Design for Murder

by Nancy Buckingham

  “Thank you.” He closed his notebook, and stood up to leave.

  “But... but what about that letter?” I asked.

  “We’ll be doing our best to track down the sender, Miss Yorke, you can be sure of that.”

  “And if you do?”

  “It’s a serious offence.” Detective Sergeant Willis took a step towards the door. “I’ll pass on all you’ve told me to Inspector Grant. He’ll probably be in touch with you again. Good morning.”

  When he’d gone I returned to the living room and flopped into a chair, heedless of the passing of time. Goodness knows how much later it was when Tim phoned.

  “Tracy? You said you’d be coming over this morning.”

  “Yes, I... I was just leaving. Sorry I’m so late.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Only I was a bit concerned.”

  I wouldn’t say a word about the letter, I vowed as I drove to the vineyard. Yet when I arrived and Tim came striding between the rows of vines to greet me, I burst out before I could stop myself, “The police have received a beastly anonymous letter about me, insinuating that I was sleeping with Oliver.”

  “I can’t understand the mentality of someone like that,” he said slowly, after a moment’s silence. “As if you hadn’t enough to put up with.”

  “It isn’t true,” I insisted.

  “Whose business is it, anyhow?” he said with a shrug.

  “Bit don’t you understand, Tim, it just isn’t true.”

  Fifty yards off, across the rows of wired vines, a head popped up to see what all the noise was about. One of Tim’s two assistants.

  “I’m sorry I got hysterical,” I mumbled, feeling foolish.

  Tin brushed that aside. “Did the letter have anything else to say?”

  “It virtually accused me of murdering Oliver. Whoever wrote it claimed to have seen me driving through the village that morning a lot earlier than I actually did.”

  “Oh?” He gave me a worried look. “Are the police taking it seriously?”

  “They take everything seriously. Neil Grant sent a sergeant to interview me this morning, and I had to go through my movements up to the time I found Oliver’s body all over again—every last detail. They’re trying to catch me out in a discrepancy, I suppose.”

  “It’ll blow over, Tracy,” he said soothingly, and went to put his arms round me. But I stepped away. I didn’t want to be comforted by Tim at the moment. Despite my denial, I felt sure that he still believed I had been one of Oliver’s many bedmates.

  At first it seemed light, easy work to move slowly along a row of vines and nip out all the soft sideshoots that were sapping the plants’ energy. But after a time, with the sun beating down on my back, I began to feel enervated. I experienced odd hallucinations about finding myself arrested and charged with murder, and nobody to come to my rescue.

  When at twelve forty-five I announced abruptly that I was going home, Tim protested, “But I thought you’d be having lunch here with me.”

  “No, I must get back. I... I have things to do.”

  “Okay, if you say so. About this evening, though—what time shall I... ?”

  “I don’t think I can see you this evening, Tim.”

  I went to turn away, but he caught my arm. There was harshness in his grip, and harshness in his voice.

  “Tracy, don’t take it out on me.”

  I stared back at him, blinking, cursing the stupid tears that made my eyes swim. Tim bent his head and dropped a light kiss on my brow.

  “If you must go, then go. I’ll be round for you at seven.” There was no question, just a simple statement. And I didn’t argue.

  Chapter 7

  From the vineyard to Honeysuckle Cottage, the short cut lay through the grounds of Haslop Hall. Lady Medway was cantering across the turf on her chestnut mare, elegantly turned out in white breeches and black velvet jacket. To my surprise she flagged me down with her riding crop. I braked and slipped into neutral as she drew alongside.

  “Hallo, Tracy. What are you doing here on a Saturday?” Her friendly manner was astonishing. “You’ve been clearing up at the studio, I suppose. I don’t blame you for being in a hurry.”

  “I’m sorry, Lady Medway?”

  “I honestly don’t know how you can set foot inside that place at all,” she continued. “It would seem spooky to me. I expect you can’t wait to turn your back on Steeple Haslop once and for all.”

  I stared at her, puzzled and a bit embarrassed. “But I’m staying on, didn’t you know? Your husband suggested that I should. He said that if I wanted to keep the studio going, he would help me out financially.” Was I putting my foot in it, I wondered? But in the name of goodness why didn’t Lady Medway know? “It’s extremely kind of Sir Robert,” I added. “I really appreciate it.”

  Diana Medway had paled, deeply mortified, it was clear, at being made to look a fool. Unable to pretend that she’d known all along about her husband’s offer, she said with an expression of understanding pity, “Poor dear Robert. All this upset has made him dreadfully forgetful. But I’m so glad for you, Tracy. Er ... what about the flat, you’re not having that too, are you?”

  “Oh no. I daresay some kind of alterations will be done, and the flat let to someone. Unless Sebastian wants it, of course.”

  The very mention of Sebastian’s name brought forth a downcurving of Lady Medway’s lips. It wasn’t surprising that Sir Robert’s third wife and the adopted son of his second marriage had small liking for one another. And having in mind Sebastian’s toadying character—as Oliver had described it to me—I could well imagine that there would be quite a bit of jockeying for position between the two of them.

  The chestnut mare was getting restive, perhaps disliking the sound of the car engine. But Diana Medway kept her standing there with a tight grip on the reins.

  “Since you’re staying on, Tracy, I hope that you’ll continue to ride sometimes. I’m concerned that the other horses won’t be getting enough exercise now that Oliver isn’t here.”

  “In that case,” I replied, an idea zooming into my mind, “perhaps I could bring a friend, Lady Medway?”

  She looked far from overjoyed. “As long as it’s someone who knows how to ride properly and won’t do a horse more harm than good.”

  “I wouldn’t invite anyone who wasn’t perfectly competent,” I said in a cool voice.

  “Oh well, in that case ...” She jerked the bridle impatiently to control her mare. “Are the police still bothering you?”

  I certainly wasn’t going to mention that anonymous letter and give her the chance of gloating at my expense.

  “I’m still not done with them yet,” I said, forcing a light, rueful smile. “But I imagine none of us are.”

  Her lovely violet-blue eyes flickered. “Why do you say that?”

  “I presume they’ll go on asking questions until they finally get at the truth.” I slipped the car into gear, and said as I started to move, “Thanks for the offer of some riding. I’ll take you up on it.”

  Driving on, I went via the stables to have a word with Billy Moor. I found the old chap in the tack room, intent on the job of cleaning leather saddlery. He was a small, wiry man, and looked as if he might have been a jockey once upon a time. A widower now, with a cottage down by the old estate laundry, he made his work with the horses his entire life.

  “Good day to you, Miss Yorke.”

  “Hallo, Billy. I see you’re busy as usual, even on a Saturday. Don’t you ever take any time off?”

  “I got far too much to do for skivin’, miss, if them horses are to be looked after proper.”

  Billy took great pride in his work and kept his charges immaculately groomed, their stalls clean, their saddlery supple and polished. I realised how it must have cut him to the quick to be the victim of Oliver’s heavy sarcasm. A thought darted into my mind—but it was crazy and I thrust the idea away. Still, I was left with a silly niggle of doubt about whether it was my conscientious duty to i
nform Neil Grant that the old man had a reason for hating Oliver Medway.

  “I came to ask if I could use a couple of the horses this evening,” I said. “It’s with Lady Medway’s permission. She told me she wanted them ridden, you see.”

  Billy nodded, and asked, “Who else will it be for, Miss Yorke? I mean, you’ll be riding Ella same as usual, and if it’s another lady she’d better have Silver Socks. But a gent would find Prince more to his liking.”

  “Well, I haven’t actually asked him yet, but it was Tim Baxter I had in mind.”

  The weathered old face darkened. “That there vineyard chap? You want to be careful of getting yourself mixed up with the likes of him.”

  “Whyever should you say that, Billy?” I was genuinely astonished. I couldn’t imagine any way in which Tim could have upset him. Their paths hardly ever crossed.

  The old man’s expression became stubborn, and I knew that I’d get no answer. So instead of pressing the matter, I said, “By the way, you’ll still be seeing me around here. I’m going to stay and run the Design Studio on my own.”

  Billy made no comment on that beyond a grunt. “What time shall I have them horses saddled and ready for you?”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” I said. “I was just checking that it would be okay to take them out this evening. Tim and I can saddle them up for ourselves, and see to them afterwards.”

  “No, miss. You just tell me what time.”

  “Well ... seven o’clock, then,” I said helplessly, resolved to buy him some tobacco as a small present.

  I slipped upstairs to the studio to phone Tim. He’d still be working among the vines, I knew, but there was an external bell fitted. I listened to a dozen rings before he answered.

  “Tim, this is Tracy. About this evening ...”

  “I thought I’d made it clear,” he interrupted, “that I’m coming round for you at seven.”

  “How would you fancy a ride?” I explained about meeting up with Lady Medway. “You used to be quite keen, I seem to remember.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. It would be nice to get back in the saddle again after so long.”

  “So I’ll see you in the stableyard at seven. Suitably attired.”

  “Right.”

  Mood is a peculiar thing. Nothing had really changed, yet suddenly I felt happy again. I slipped down the stairs into the afternoon sunshine, called goodbye to Billy, and drove off home for a lunch of bread and cheese.

  Only there wasn’t any cheese left, I found. I’d neglected my shopping these past few days and would need to replenish the larder before the village store shut for the weekend.

  The beech trees in the park cast long shadows as Tim and I set off towards the home farm gates. My mount, the pretty roan mare Ella, and Prince, the grey stallion, were well accustomed to being ridden together. But to me it seemed strange that my companion was not Oliver. His death was driven home to me in a new way.

  Tim and I knew one another’s early backgrounds and we discussed mutual friends. Then the conversation turned to the vineyard.

  “It sounds to me like unremitting hard work,” I observed.

  “You’re not far wrong. It’s backbreaking a lot of the time, and heartbreaking the rest. You must wonder why the hell I do it.”

  “No, I think I understand. The great thing is that you’re your own boss. Actually, if I weren’t caught up in the design business, I can imagine working on the land, in one form or another.”

  He gave a dry laugh. “You ought to try pruning a few hundred vines on an icy January day, crouched down on your haunches with the east wind freezing your fingers. You feel like criticising the bloody Romans for ever introducing the vine to Britain.”

  “There must be good times, though, to compensate.”

  He glanced at me, and I saw that his eyes were alight.

  “Come the vintage, Tracy, that’s really great. When you’ve had a good year, I mean, which isn’t all that often. There’s nothing like it on a soft October day with the smell of ripe fruit in the air. I get a dozen chaps and girls from around here to help with the picking ... the way I find it works best is to put one of each sex on either side of a row. It increases the output no end. And at lunch-time we all repair to one of the winery sheds where Mavis Price and Joan Easton have laid up a terrific spread, and big jugs of last year’s wine. Everyone gets a bit tipsy, and the afternoon is rather less productive than the morning.”

  We had long since left the Haslop Hall grounds behind and were wending our way along a bridle path beside the river. The sun, slanting through the willow trees, glinted on the water.

  “How much wine do you reckon to produce?” I asked Tim. “I’ve just no idea of the sort of scale involved.”

  “In our best year we picked about thirty-five tons of grapes, which yielded well over thirty thousand bottles.”

  “That sounds an enormous amount.”

  “It’s pretty good for the acreage involved, which of course is tiny by continental standards. I wish we could equal it every year.” Tim sighed. “Anyone who starts a vineyard in England has to be a bit of a lunatic.”

  I laughed.

  We jingled on in a companionable silence, emerging onto a lane a quarter of a mile from Haslop St. John. At the Barlow Mow we decided to stop for a drink. There was a rustic bench facing the triangular village green, and I tethered the two horses while Tim went inside to fetch us two half pints.

  “When I walked into the bar,” he told me when he emerged, “the conversation stopped dead.”

  I smiled ruefully. “I bet they’re talking all the harder now.”

  Billy Moon was waiting for us when we got back, sitting in the violet-shadowed yard smoking his pipe. He was grateful for the tobacco I had given him, but Tim he couldn’t even bring himself to acknowledge. It distressed me, but Tim seemed not to notice anything.

  We drove back to Honeysuckle Cottage each in our own car. I’d bought some sliced ham this afternoon, and I made a big salad to go with it. Tim had brought along a bottle of his own wine.

  “I’m afraid it’s got somewhat tepid in the car,” he said, “so we’ll commit the unpardonable and stick it in the ice compartment of the fridge for ten minutes.”

  It was long past midnight before he left.

  * * * *

  Sunday morning could have been lie-in time, but I was up early. Happiness, too, can make you restless. I pottered around, doing nothing in particular. I was still drinking breakfast coffee when the phone rang.

  “Hallo, Tracy. This is Neil. I was just checking to know if you’d be in. I’d like to drop by and see you.”

  “On a Sunday?” I objected.

  “You don’t imagine that makes any difference in a murder investigation, do you? I wish to God it did, I could do with a day off.”

  “You could always delegate someone else to do your dirty work,” I pointed out coldly. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “As a matter of fact, sending Detective Sergeant Willis to see you did produce an interesting result.”

  “And what was that?”

  “The story you told him, and the story you told me, didn’t tally in every particular.”

  “But they must have done,” I protested. “I told the truth to both of you.”

  “You told me that you took your watch to the repairers’ in Cheltenham on Wednesday morning. But you made no mention of that to the sergeant.”

  “Oh ... I must have forgotten.” Quite suddenly rage took hold of me. “You mean you’ve noted that down as a black mark against me, a simple little oversight? That sort of thing could happen to anyone if they were asked for every tiny detail of their movements days after the event...”

  “Have you finished?” enquired Neil calmly. “If you’d allow me to get a word in edgeways, I could tell you that if anything it’s a small point in your favour. We know you did go to the repairers’ when you said you did ... checking up on that was a routine matter. But there’s such
a thing as being too word perfect, and that’s when we get suspicious.”

  Feeling slightly deflated, but still angry, I muttered, “Have you got any clue about who sent you that letter?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it. I can be with you in about half an hour. Okay?”

  “If you must.”

  He had robbed the day of its brightness. I wished that I’d been out when he phoned, but it was too late now. I waited for him nervously.

  The moment Neil walked in the door he tossed at me, “Are you being wise, Tracy, seeing so much of Baxter?”

  It was done deliberately, of course, to throw me. And he succeeded.

  “Is it the slightest business of yours?” I demanded angrily.

  “In the sense, can I prevent you ... no. But it’s not helping me one bit.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Neil gave me a really dark look. “You’re muddying waters that are murky enough already. Having dinner at the Lamb on Friday evening, up at his place yesterday morning, and out riding with him in the evening.”

  “You must have spies everywhere.”

  “And a good job, too,” he retorted. “If we relied solely on volunteered information, we wouldn’t get far in this village.”

  “Have you got someone tailing me round the clock, or something?”

  “My information about you is purely accidental. You being at the Lamb ... well, that’s almost on the doorstep of police headquarters, so it’s hardly surprising that you were seen. Then one of Baxter’s workers had a lunch-time drink in the bar of the Trout Inn yesterday, and he happened to mention that you’d spent the morning helping out at the vineyard ... the locals have got to find something to chat about while they drink their ale. And as for the riding, the two of you were seen arriving at the pub in Haslop St. John on horseback. My men are careful to report everything that could have the smallest relevance.”

  Feeling cornered, I resorted to sarcasm. “And what other terribly vital information have your spies brought back? I stocked up with groceries at the village store yesterday afternoon, did you get that? Perhaps the police concluded that I’m preparing for a siege.”