“It will be done with finesse, of course. Kid gloves for the Medways, remember—those are my orders from above.”
I threw a sour look at Neil’s back as he continued prowling.
“I’m beginning to learn something about your kid gloves. You use them on everyone, don’t you? Get them talking, let drop a few trivial scraps of information to make them feel that you’re taking them into your confidence ... as I suppose you planned to do with Ursula. And I’m perfectly well aware that it’s what you’re doing with me.”
He turned on me reproachfully. “With you I’ve done one hell of a lot more than let drop a few trivial scraps of information.”
“But you still haven’t told me a single word more than you intended me to know, have you?”
“Would you expect me to? I’m a policeman, remember.”
“Yes, a policeman first, last, and all the time.”
He came nearer and gave me a long, steady look.
“Not all the time, Tracy,” he said softly. “And to prove my point, let’s go out to lunch and find something else to talk about.”
“Such as what?” I demanded suspiciously.
“Use your imagination. If we try very hard, I’ll bet we can think of something.”
We went to the Trout Inn again. Today, sitting opposite one another at a table on the trellised patio, we tried their Cotswold lamb cutlets with glazed carrots and fresh green peas. Neil flirted with me the entire time ... lightly, brightly, and wittily.
* * * *
When Neil drove me back to the studio I was expecting him to continue on to Haslop Hall to interview Sebastian. But as I settled to work, I realised that I hadn’t heard his car start up. So I went through to the flat where I could look down into the courtyard. Neil was still there, talking to Billy Moon. Coming at it pretty heavy, too, judging from the way the old chap’s shoulders were hunched.
What was he intent on finding out now? The comings and goings up to the Coach House flat? Billy kept all sorts of odd hours, preferring the company of his horses to going to the pub or watching television in his cottage. Sometimes he’d be in the stable area quite late in the evening, pottering around, or just sitting smoking his pipe. He had been known to spend the whole night there when a horse seemed a bit sickly.
Might he have spotted Lady Medway slipping in for a secret assignation with Oliver? If so, I wondered if anything would ever persuade him to disclose the fact. Billy mistrusted people. He talked to his horses, I suspected, far more than he had ever talked to a fellow human being.
Neil appeared to be delivering a lecture to Billy, one finger raised for emphasis. Then, as I watched, he strode to his car, got in and drove swiftly away.
Poor Billy looked so crushed that I felt an urge to try and cheer him up. I remembered that I hadn’t kept my promise to him. Returning to the studio, I unearthed the June issue of Cotswold Illustrated from beneath some sample boards I’d been looking at earlier. I tore off the cover and trimmed the photograph with scissors as Billy had done.
I found the old man in the tack room, sitting perched at his high desk staring morosely into space.
“Billy, I almost forgot. Here’s the picture I promised you as a replacement.”
I laid it down in front of him on the sloping desktop, and he glanced at it without interest.
“Aye, miss.”
“Aren’t you feeling well?” I ventured. “You don’t look too good.”
“I’m all right.” Then after a moment, he burst out, “Them coppers, they’re s’posed to be catching criminals. They ought to leave honest folk to theirselves.”
“But if a serious crime has been committed,” I pointed out gently, “the only way the police can ever arrive at the truth is to piece together lots of bits of information from different people. And to do that they have to ask lots of questions.”
“Well, they can’t get nothing from me,” he growled, “‘cause I don’t know nothing. Like I keeps telling ‘em.”
“But you see,” I said patiently, “you might know something important without even realising it yourself. I mean, something you saw or heard that you hardly took any notice of at the time.”
“Aye,” he said, “and before you knows where you are they’d have you standing up in court as a witness or something. No good never came of that sort of thing.”
“But it’s your duty to tell the police anything you know,” I said earnestly, feeling like a preacher. “Your public duty.”
Billy shook his head stubbornly. “I keeps meself to meself, miss ... I always have and I always will. Besides,” he mumbled, “I don’t know nothing, so there.”
But he did know something; I suddenly felt convinced of it.
“Think about it, Billy,” I begged him. “The awful thing about murder is that the killer often strikes again if he’s not caught. You might be the one and only person who can solve this case. I’m sure you wouldn’t want it on your conscience if somebody else was murdered, too.”
Chapter 13
The phone began to ring as I walked back to the studio, and I ran upstairs thinking—hoping—that it would be Tim. Instead, it was a case of panic stations. At Myddleton Manor, the contractor was having a problem with the kitchen fitments. Somewhere in my drawings there was a discrepancy of ten millimetres, and according to him it was throwing everything off.
I drove over there at once, and quickly discovered the source of the error. The plasterer had rendered the walls precisely to my scale, not allowing for the thickness of the glazed tiles that were fixed afterwards. With the conversion already running behind schedule, and the owners due back from their holiday in less than a week, I had to make some rapid adjustments.
By the time I was through, I had half a mind to pack it in for the day and go straight home. What was the point of pushing ahead with work when everything might easily collapse around my ears? The way things were developing, Sir Robert’s grace and favour might prove to be worth less than nothing to me.
But a defeatist attitude, I told myself sternly, was no way to run a successful business enterprise. Better to keep plodding on. Besides—and the thought made me speed a little faster back to the studio—I had told Tim that I’d be working late this evening. If he did ring or call around and found me not there, I’d be caught out in a flat lie. I’d hate that to happen.
I longed for Tim to call so I could say I was sorry. But why I was sorry, there was no way I could explain to him. How could I possibly admit to Tim that I’d imagined him capable of murder? And the fact that I no longer suspected him was without logic, merely because Neil was off on a new line of enquiry. But Neil had all along had various possibilities in mind—including myself in the role of Oliver’s murderer. Nothing had really changed.
I sat down and started writing letters to architects and builders in the county who might be in a position to put work my way, explaining that I was continuing the Design Studio on my own. The job was boringly repetitive, but at least it had the merit of not calling for much mental effort. It began to grow dark and I put the lights on, still plugging away at the typewriter. I would just finish this one, I promised myself, then I’d call a halt.
The sound of a car turning in through the archway made me pause and listen. My heartbeat quickened. It was Tim’s car, surely? I had locked the outer door, and I ran downstairs to open it.
“Hallo, Tracy. Still slogging away?”
“I was just finishing, actually.”
He smiled his lopsided smile. “I timed it just right, didn’t I? Let’s go and eat somewhere.”
“Oh ... yes, if you like.” Though I’d been longing for Tim to get in touch with me, now that he was here I felt oddly shy. I injected a little more enthusiasm into my voice. “That would be super.”
Warily, as if half-expecting a brush-off, he came forward and slid his arms around me.
“You’re a strange girl, Tracy. I know that some women turn on and off to keep a chap guessing, but...”
�
�I’m not playing games, Tim.”
“No,” he said gravely, “that’s exactly what I mean. With you there’s more to it. So why not tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
For a moment he just held me, and there was a puzzled, pained look in his eyes. Then swiftly he bent his head and found my lips. I clung to him, melting against his lean body.
As he let me go, he said, “But you really must come clean. There’s something that’s badly bothering you, and I expect to be told what it is.”
It was like an icy blast on a summer’s day. I shivered, and drew back from him. Then I said in an even tone, “Why does it surprise you that I’m knocked a bit sideways just now? It was a terrific shock, finding Oliver dead like that. I daresay that it’ll be quite some time before I really get over it.”
“Is that honestly all that’s been making you so tense?”
“Isn’t it enough? And then there’s Ursula, too.”
“Ursula?” he questioned, with a quick frown. “Oliver I can understand—just about—but Ursula Kemp was no more than an acquaintance. Lots of people get killed in road accidents. You’ve no more reason to be upset over her than anyone else, have you?”
“I suppose not, but...”
“But nothing.” There was a bite in his voice as he went on, “I’m trying to help you snap out of this mood, Tracy. Whatever it is you’ve got on your mind, you’d better tell me about it.”
“There isn’t anything,” I said desperately. “I’m just feeling a bit low, that’s all.”
Tim started to object again, but the phone rang.
“Who would that be?” he asked, annoyed at the interruption.
“I’ve no idea.” I scooped up the phone and gave my number.
“Tracy.” It was Neil’s voice. “What a relief to have caught you. I tried to reach you at home, and when I couldn’t I was a bit anxious.”
“Anxious, Neil?”
“Damned worried, in fact. I take it that you’re alone at the moment?”
“Er ... yes,” I said, without quite understanding why. “What’s the problem?”
“Look, I know this will seem strange to you, but I want you to promise me something. If Tim Baxter gets in touch with you in the next half hour or so and wants you to meet him—don’t. And don’t let him in if he calls round.”
I stole a glance at Tim. He looked puzzled, but clearly hadn’t heard Neil’s actual words. Pressing the phone closer to my ear, I said, “What’s this all about, Neil?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“No, now,” I insisted. “I want to know.”
He gave an exasperated sigh. “All right, but I haven’t much time. So don’t ask questions, and don’t argue. I’ve just had that old chap Billy Moon down at the station ...”
“Billy Moon? But what’s he got to do with ...?”
“I decided that Billy knew more than he was telling and that I’d have to squeeze it out of him. And then, when I got him here, he started talking without any trouble at all ... said he’d already decided that he should. Apparently it was you who made him see sense.”
“What did he tell you?” I asked nervously.
“Something very interesting—that Tim Baxter had visited the studio on the morning Oliver Medway was killed. Earlier, that is, than when he burst in on you. To be precise, at eleven-thirty. It seems that Baxter arrived in the courtyard on foot, which was odd in itself, and Billy happened to spot him through the window of the tack room. He didn’t think anything of it, though. But a few minutes later he was passing the studio stairs carrying a bucket and he heard raised voices coming from above. He couldn’t make out what it was all about, but he said that Medway and Baxter were really shouting at each other.”
I was too shocked to speak. Each pulse seemed to thud in my ears like the beat of a drum.
“Are you still there, Tracy?”
“Yes,” I whispered hoarsely. “I’m here.”
Glancing up, I met Tim’s eyes and looked away quickly. How much had he deciphered of this? Had he guessed what was being said ... from the tone of Neil’s voice, from my own curious responses? But there was no hint of understanding in his expression, only puzzlement. I clamped the phone even closer to my ear as Neil went on speaking.
“It looks very black for Baxter,” he was saying. “I’ve always been suspicious of the reason he gave me for visiting the studio that morning, and that business about wiping your prints off the statuette took a lot of swallowing, too. Besides he was seen coming away from Ursula Kemp’s place on Sunday, after dark.”
“You ... you didn’t tell me that,” I stammered.
“I didn’t tell you everything, Tracy—especially about Baxter, knowing that you were seeing so much of him. A police car is on its way to the vineyard to pick Baxter up right now. So if he happens to phone you, for God’s sake watch what you say. He mustn’t get the slightest hint that we’re on to him. Okay?”
“But Neil ...”
“Leave it, Tracy. I’m up to my eyes, and I’ve spent far too much time talking to you already. I’ll be in touch again just as soon as I can. Bye for now.”
There was a click, and I was left with the dialling tone. Putting down the phone seemed like cutting the lifeline to safety. Here in the studio I was a long way from any kind of help. The nearest people were at the Hall, far beyond shouting distance. The Medways ... they were in the clear now, of course, all three of them.
Certainty of Tim’s guilt came crashing down, paralysing me with misery and fear. Everything fitted so neatly. I had been correct in my first instinctive thought that the retreating footsteps I’d heard that morning were Tim’s, and that he had returned to the studio a few minutes later to finish what my arrival had interrupted ... the removal of tell-tale evidence, like his fingerprints on the murder weapon.
And there was something else, too, a little scrap of knowledge that had been lying dormant in my mind. I groped for it now, but couldn’t bring it to the surface, though awareness of something deeply significant prodded at me.
Tim was standing watching me, impatiently twirling his key ring on his little finger, the key ring which carried the chased-silver medallion.
An image suddenly zoomed into focus, the scene in the studio when I’d come in to find Oliver’s body. On the hexagonal desk, the morning’s mail had been opened and strewn across it in Oliver’s usual careless manner; there was the white telephone, an auction catalogue he’d been studying ... and a bunch of keys. Things so normal that they’d hardly registered —except that at the time I hadn’t recognised that bunch of keys.
I felt sick in my stomach. The keys I’d seen on Oliver’s desk had been the same bunch Tim was holding now. No wonder the good-luck charm had struck me as familiar when I’d been looking at it in the pub yesterday. He must have had them in his hand the way he so often did, as he had now, and dropped them on the desk as he’d reached for the statuette. An absolutely damning piece of evidence if the police had found those keys at the scene of the crime.
Tim had been forced to take the risk of returning to the studio, not only to remove his fingerprints from the statuette, but to stealthily pocket his key ring.
When Tim spoke there seemed to be menace in his voice.
“That was a peculiar conversation you just had with Neil Grant. What was he phoning you about?”
Feeling desperate, I wondered how to keep Tim off the scent. What could I say that would satisfy his curiosity?
“You said something about Billy Moon,” he prompted.
“Did I? Oh yes, that was just ... just about what a stubborn old cuss Billy can be. They wanted a statement from him, and he wouldn’t co-operate.”
“Why should they want a statement from Billy Moon?”
“Why? Well, I suppose ... because he happens to work in the stables they thought that he might ...” I trailed off. Every syllable seemed to be heading me closer to a dangerous admission.
Tim’s eyes narrowed. “The
y think he might have seen something, you mean?”
“It... it’s possible, I suppose.”
“And why the devil should Neil Grant phone to tell you about that?” he demanded. “Just what’s going on between you two?”
“Nothing. Neil just happened to mention it, that’s all.”
Without warning Tim’s hand shot out and his fingers clamped tightly on my wrist.
“That damn chap is always hanging round you—popping in to see you here and at home, taking you out to lunch. I want to know what the hell you’re playing at.”
Stupid with fear, I tried to make myself think. I had to find an explanation that Tim would find plausible. The best way was to make out that Neil’s interest in me was purely personal, nothing to do with the police investigation at all.
“It’s just that Neil fancies me a bit,” I said with a shrug, forcing myself not to pull my hand away from Tim. “I’ve realised it for several days now—not that I’ve given him the least encouragement.”
“Haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t. I suppose that’s why he keeps telling me bits and pieces about the murder enquiry, to try and get me interested in him.”
“It seems to me that Grant tells you every bloody little detail of his working day. All that chatting away on the phone just now.”
I threw in a flat lie to add conviction to my story. “Well ... Neil was trying to make a date with me.”
“It didn’t sound like that. And if it was, you didn’t exactly slap him down, Tracy.”
“I ... I don’t need to slap him down,” I stammered. “He’ll get the message in the end, don’t worry about that.” Before Tim could say anything more, I rushed on, “Look, I’m absolutely starving. Let’s go back to Honeysuckle Cottage and I’ll knock up a meal for us.”
He hesitated. “All right, then.”
“Okay, I won’t be a minute. I must just slip along to the bathroom.”
Gathering up my handbag, I went through the communicating door to the flat. In case Tim was listening, I popped in the bathroom first and turned on the basin taps, leaving them running. Then, very quietly, in a fever of caution, I crept down the flat’s staircase, letting myself out into the courtyard. I didn’t close the front door behind me, in case Tim might hear the click.
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