Something in the timing was off. I’d crept up the stairs, hunted for my keys, found the door unlocked, groped my way into the living room, put down my bag and reached out to switch on the lamp; the intruder had pushed me, then made his escape out of the room and down the stairs, stopping only to wallop me with a torch.
From start to finish, this must have taken a full minute, perhaps two. And during that time, Richard’s powerful car hadn’t even made it to the bend in the road? And Adam had given Richard a strange glance when he’d said he had come straight back.
I kept turning his words over in my mind. It was definitely a man. Why had he said that? Suddenly, something about the attack came back to me with such clarity that I let out a laugh, startling Bill. I didn’t know who’d murdered Nick, but I had a pretty good idea who’d been in my flat that night and walloped me with a torch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Next morning, I asked the receptionist at The Dartmoor Lodge for the room number of Mrs Helena Burgoyne. She and her husband had already checked out, she informed me, and were returning to Bradford. Had they indeed? It was still quite early. The Tribe hadn’t had a very long walk that morning. Mr Richard Nickolai, then? I asked.
She gave me the room number. He was expecting me, I lied blithely, no need to ring him. I’d find my own way.
He wasn’t expecting me and when he opened the door his expression, just for a moment, was less than welcoming.
‘Nightshade,’ I said to him, before he had a chance to speak.
‘Nightshade?’ he repeated blankly.
‘It’s the name of a perfume. I think we ought to talk about it. Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
‘Of course! What am I thinking?’ He stepped back to let me in. ‘How are you, Juno?’ he asked, voice suddenly laden with concern. ‘How’s the head?’
I looked around. The room was comfortable, countrified in a chintzy sort of way, with a large four-poster bed and mullioned windows. There was a smell of scented steam in the room, as if someone had just taken a shower. Richard indicated a chair by the window and I sat.
‘I was planning on popping round to see you.’ He ran a hand through his hair, a little nervously, I thought. ‘That was a ghastly business last night, ghastly business altogether!’ He stared at me. ‘Are you feeling OK?’
‘I’m fine, thanks, apart from a sore head.’
‘Now,’ he took up a position, leaning against one of the bedposts, his hands in his pockets. ‘What’s all this about perfume?’ As he spoke, with one foot he tried surreptitiously to nudge a red, high-heeled shoe beneath the bed. I pretended I didn’t see him.
‘Nightshade,’ I repeated. ‘It’s a perfume. Our intruder last night was wearing it.’
He laughed. ‘You must be mistaken. Perhaps it was aftershave.’
‘No, I’m very familiar with the smell. Helena was wearing it yesterday and my cousin Brian sent me a bottle a couple of Christmases ago − all gone now, sadly. But I smelt it last night, just before someone hit me with the torch. And I’ll tell you something else. I can smell it in here as well.’ I nodded towards the closed door that led to the en suite. ‘Why don’t you tell her to come out?’
He laughed. ‘Tell who?’
‘Helena.’
‘Helena?’ He was shocked enough to take his hands out of his pockets. ‘Helena and Harry have gone back to Bradford.’
‘Oh, come on, Richard! It was a woman in my room last night. It was Helena, searching my flat for her bloody rings!’
‘You’re out of your mind!’ Richard laughed. ‘Or that bump on the head has affected you.’
‘We both know it was her, so why don’t you stop playing around?’
‘You’ve got it all wrong!’
‘All that money you lavished on dinner, too. And that long, long drive home, stopping to look at the stars – but you still couldn’t keep me out of the house long enough for her to burgle my place and get away safely. Of course, she had to wait for Adam and Kate to go to bed before she could creep in, which must have been frustrating for her. Is that why you decided to kiss me? Just in case she was still in there? Give her a few more minutes to get away?’
‘Juno, I can assure you—’
‘It must have given you quite a scare to see her running out of the house, even more so when she told you she’d bonked me on the head. You must have been worried sick, in case she’d killed me. You picked her up and brought her back here before you returned to the house. That’s why the poor police doggie couldn’t find any trail leading from the hedge.’
Richard rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Juno, I swear to you, Helena had nothing to do with this.’
I stood up. ‘Tell that to the police.’
He hastily stepped in front of me, barring my way. ‘Look … all right, I admit I did take you out last evening to get you out of your flat.’
I sat down again. ‘Go on.’
He flicked an undecided glance towards the door of the bathroom, then strode across and opened it. ‘You’d better come in here,’ he called sourly.
The woman who walked out of the bathroom was not Helena Burgoyne. She was a Mediterranean-looking creature with polished dark hair, high cheekbones and a deep golden tan accentuated by the white towelling bathrobe she wore. It was her black eyes I had seen glittering at me through the slits in the ski mask. They glittered now, with a kind of sulky defiance.
‘You bungled it, dearie,’ I said pleasantly, and she flung me a look of scorching detestation. Between her and Richard there was, to say the least, an atmosphere.
‘Who is this?’ I asked him.
‘I’m Richard’s wife,’ she answered, with a toss of her shiny dark head.
‘Are you?’ I raised my brows at Richard. ‘You’ve been keeping her quiet.’
‘There was no need for Tamara to be involved until … until yesterday. I phoned her and told her to come down from London. I knew Nick hadn’t sold the rings because he told me so the last time I saw him. He said that if Helena wanted them she’d have to come and visit him. When we couldn’t find them in the flat, we thought that … well, I realised the old man might have been lying. But then I thought—’
‘You thought that I had them.’
‘Well, when you refused to give them to Helena …’
‘I didn’t refuse. I’ve never laid eyes on the bloody things. Helena is welcome to them.’
‘We thought … well I thought, that if you did have them, you wouldn’t have left them at the old man’s. You’d have hidden them somewhere.’ He looked guilty and miserable, like a schoolboy caught cheating in an exam. ‘Helena deserves those rings,’ he went on defensively, ‘she had a hell of a time when … She’d never have married a shit like Harry if—’ He broke off.
I turned my attention to Tamara, who was now lounging on the bed like a petulant puma. ‘Are you a professional burglar by any chance?’
‘I’m a professional model,’ she snapped.
‘How did you get into my flat?’
‘With a credit card.’ She hunched a shoulder and sneered. ‘It’s easy with those old locks.’
‘I see.’ I tried not to sound impressed.
‘Juno,’ Richard said. ‘I swear we had nothing to do with the old man’s murder.’
‘I didn’t imagine you had.’ Not quite true; during the night I’d imagined all sorts. But despite Tamara’s prowess with the torch, I sensed that she didn’t have the bottle for murder. And, for the time being at least, I decided that Richard didn’t either. He was looking pale beneath his tan, and if he’d seen what I’d seen − his father’s murdered body − he’d have looked a good deal paler.
‘So what will you do?’ he asked anxiously, as I got to my feet.
‘If she wants revenge,’ Tamara eyed me with loathing, ‘she’ll go to the police.’
‘If she wanted revenge,’ I replied, gingerly touching the bump on my head, ‘she’d have brought her own torch.’ I turned to Richard. ‘You know, I sho
uld really thank you for helping me to make up my mind. I’ve decided I’m going to keep what Nick left me, the flat and the shop, if for no other reason than because you bastards don’t deserve it. And because I liked him.’
Richard smiled bitterly. ‘He never gave you cause to hate him.’
‘No,’ I agreed vehemently, ‘he didn’t! As far as the rings are concerned, if I ever find them, Helena is welcome to them. I don’t care. All I want to know is that this is the last time I am ever going to lay eyes on you, any of you. Take my advice and go back to London today, because if I ever see you here again, Richard, I will call the police and tell them how you used to come down and tap him for money.’
‘Juno, you have my solemn word …’ Sensing that he was getting back on safe ground, he smiled, switched on the sincere charm. ‘I swear to you—’
‘Save it, Richard. The only word I want to hear from you is goodbye.’
He shrugged. ‘Goodbye, Juno,’ he said, and opened the door for me.
I turned to look back at Tamara. ‘I should watch it, dear,’ I advised her, jerking my head in Richard’s direction. ‘He’s a second-hand car salesman. He trades-in old models.’
She bit her lip angrily and then flounced back into the bathroom, slamming the door.
‘You can tell Helena I meant what I said about the rings,’ I told Richard. ‘If I ever find them, I promise I will return them to her.’
Richard smiled. ‘That’s more than we deserve, I fear.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed as I marched away down the hotel corridor, ‘it most certainly is.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
There was a visitor waiting for me when I got back to the house. As soon as I opened the front door, Kate called to me from her kitchen. I went in reluctantly.
I’d had enough dramatics for one morning, my head ached and I wanted to lie down.
Sitting at her scrubbed pine table, a mobile of glass dolphins revolving slowly over his head, sat Inspector Ford, in soulful contemplation of Bill, who was sitting upright on his lap, gazing up at him intently like a little Cyclops. Kate was standing with her back against the sink, very obviously blocking the inspector’s view of the windowsill and of one pot plant in particular. She might as well have hung a sign.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ I said. ‘No, please, don’t get up.’ He’d begun to rise, inconveniencing Bill who dropped, grumbling, to the floor. I sat at the table on his left, so that the inspector would have to turn away from the windowsill to look at me.
‘Good morning, Miss Browne,’ he answered pleasantly, ‘an unfortunate coincidence, this.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ I responded, trying to sound bright. The inspector was being very formal. Whatever had happened to ‘May I call you Juno?’
‘Kate, be a love and make me a cup of tea.’
Kate rolled her eyes meaningfully, as if to convey silently that she couldn’t leave her post. I ignored her. Unable to think of a reason why not to, she reluctantly moved away and filled the kettle. ‘Camomile?’ she asked.
‘What a disgusting suggestion,’ I shuddered. ‘Ordinary tea, please, and a couple of aspirins, if you’ve got them. Proper ones.’
‘Your head is troubling you?’ the inspector asked.
‘It’s a bit tiresome.’
‘Then I won’t keep you any longer than I need. Have you discovered if anything from your flat is missing?’
‘I looked first thing this morning. No, there isn’t.’
‘Detective Constable DeVille reports that you’re convinced your attacker was not one of the Russians that we are searching for following Mr Nickolai’s murder.’
‘I’m sure I would have recognised either of them, even in a mask. I don’t suppose there’s been any progress in finding them?’
‘Sadly not.’ Inspector Ford shook his head. ‘So, as things stand, there’s no evidence to suggest that there’s any link between the incident last night and the murder of Mr Nickolai.’
‘You don’t subscribe to Kate’s theory, then?’
He looked blank. ‘I didn’t know that … er … Kate … had a theory.’
‘She thinks that Mr Nickolai’s murderer was searching for something,’ I explained, ‘and having failed to find it on the night of the murder − whatever it is − has pursued it here.’
Kate was nodding enthusiastically as she put down a mug of tea and a bottle of aspirins. ‘That’s what I said.’
He surveyed Kate thoughtfully for a moment and then turned to me. ‘But you don’t think so, Miss Browne?’
I shook my head and then wished I hadn’t. I tried to open the bottle of aspirins but my fingers were trembling and the childproof cap clicked irritatingly round and round. ‘No, I don’t. Why would Nick’s killer think that I had what he was looking for?’
Inspector Ford didn’t answer. Instead he gave me one of his long, steady stares and then took the bottle of aspirin out of my hand. ‘On the whole, you don’t seem to be as upset about this incident as I thought you would be.’ He opened the bottle with an ease that made me feel foolish.
‘Really?’ I stared back innocently. He knew I was holding out on him, that I knew more than I was saying.
He held my gaze for a fraction longer, then gave a soft laugh and handed me back the bottle. ‘I understand congratulations are in order.’
I frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘I hear that you have come into a nice little inheritance, Miss Browne.’
A horrible thought occurred to me. ‘Does that make me a suspect?’
‘Should it?’ he answered blandly.
‘Well, I … I don’t know,’ I admitted.
‘Of course, in the investigation of any murder, one has to ask the question – who benefits?’ He laughed at my horrified face. ‘Just my little joke,’ he assured me, standing up. ‘I won’t keep you any longer, Miss Browne, you really do look shockingly pale.’
‘Before you go, Inspector, tell me, do you believe that Nick’s murder and the murder of Bert Evans are connected?’
He turned to look at me. The long, steady stare was working overtime. ‘At the moment we are treating them as separate investigations, Miss Browne.’
He pushed in his chair and then wandered over to the kitchen windowsill, where he stood considering the pot plant for a moment, before poking his finger into the compost. ‘A little more water,’ he told a gaping Kate with a pleasant smile, ‘and a little less sun.’
I had to bite my lip to stop myself giggling hysterically.
He went to the kitchen door. ‘Don’t worry, ladies, I can find my own way out.’
We waited until we heard the front door slam before we dared to look at one another.
‘Bloody hell!’ Kate squeaked, flopping down on a chair.
I gulped down my aspirin. ‘I’m going to bed. And I don’t care who calls, don’t wake me. I’ve already had far too much excitement for one day.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It took me several minutes of just standing, staring at the scratched black paintwork, before I got up the courage to open Nick’s door − my door now. At the first attempt the key wouldn’t turn, although it was the right key, placed into my hand only the day before by young Mr Young. The weeks of legal wrangling had lasted through Christmas and the new year, passed my birthday, through all of February and into March.
During that time, although I did not speak with her personally, Helena Burgoyne had continued to restate her conviction that I had kept her rings, that I’d been given them for services rendered. I would have laughed if it wasn’t so tragic.
But now everything was sorted. Nick’s place was legally mine. I tried the key a second time, and this time I didn’t fumble it. The door opened and showed me the stairs. This time there was no Mr Young to accompany me. I was on my own. I took a deep breath and ran up, stopping on the threshold of the living room.
I hadn’t been there since the day I’d come in to clean it. I wondered if the
Burgoynes might have disturbed anything on their pre-funeral visit, but nothing seemed to have changed since the last time I was there. Something glinted on the table, the light catching the edge of Nick’s spectacles, still lying next to the dusty bottles, where he had last placed them. I picked them up, folded them neatly and put them back where they were. I didn’t know what else to do with them.
Any delusion I might have had that Helena wanted a keepsake from her father’s possessions was dashed as soon as I walked into the bedroom. Nothing seemed to have been taken. His suits and coat still hung in the wardrobe, his folded shirts, vests and socks still occupied the chest of drawers. Despite her desperation, her search for the rings must have been a tidy one. Then I remembered that Mr Young had been present. If she’d been left on her own, she might have torn the place apart.
The only sign that she had been there at all was a small wooden jewellery box, upturned on Nick’s bed, its contents scattered across his pale-green eiderdown. I sat on the bed and picked up a pair of gold cufflinks, a watch and chain: not a bad watch, either − a decent half-hunter; of no interest to Helena, obviously. I picked up the box, lying open with its hinged lid, and lifted it out of the way. Beneath it I found photographs, tiny black and white prints of a young woman and two children, a girl with pigtails holding her little brother’s hand – clearly Helena and Richard. Memories of a happier past, surely − how could she bear to leave them? And one of Nick himself as a young man, hair neatly parted in the middle, but with the same bristling moustache, the same wicked eyes twinkling at the camera.
I took the photo of him and stood it up on the chest of drawers, leaning it up against a little clock. I would find a frame for it later. The other photos, together with the cufflinks and the watch, I would pack up, give to Mr Young, and ask him to send them to Richard. Perhaps one day, if not now, he might be glad to have some mementos of his father.
The only other thing I touched was Nick’s chess set, still set out on a table in the living room, ready for the next game. I packed the set away in its handsome box.
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