Design for Murder

by Nancy Buckingham

  “Yes, that was why I first began to help myself from the till,” he explained. “My bitch of a wife, who had deserted me years before for another man, seemed to think that she was entitled to come back and be maintained by me. Ursula had been living in Canada with this chap, but when he died she returned to this country. She traced me here to Steeple Haslop, found that I was doing very nicely, and decided to settle down here and demand a regular income from me in exchange for not exposing my second marriage as bigamous. Rather than wreck my whole life, I paid up. It wasn’t all that difficult to juggle the accounts, especially since Sir Robert was in no condition to keep a close eye on things.”

  “And ... and how did Oliver find out what you were doing?” I prompted.

  “He happened to come into the estate office late one evening, when I was there alone making a few little adjustments to the books. Oliver Medway, damn him, might not have possessed much in the way of a business brain, but he was a cunning swine and he guessed at once what I was doing. No doubt he regarded it as quite natural that I should be feathering my own nest. It was just the sort of thing he’d have done himself, in my position.”

  Ralph fell silent, choked with bitterness. I felt a curious stab of emotion which I recognised with surprise as pity. He’d made a first class job of being agent at the Haslop Hall estate, everyone agreed on that, and I could appreciate his reluctance to cheat Sir Robert. But his past life had caught up with him, and he’d been driven to it.

  I’d always liked Ralph Ebborn and, apart from his recent coolness concerning Sebastian, he had always seemed fond of me. It struck me now that although he had already killed twice, he still had qualms about killing me in cold blood. Perhaps that was why he had been persuaded to talk so much. And if I were judging his frame of mind correctly, there lay my only, slender hope of escape.

  The silence was shattered by the telephone bell. Ralph and I looked at one another.

  “Are you expecting a call?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied quickly. “That’ll be Neil.”

  As I moved towards the phone on the hall table, Ralph put out an arm to bar my way.

  “No you don’t,” he said threateningly.

  We stood there frozen into stillness, both of us staring at the phone. It rang ten times, then with a final ring it subsided into silence.

  The interruption seemed to have changed Ralph’s mood. He gave me a look that was almost pleading look.

  “I had to kill them, Tracy, can’t you see that? They forced me into it, both of them. None of it would have happened if Ursula hadn’t come back and held that threat over me.”

  In a voice that was fraying with nerves, I said, “Perhaps, if you were to make a clean breast of everything to the police, Ralph, they’d be sympathetic. I mean, better than being on the run for the rest of your life—which you’d have to be, because they’re bound to find out about Ursula being your wife. Probably, in the circumstances, the charge would be manslaughter, and the law wouldn’t be too hard on you.”

  I had made a mistake and gone too far. Ralph lost his air of defeat and became brisk.

  “Not a chance, Tracy. But I shall make a clean getaway, don’t you worry. I’ve been prepared for it ever since I killed Oliver. I’ve been carrying my passport and a fair bit if cash in my wallet. I only need a few hours start—and I’ll get that, all right. Nobody is going to look for you before morning, my dear, and although Grace will be worried, she won’t get around to reporting my absence to the police for a while. By then, I’ll have vanished.”

  “Where, Ralph? Where can you possibly go?” I was playing for just a few more seconds while I readied myself for a final, desperate escape bid. On the wall of the stairs beside me hung an oval gilt-framed mirror. Mentally, without turning my head a fraction, I gauged its weight. I would need to sweep it from its hook in one swift movement.

  “I’ve got it all worked out,” Ralph told me. “I shall drive to the coast and get a cross-channel ferry. Then once in France I’ll have the whole of Europe to lose myself in.”

  While he was still speaking I launched myself, bringing up my arm and jerking the mirror off the wall and propelling it towards Ralph’s head in a smooth arc. He raised his hand quickly to ward it off, but only succeeded in slightly deflecting my aim. He was struck on the side of the head, and the glass splintered into a hundred fragments. Ralph staggered backwards, muttering curses, both hands to his face. I saw blood between his fingers.

  But in sending Ralph reeling against the front door I had blocked my own path of escape. I would have to push him aside, and I knew that he’d never let me get past. So I took the only other route, racing the length of the narrow hall to the garden door at the rear. A quick twist of the key and I was out. But Ralph was close on my tail.

  After the bright light in the hall, it seemed pitch black out in the garden. There was no way round to the front of the cottage without climbing a six-foot wall, so I raced across the small lawn. As I ran past the old swing that hung from the pear tree, I gave the seat a tremendous shove. Ralph, close behind me now, must have caught the full impact of its return, solid oak and two inches thick. I heard him yell out with the pain of it, but he still came after me.

  Aunt Verity’s workshop loomed up ahead. I groped for the door handle and dodged inside. My plan was to hammer wildly on the great bronze gong, making a din which would be certain to bring people running to investigate. But I had miscalculated about one vital thing. The key to this door was on the outside. Once I’d entered, it was too late to reach round for it, with Ralph so close on my heels.

  Too late, also, to reach the gong. I’d never manage to strike it even once before Ralph overpowered me. So I abandoned the gong and dodged behind the massive wooden work bench.

  The big windows and skylight let in what moonlight there was, and by now my eyes were growing accustomed to darkness. I could see Ralph’s figure against the oblong outline of the open door, then it closed and I heard the key grate in the lock.

  Ralph spoke breathlessly, in a sorrowful tone. “You haven’t a hope of escaping, Tracy. Surely you see that.”

  “Keep away from me,” I shouted, “or I’ll...”

  “You’ll do what? You’ve got plenty of spirit, my dear, you always have had, but there’s nothing more you can do to help yourself now. God knows I dislike the idea of anything so drastic, but I have to make sure that you don’t get a chance to raise the alarm. So let’s get it over with.”

  He advanced towards me across the concrete floor. When I saw that he was circling round the end of the bench, I kept the distance between us by edging round the opposite end.

  “It’s no use thinking you can make a dash for it,” he warned. “You heard me lock the door, and I’ve pocketed the key.”

  Despair came swamping down on me. I could try screaming my head off, but there was precious little hope that my voice would be heard. Better to conserve my energy, and my wits.

  Even as it was, my attention had strayed for a vital split second. When Ralph made a sudden lunge to grab me, I only just managed to evade him. As I fled across the workshop I stubbed my toe against something loose which I realised was a wooden mallet. Bending quickly, I snatched it up and flung it back at Ralph. But it missed him, making a clatter as it fell to the floor.

  I ducked behind the great block of pink alabaster—Aunt Verity’s unfinished sculpture of Hebe—and it seemed for a moment that Ralph was uncertain where I’d gone. This was my single advantage over him, that I knew the layout of the workshop better than he did, so I could move about more easily in the dark. But if he found the light switches, it would be a different story.

  The mallet had given me a sudden new thought. On the wall racks behind the bench were rows of sculptor’s tools ... hammers and wickedly sharp chisels—points and claws, my aunt had called them. If only I could get back there and snatch a couple, I’d be armed with lethal weapons.

  Deliberately, I scraped the toe of my shoe across the concrete f
loor. The sound alerted Ralph, and he came at me with a cry of triumph. I broke free again and raced to my first retreat behind the bench. In a fever, I felt along the rows of tools and found what I wanted. Heavy steel chisels, tempered to a point. I clutched one in each hand as Ralph came after me again.

  “Keep away,” I called, “or you’ll be sorry.”

  Something in my tone made him pause. “Another clever trick, Tracy? What is it this time?”

  I extended one arm into a pallid glimmer of moonlight that slanted in through the side window. Perhaps he would just get a glimpse of what I held in my clenched fist.

  “It’s a chisel, Ralph, very sharp and very dangerous. I’ve got two of them. I don’t want to use them, but I will if you force me to.”

  I saw his shape move back a little into deeper shadow. He said, “Don’t be a fool, Tracy. You’re only prolonging the agony, you know.”

  “I mean it, Ralph,” I assured him. “Look, why don’t you just make a run for it? What if I promise not to alert the police for an hour ... two hours, if you like ...”

  His voice coming out of the darkness bit me with sarcasm. “I hope you’ve got your fingers crossed, Tracy, because you don’t mean a word of it. You’d be on the phone to your friend Neil Grant in a minute flat.”

  He was moving as he spoke, but not coming nearer. Straining my eyes I could just make out that he seemed to be stooping down across the room, over by the sink.

  I had to go on lying, hoping to make him believe me. “You’re wrong, Ralph,” I insisted. “I know that you don’t want to kill me, any more than you wanted to kill Oliver and Ursula. You could still get away. I don’t need to tell anyone where you’ll be heading.”

  Ralph grunted, as if preoccupied. He started moving again, still half crouched down, approaching my end of the bench. Warily, I took a step or two away from him, but he came no further.

  “You’re wasting your breath, Tracy,” he said after a moment. I saw him straighten up and stand there, as if staring at me, though I knew that he could see me no more distinctly than I could see him. It seemed to be a stalemate, for the moment.

  From far off I heard the drone of an engine. An airplane? No, a car. My ear detected the deepening note as it slowed to take the corner into Millpond Lane. One of my two neighbours, perhaps, or someone from the farm half a mile further on? Somehow or other, I had to catch their attention.

  Twelve feet above me, the big skylight was a pale square of grey in the gloom. An easy target, surely? I weighed the heavier of the two chisels in my hand, swinging it once, twice ... and then letting fly. A brief second of silence, then the night quiet was shattered by the sound of breaking glass. Broken pieces came showering down to smash again on the hard concrete floor.

  The car stopped. I heard doors slam and voices shouting.

  “It’s all up, Ralph,” I cried with a surge of relief. Then I yelled at the top of my voice, “Help! In the workshop. Help!”

  For a moment or so Ralph seemed petrified. Then he made a sudden lunge at me. I dodged away, then spun about to face him with my remaining chisel raised to strike. But now that rescue was at hand, I couldn’t bring myself to smash such a vicious weapon into his face. Ralph grabbed at me, twisted my wrist, and forced me to drop the chisel. With his arm around my neck he held me locked against him in a clamp-like grip.

  Outside, there were confused noises, and I saw flashes of light through the high windows. I struggled against Ralph with all my strength, but I couldn’t break his hold on me.

  I screamed again.

  Someone shouted back. The door rattled, and a second later it shuddered from what must have been an almighty kick. Another kick. At the third try the lock gave way and the door crashed open. A flashlight beam stabbed around the workshop before it homed on the two of us, dazzling my eyes.

  “Keep away,” warned Ralph, his grip on me tightening. “Keep right away, whoever you are, or I’ll...”

  “We’re the police, Ebborn.” It was Neil’s voice. “Let her go, man. You can’t hope to get away now.”

  “Listen to me, Grant ... you do exactly as I say, or by God I’ll break the girl’s neck. I mean it.”

  “Don’t be a bloody fool. You’ll only make it worse for yourself.”

  “I told you to listen, Grant. Stand clear of the door, and shine the light on yourselves. How many of you are there, anyway?”

  “Enough of us to deal with you,” said Neil. “Be in no doubt of that. Give yourself up.”

  From somewhere behind Neil there was a flurry of movement and a dark shape came hurtling towards us in a flying Rugby tackle. Ralph and I were both carried down to the floor and I felt all the breath knocked out of me. I felt hands drag me free of Ralph, who took the chance to scramble to his feet and make a dash for the door. An instant later, though, he uttered a terrified shout and there was a sickening thud. Silence followed.

  “Are you all right, darling?” Incredibly, it was Tim’s voice, close to my ear.

  “Tim. Yes ... but how ... ?”

  “Ssh. Later, not now.” Gently, he lifted me to a sitting position. “Nothing broken?”

  “No, but I...”

  “Good. Then let’s see what the devil has happened.”

  The darkness flickered, then the banks of fluorescent tubes in the ceiling came on. Blinking, I gazed around me. Neil strode across the floor to the centre of the room, where Ralph lay crumpled in a heap at the foot of the huge block of alabaster.

  “What’s he done?” asked Tim. “Knocked himself out?”

  “No,” said Neil, rising to his feet.

  “Then what?”

  “He’s killed himself.”

  I gasped. “But ... how?”

  “He fell across this trip wire and hit his head against the…”

  “Trip wire?” I exclaimed in astonishment. Then suddenly I understood and gave a shudder. “That was meant for me. I suppose Ralph found a coil of modelling wire on Aunt Verity’s work bench and it gave him the idea. I couldn’t make out what he was doing just now, when I saw him fiddling around in the darkness.”

  “A very nasty little device,” said Neil. “Only Ebborn copped it himself as he rushed for the door. He must have taken a headlong dive at this two-ton slab of rock and smashed his skull in.”

  Chapter 15

  I felt a burning need to bare my conscience, but Tim refused to listen to me. We were sitting on the sofa in my living room, while all kinds of people connected with the police trudged through the hallway of Honeysuckle Cottage.

  “I still don’t see what brought you here to the cottage, Tim. I mean, what happened after Neil’s men came to the vineyard to pick you up?”

  “They didn’t. I reported to Neil Grant of my own free will.” He grinned and dropped a kiss on my cheek. “When you ran out on me in such a panic, it made me realise that I’d better go to the police and come clean. I’d been crazy not to do it right at the start, of course. But it seemed so incriminating to admit that Oliver Medway and I had quarrelled that morning, just minutes before he was murdered.”

  “You came back to the studio to collect your keys, didn’t you? I’d worked that much out, but I got the rest wrong.”

  “I can’t blame you,” Tim said ruefully. “It was my own fault. How did you guess, though, darling?”

  “It came to me this evening, when you were dangling your bunch of keys on your finger. I suddenly recalled where it was that I’d seen that silver medallion of yours before ... on Oliver’s desk that morning. You covered up those keys with a sheet of paper, didn’t you, and then you pocketed them when I went to fetch Sir Robert? And Neil told me on the phone that you’d been seen coming out of Ursula Kemp’s place on Sunday evening.”

  Tim laughed dryly. “Next tune I think of giving someone a thank-you present, I’d better make sure they aren’t going to be murdered the following day.”

  “A thank-you present?”

  “Well, a couple of weeks ago Ursula Kemp sent along some customers
of hers—a wealthy Canadian couple. She’d told them about the vineyard, and they asked if they could see it. I gave them a guided tour, at least an hour of my valuable time, and they finished up ordering one miserable case of wine. Still, Ursula meant well, and I’d had it on my mind ever since that I ought to present her with a bottle as a goodwill gesture. I finally got around to it last Sunday night. After you and I packed it in early, I felt at loose ends and went along to the Trout for a drink. On the way home I saw Ursula’s lights on, and I remembered that I’d got a bottle in the car left over from our picnic. So I dropped it in there and then.”

  “I never for a moment thought of anything like that,” I said slowly. “When Neil told me that you’d called on Ursula, after dark ... it was all getting so complicated, I just jumped to the worst conclusion. And then that business of your wiping my fingerprints off the statuette ... I’d never been entirely able to dismiss the idea that you were wiping off your own prints, Tim.” I turned to look at him. “Why did you wipe the statuette?”

  He touched my cheek with his fingertip. “Do I need to answer that question?”

  “But you didn’t feel this way about me then,” I persisted.

  “Well, I’d recently been noticing you afresh, you might say, and deciding that I very much liked what I saw. It was an impulse, I grant you, and I didn’t give a thought to the possible consequences. I just knew that I didn’t want you dragged through the mire because you were suspected of having killed that bastard, Oliver Medway.”

  “You haven’t yet explained what it was that you and Oliver quarrelled about,” I reminded him.

  Neil’s voice from the doorway said, “I’ll tell you that, Tracy.” He came in and took his favorite sort of perch on my Pembroke table.

  “This was the story I was asked to believe,” he went on, “when Tim came to HQ this evening and—very belatedly— offered me a ‘true’ account of his movements on the morning of Oliver Medway’s death. It didn’t help him much, I can tell you, and he was still in one hell of a predicament. According to Tim, while he was having a small job done on his car at the garage in the village, he found himself with an hour to kill. So he decided to stroll across to the Coach House and have a word with Medway about a matter he’d had in mind for some time—sounding him out about his attitude towards a long-term scheme for financing the vineyard.”