Design for Murder
Page 18
I glanced at Tim. “D’you mean, the sort of thing you were telling me about the other day?”
“Right—getting a long-term contract to tide me over if we get a run of bad-weather years. I wanted to ensure that I’d have Oliver Medway’s backing, in view of the fact that he was likely to inherit the Haslop Hall estate in the not too distant future.”
“And how did Oliver react?” I asked.
Tim pulled a long face. “I’d chosen the worst possible moment, because he was in a thoroughly bloody mood. He must have got out of bed on the wrong side.”
Cynthia Fairford’s bed, as Neil knew. I could have explained to Tim that Oliver and Cynthia had quarrelled before parting that morning, but this was something Neil hadn’t discovered, and I preferred to keep it that way.
“Medway saw at once how much it meant to me,” Tim went on, “and it gave him a kick to play me like a fish on the end of a line. He said that I’d damn well have to wait and see until the time came, and that even if I negotiated a long-term agreement with his father, he’d rip it up if he were so inclined. I’m afraid I lost my temper completely, and the two of us ended up in a real shouting match. And then I walked out—overlooking the fact that I’d put my car keys down on his desk while we were talking.”
“The question I had to ask myself,” Neil said, “was whether Tim had omitted the little detail of having first bashed Medway over the head. If we were to accept his story, then we also had to accept the fact that in the short space of time between his departing and your arriving, Tracy, someone else appeared on the scene and committed the murder. Which took a bit of believing.”
“All the same,” I said, “that was exactly what did happen. Ralph Ebborn killed Oliver because Oliver was blackmailing him.”
Neil scratched his eyebrow. “You have to remember, Tracy, that we didn’t have a black mark against Ebborn at that stage—or rather, we just had a single grey smudge on account of his having covered up for Sebastian Medway. But nothing against Ebborn on his own account.”
“Why, then,” I asked, “were you so ready to accept that it was Ralph? What made you come charging out here with him to find me?”
“Because of some further information that came through while Tim was in my office. It was from the people we’d had checking up on Ursula Kemp’s past.”
“They had discovered that Ursula was really Ralph Ebborn’s wife, you mean?”
“So he told you about that, did he? I realised at once that somehow or other he had to be behind these murders. It would have been stretching improbability altogether too far, if not. Besides which,” he added with a grin, “I was prejudiced in Tim’s favour and wanted to believe his implausible story.”
Tim gave a short, incredulous laugh. “You could have fooled me. I got a distinct impression that you’d like nothing better than to have me behind bars.”
“I admit,” said Neil, with a glance at me, “that I was tempted to put you out of harm’s way. But I allowed my better nature to prevail. Come to think of it, though, I could probably still dream up a minor charge or two that would get you locked up for a spell. It’s not a bad idea.”
“Don’t you dare,” I said.
Neil sighed. “He’s had it too bloody easy, that man, him and his showy Rugby tackle. At school, I remember, the girls on the sidelines used to swoon. My poor effort tonight didn’t stand a chance...”
“I’m terribly grateful, Neil, truly.”
Neil made a most un-policemanlike remark about the value he placed upon my gratitude. Then he became brisk.
“And now for pity’s sake, Tim Baxter, stop clutching the girl’s hand as if you’re never going to let go, and allow me to put some questions to her. I need a complete run-through of everything Ralph Ebborn told you, Tracy. Every last detail.”
“And then,” I suggested sweetly, “you’ll send Detective Sergeant Willis round here to see if he can catch me out in a discrepancy?”
“Detective Sergeant Willis is already here,” retorted Neil with a grin. “He can come in now and save me the trouble of doing my own paperwork.” He went to the door, and called, “Dave, bring your notebook, will you? Now then, Tracy, begin.”
* * * *
Afterwards, Neil faced the task of breaking the news to Grace, and he was going to send for a female police officer to accompany him. But when I said that he could leave the whole job to me if he wished, he was grateful. Tim came with me, and I was glad to have his support.
At The Larches, we found that Grace had just arrived back from her excursion to the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre. She answered the door blithely, thinking it must be Ralph who’d gone to the pub without his latchkey.
The next few minutes were almost worse than the terrifying ordeal I’d been through this evening. Not only did I have to inform her that Ralph was dead. I also had to find words to relate the horrific deeds of this man, who—she further needed to be told—was never her lawful husband.
Up until this time, though fond of Grace, I had always been rather tickled by her overdone gentility. Now I could only admire her fortitude. She was stricken, of course, but I felt confident that Grace would survive and come through. She was a Murchison, and pride obliged her to hold her head high.
Tim stayed a while, until I signalled for him to leave.
“I’ll persuade Grace to try and get some sleep now,” I whispered to him in the narrow hall, as I showed him out. “I’ll ring you in the morning sometime. Okay?” He touched my cheek with his lips, and was gone.
Grace did sleep, fitfully, and in the morning she faced a visit from a woman police sergeant with the same admirable fortitude. I took the chance to phone Tim, and told him that I’d be staying on at The Larches, as I felt that Grace needed me.
Neil turned up in the afternoon. He spoke to Grace with great kindness, and when she insisted on going to make a pot of tea, he murmured admiringly, “Now there’s a courageous woman, Tracy.”
Grace brought in the tea and some of her home-made shortbread, then tactfully left us alone. Guessing that there were things for Neil to tell me, she said that she was going to lie down for a while.
“I’ve had a long session up at the Hall this morning,” he began, as the door closed behind her. “I consider that you’re entitled to a few explanations, Tracy.”
“How did Sir Robert and Lady Medway take the news?” I asked.
He gave me a humourless smile. “Don’t misunderstand me if I say—with relief. Those two people have been living in hell. You see, each of them believed that the other one had killed Oliver. You and I were on the right track, you know, where the Medways were concerned. We couldn’t have guessed, though, what it was that sparked off their quarrel that morning.”
“What was it?”
“A phone conversation that Sir Robert overheard. Lady Medway, I gathered, had carelessly left the door of her boudoir slightly ajar while she talked on the phone to Oliver, and she was ranting at him for standing her up the previous night.”
“So she and Oliver really were ... ?”
Neil nodded. “That information didn’t come easily, Tracy. I couldn’t insist on Sir Robert dotting every last ‘i,’ so I’ve had to make a few intelligent guesses to fill the gaps. Apparently Lady Medway has always been in the habit of walking in the grounds or going for a drive at night, when she supposedly couldn’t sleep. Poor old devil, you can’t help feeling sorry for him.”
Neil passed a hand across his face in a weary gesture. “Anyway, after this flaming row with his wife, Sir Robert goes stalking off round the estate, while she sets out riding. Next thing, you turn up with the news that Oliver has been murdered. To Lady Medway the explanation was crystal clear. In order to protect her husband, she tried to cloud the issue by sending us that anonymous letter about you.”
“So it was Diana Medway,” I said, not without a certain degree of satisfaction. She must have dropped it in at the Gilchester police station on one of those night drives of hers.
�
�It’s a pity about that,” remarked Neil. “It makes the situation rather messy. From our point of view, it’s the only actionable thing that either of the Medways has done. The woman must have been half demented, of course, seeing her entire world crashing down around her.”
“And all the time Sir Robert was thinking that she had killed Oliver?”
“That’s right—out of jealousy. From what he’d overheard of the phone conversation, he surmised that Oliver had stood her up the previous night in favour of another woman—the woman being, as you and I know, Mrs. Cynthia Fairford. From all I’ve learnt about Oliver Medway, I can imagine that he greatly enjoyed playing his women off one against the other.”
I too had learnt a lot about Oliver during the past week since his death. That bastard Medway, Tim had called him, and he’d been right, no question. Like a horde of other women, I’d been taken in by Oliver’s devastating charm. And in my case there had been a kind of hero-worship. I’d considered him a near-genius when it came to interior design. Deep down, though, perhaps I’d always recognised Oliver Medway for what he really was. Otherwise, wouldn’t I have succumbed like all those other women?
“I think I’ll pop over to the Old Rectory at Dodford later on,” I said, “to put Cynthia’s mind at rest. She must still be worried sick.”
Neil’s eyes registered alarm. “What I’ve just told you is for your private ear alone, Tracy.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell her anything she shouldn’t know. Only that her affair with Oliver can be buried and forgotten now.” I thought for a moment, then surprised myself by saying, “Do you really have to take action against Diana Medway over that anonymous letter?”
“What a truly forgiving nature you have, Tracy Yorke.”
“It’s not so much her I’m thinking of,” I explained. “But Sir Robert will suffer as well, if she’s prosecuted. Surely it can be quietly overlooked?”
“That’s not up to me, Tracy. My Chief Superintendent...”
“Your Chief Superintendent,” I interrupted, “can be influenced. Yes?”
His grin was a long-suffering one. “I suppose so.”
“Good. That’s settled, then. Did you find out from Sir Robert why he suddenly changed his mind and tried to persuade me to go away?”
“This is guesswork, mostly. I reckon the poor old boy felt certain you must know about his wife’s affair with Oliver, and he was afraid that you would expose the fact. So his immediate thought was to placate you in the most obvious way by offering you the Design Studio. Then he panicked at the idea of your remaining in the neighbourhood, and tried a new tack. But it wasn’t only fear, I’m sure. He did feel quite a sense of obligation to you for keeping his son going in a successful business venture—more than you can have guessed, Tracy. In London, so our enquiries have revealed, Oliver Medway sailed very near the wind, and it was only a matter of time before he was nabbed on some kind of fraud charge.”
I sighed. “Will Sir Robert and Lady Medway be staying together, d’you suppose?”
“Oh yes, I should think so. The old boy needs her now. He’s looking quite incredibly frail. It’s my belief that the running of the estate will very shortly be passed over lock, stock, and barrel to young Sebastian, and Sir Robert and Lady Medway will live a quiet life—somewhere on the Mediterranean— that’s where I’d go if I had their sort of money. Mind you, she’ll be little more than his nurse, which will serve her right.”
“She’ll find other amusements,” I observed.
“No doubt she will.”
“Sebastian will probably make a first-class job of running Haslop Hall,” I said, striving to be fair. “He’s got all the abilities that Oliver lacked. There’s one thing, though—he’ll have trouble finding an agent as good as Ralph.”
“Does a good agent dip his hand in the till?”
“Oh, Sebastian will see that it doesn’t happen again,” I said confidently.
Neil settled himself more comfortably beside me on the velvet sofa. “And what will you be doing now, Tracy?”
It was odd, but I already had things worked out neatly in my mind.
“I shan’t stay at the Coach House,” I said, “even if Sebastian would let me. Instead, I shall convert the workshop here for the Design Studio. And I’m going to offer to let Honeysuckle Cottage to Grace. She’s always liked the cottage and she wouldn’t want to stay in this house—neither could she afford to without Ralph’s salary. I reckon it will work out quite nicely.”
“You’re a real little Miss Fix-It, aren’t you?” said Neil. “But I really meant, what about you and ... Tim?”
“Oh, I’m going to marry Tim.”
“You mean that he’s already got around to proposing?”
I laughed. “Well, he’s not exactly asked me to name the day. But he will, very soon.”
Neil scuffed the dove-grey carpet with the toe of his shoe.
Maybe we could ask him to be best man.
* * * *
Two days later Tim and I stood together on the rounded top of the hillock above his vineyard. To the west, a huge crimson sun was sinking behind the distant hills.
“It’ll be a good vintage this year, I reckon,” he said. Then, “I shouldn’t have any trouble with Sebastian.”
Dear Tim, thinking there was a need to sell himself to me with promises of the good life.
I had one question for him. It didn’t bother me, of course, but I was still curious.
“Monday evening,” I said, “when you were supposed to be home doing your VAT return, I rang you, but you didn’t answer.”
He turned me a puzzled look. “But I was there, Tracy.”
“I rang and rang,” I pointed out, “for five minutes, at least.”
“What time was this?”
“I don’t know. Ten-ish.”
“I remember now,” he said slowly. “I went out for a breather, a few minutes stroll round the vineyard.”
“But the external bell?”
“I wouldn’t have bothered to switch it on.”
“I wish you had done, Tim,” I said with a shudder. “When Neil and I worked out that Ursula’s death was no accident, and I remembered that you hadn’t answered the phone ...”
“Forget it, darling,” he said. “Forget the whole thing.”
But I never would, ever.
The sun edged lower, and the entire western sky glowed crimson. Below us, Steeple Haslop was bathed in the tranquility of a lovely summer’s evening.
Tim drew me closer to him. “All those things going on,” he mused. “Oliver and Ursula and Ralph ... and none of us had a clue about it. You have to wonder what else is going on under the surface in our peaceful village.”
“It’s probably a seething cauldron of intrigue,” I answered. “But I don’t want to think about that, Tim.”
Still we stood there, and the silence was alive with sounds. Gentle country sounds of summer. I waited, quietly confident, for the question that Tim was about to put to me.
Copyright © 1981 by Erica Quest/Nancy Buckingham
Originally published by Doubleday/Crime Club
Electronically published in 2014 by Belgrave House/Regency
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