been very young?
“It’s not a matter of our believing it or not believing it,” said the sergeant, sounding indifferent. “I’m sure you understand that we have to check on everything, even information given in an anonymous letter. So will you please tell me, Miss Yorke if there is any truth in what it says. Any truth at all.”
“I’ve told you already. It isn’t true, not a single word.”
“What was the exact nature of your relationship with the deceased?”
“There was nothing between us,” I blazed. “I was his assistant, that’s all.”
“What sort of terms were you on with Mr. Medway?”
“I’ve been through all this before, with Inspector Grant.”
“Yes, miss. But I’d like you t
o answer my questions, if you’d be so kind.”
I bit my lip. “We were on perfectly normal, friendly terms.”
“Not quite what might be called employer/employee terms?” suggested Sergeant Willis.
“If so, it was because Oliver wasn’t that type of man. He was easy-going, casual ...”
“Yes, miss?”
“It’s in the nature of our sort of work to need a harmonious partnership,” I said. “We spent a lot of time together, discussing the various projects and sharing ideas. We visited clients’ homes together, and ...”
The detective sergeant was very good at waiting expectantly. I said, as if I were making a confession, “All right then, Oliver and I were closer than that usually implies. He took me out in the evening now and again—to have dinner, or maybe go to the theatre in Cheltenham. Quite often we went riding together for the odd hour, and once or twice this summer we swam in the pool up at the Hall.”
“Mr. Medway was a man with ... let’s say, a considerable reputation where women were concerned. You didn’t mind people associating you with him in their minds?”
“Why should I?” I demanded. “People will think what they want to think. I can’t stop them. But there was never anything between Oliver and me. Whoever wrote that anonymous letter is just being spiteful—God knows why. And that person couldn’t possibly have seen me drive through the village that morning at eleven-thirty, because I didn’t.”
“What was the actual time you came through Steeple Haslop in your car?” he asked.
I was about to protest once again that this was all a repetition of my interview with Neil, but I realised that it would cut no ice with this man. He was waiting imperturbably for my answer, his notebook ready, his ball-point poised.
“Between ten-past and a quarter-past twelve,” I said meekly.
After noting that down, the sergeant went on, “Now I’d like you to recount all your movements that morning, right from the beginning.”
“Very well,” I said, with a sense of defeat. I tried to repeat verbatim what I had told Neil.
“There,” I said when I’d done. “I hope that satisfies you.”
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