by Faith Martin
‘What?’ Janice gulped, her voice rising and choking so that it came out in a strangled gurgle. Her face flushed red then paled into a colour resembling the discarded pastry on the table.
‘He saw you, I’m afraid,’ Jenny carried on gently as she continued with her second batch of pastry. All the time, Janice continued to stare at her wordlessly.
‘I don’t know what you mean. Honestly, I don’t,’ she said eventually, totally unconvincingly. Jenny added cold water to her pastry and mixed and waited.
Janice stared petulantly at the new cook, and decided to get angry. ‘What business is it of yours, anyway? You’re always poking your nose in. Just because—’
‘Janice, I think you’d better calm down,’ Jenny said firmly, overriding the other girl’s growing indignation. ‘If Meecham tells the police what he told me, they could be here at any time, demanding that you tell them what’s going on. And they won’t stand for any of this waffle,’ she warned grimly.
Janice’s pretty little chin wobbled and her lovely blue eyes began to brim. Jenny sighed deeply. ‘Janice, why don’t you tell me what happened? Then it’ll be easier to face the police when they ask.’
‘But you’ll believe me,’ Janice wailed illogically, ‘and they won’t.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Because they’re men!’ Janice spat out, her eyes flashing with electricity now.
Jenny, pastry made, sat down and leaned back in her chair. ‘Ah,’ she said flatly. ‘Danny.’
Janice flushed. Her lower lip pouted and wobbled, then firmed. ‘Oh all right,’ she sighed petulantly. ‘Like I said, I was supposed to meet him. I said he didn’t show up and I went into town shopping. Or did I say I went to the pictures?’ Jenny didn’t bother commenting. ‘Well, the truth is, he did meet me. He was waiting at the bottom of the hill, but he said it was the last time. He said he wanted a real woman. That was how he put it. As if I weren’t good enough for him!’
She broke off, her sneer not quite managing to keep up with her pain. She looked down at her hands, surprised to find them gripping her mug so tightly.
Jenny added another spoonful of sugar to it and stirred. ‘Drink it all up, there’s a good girl,’ she said solicitously, then carried on smoothly, ‘And what did you say to this nice little speech of his?’
Janice laughed, but it was a forlorn sound. She obediently drank some tea. ‘Well, I didn’t know what to say at first. He sort of . . . floored me, you know?’
Jenny didn’t, but nodded anyway. She herself would never let a man be in a position to ‘floor’ her.
‘So I asked him, why? You know, the way you do,’ Janice said earnestly. ‘And he said that he wasn’t a lad any more. He had his future to think about. He was in a dead-end job, he said, and he wanted something more out of life. Well, I knew right away what he was getting at, didn’t I? So I said to him, “You just want to live off a well-to-do woman, you do,” and he got all angry. Well, then I got angry as well. I started teasing him, like.’
Janice paused to sniff, but as the cook made no accusing or encouraging noises, sniffed again and carried on. ‘I said everyone at the castle knew about his little crush on Lady Roberta’s governess — he’d made it so obvious — and that they were all laughing at him behind his back for thinking he would even stand a chance.’
Janice paused, and Jenny sighed. She had a strong suspicion that Janice’s narrative had been watered down a bit, no doubt in deference to her genteel ears. ‘I see,’ she said. And did. In short, they’d had a good old-fashioned barney.
If Danny really had thought he could make a play for Ava Simmons, what on earth had been going through his head? No doubt he had his greedy little eyes on the Giselle Gallery. After all, Basil had only the one child to leave it to, and he must be getting on in years. No doubt Ava would have inherited it, had she lived. Which meant that Ava’s husband would have been set for life.
It wouldn’t occur to him that he knew nothing about art, let alone business. But then, he wouldn’t have needed to, Jenny corrected herself instantly. Ava had had enough brains for both of them. This, Danny had probably understood instinctively. But then, Jenny thought with a wry twist of her lips, Ava would have had too much sense to ever fall for a man of Danny’s dubious charms.
She vividly recalled her first day at the castle, when Danny had offered Ava a ride on his motorbike. She’d been coolly amused and completely uninterested. And Danny, the foolish oaf, had chucked a perfectly nice girl like Janice in pursuit of a dream that would never, in a million years, have materialized.
‘Well, I suppose it was for the best that you saw him in his true colours before things went too far,’ Jenny said prosaically, and murmured consolingly when Janice burst into tears. The cook reached into her apron and produced a clean handkerchief, and let the wretched girl alone until she’d cried herself out. Then she made some fresh tea.
‘Now then. I think you should tell me why you were in Ava’s room, don’t you?’ she said firmly, squarely meeting the maid’s eye.
Janice nodded meekly. The tears had obviously wrung her out and she had no fight left in her. ‘I went to her room to hide my brooch in her things,’ she said flatly, not even recognizing the incongruity of her own words.
‘Your brooch?’ Jenny repeated, totally wrongfooted.
Janice nodded. ‘I wanted to get back at her, you see. For taking away my Danny.’
Jenny opened her mouth to tell the poor, silly girl that Ava had done no such thing, then promptly shut it again. ‘And you thought what exactly?’ she prompted gently.
‘Well, I planned, the next day like, to say that I couldn’t find it. My brooch, that is. It’s the only good bit of jewellery I have.’
Jenny looked dubiously at the object in question. Janice was back to fingering it, which at least explained her preoccupation with it throughout the last few days. It was a simple silver ballerina, with sparkling rhinestones for the tutu. It was slightly garish but pretty enough. And, of course, Ava Simmons wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing it.
‘Er, yes,’ Jenny said. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, I meant to make a big fuss. Like Elsie did about that knitting needle of hers. Go on and on, like she does, whenever she loses something. Except, of course, my brooch wouldn’t turn up down the side of a cushion or anything, like Elsie’s knitting needle probably will. I was going to insist on searching everyone’s room for it. Not that I’d do it, of course. I’d start with Ava’s room, and there it would be. See?’
The cook did see. It was pathetic. Everyone would have seen through it in an instant.
‘And then they’d have given her the sack, right?’ Janice continued, her blue eyes watering again. ‘But I didn’t know she was dead, did I?’ she wailed, her voice rising to a forlorn shriek. ‘I didn’t know the poor g-girl was l-l-lying dead downst-st-stairs!’ she hiccupped, and set off on a fresh bout of weeping.
Jenny walked around to her and patted her shoulders awkwardly.
‘I’ve been feeling so guilty ever since,’ Janice sniffled, feverishly twiddling her brooch. ‘It was so aw-awful of me. Do you think Ava would forgive me? I mean, if there’s a heaven, or whatever?’
Jenny looked down at the wretched blue eyes and felt touched by their simple pleading. ‘Yes,’ she said firmly, and with infinite kindness. ‘I’m sure Ava has already forgiven you, Janice.’
And Janice, hearing the surety in the cook’s voice, believed her. Jenny Starling was the sort of woman who always meant what she said. But Janice carried on crying for a long, long time nevertheless.
* * *
Jenny slept badly. Her dreams were haunted by Janice’s guilt and the Meechams’ misery. She was chased through the night by the spectre of Ava Simmons, the beautiful Munjib dagger lodged in her heart, calling out for help. For justice. For revenge.
She awoke late, sweating and unhappy. She looked at her clock, saw it was past eight, and leapt up, washing and hastily dressing. She ran to the kit
chen, expecting reproaches and angry sighs, but found instead Bishop, all on his own, cooking sausages. She looked around questioningly. ‘The others?’
‘Not hungry,’ Bishop said with a grin. ‘They took one look at me and decided to skip breakfast. Can’t think why.’
Jenny quickly set about making porridge for their nibs. While they were tucking into that she could get the eggs and bacon on. Meecham came and transferred the bubbling porridge to a silver dish, gave the policeman a reproachful glance as he did so, and left without speaking a word.
‘I hear you had them going through their paces yesterday,’ Jenny said conversationally, taking over the cooking and watching the bacon crisp up.
‘And much good it did me,’ Bishop grumbled, leaning against the side of the sink and looking almost human. ‘As far as I can see, Lady Roberta and the art tutor are out. I can’t see Lady Roberta lying for him, and she insists they were in the music room together all the time.’
Jenny nodded in agreement. ‘No, I can’t see Lady Roberta providing anyone with a false alibi. Not even for the love of her life.’ But she was frowning.
Bishop didn’t seem to notice. ‘The Meechams, now, either one could have done it. Father wouldn’t snitch on daughter, or vice versa. But they have no motive.’
Jenny bit her lip. Her frown deepened.
‘The parlour maid is out of it. Several people saw her in town on the afternoon of the murder, and again she had no motive.’
By now, Jenny’s frown was making her face ache.
‘And Elsie — you’re sure she never left the kitchen except for that one time?’
Jenny nodded. ‘I’m sure,’ she said firmly.
Bishop sighed. ‘We went over the timing again. The fruit cellar is just along the corridor from the conservatory. She could have done it — at a pinch,’ he added. ‘But we’re no further forward,’ he continued gloomily. ‘This afternoon I’ve asked his lordship, his wife, and the colonel and his wife to replay their own actions. I don’t suppose that will help either, but you never know.’
‘So you’re no further forward than yesterday?’ she commiserated, cracking in some eggs and standing back as the frying pan spat at her in protest. She sighed deeply. It had to be done. Even if it made her feel like a prize telltale. Murder was murder. And withholding evidence was a criminal offence.
‘I think you’d better sit down, Inspector,’ she said quietly and, as he gave her a quick glance full of suspicion, she said softly, ‘About those motives . . .’
Quickly and concisely, she told him what she’d learnt. Bishop listened, first in growing anger, then in growing respect. When she’d finished he was silent for a long while and then nodded.
‘I’ll have to get all this confirmed, of course,’ he said. ‘And I suppose I’d better call in and have a word with Basil Simmons. One way or another, his sins seem to be wrapped up in all this.’
Jenny couldn’t agree more. ‘So, that’s all I have,’ she said glumly. ‘And you have nothing? All these possible motives are interesting, but hardly helpful. We have no real clues,’ she said in frustration.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ Bishop said smugly, and the cook glanced at him quickly.
‘Oh?’ She hated being kept in the dark.
‘The Lady Beade School,’ Inspector Bishop said, enjoying his momentary sense of power, ‘have never even heard of Ava Simmons. Let alone offered her a job.’
Jenny stared at him. ‘I don’t get it,’ she said blankly.
The inspector’s sense of power vanished. His face collapsed. ‘Well, neither do I,’ he admitted. ‘It seems like a stupid practical joke. I mean . . .’ He went on to curse all practical jokers, but Jenny wasn’t listening. Because the cook had suddenly ‘got it’ after all. And the inspector was wrong: it wasn’t a practical joke at all, but a serious attempt to get Ava Simmons dismissed.
Suppose Ava had taken the letter at face value? She’d have handed in her notice, and by the time she’d learned that the Lady Beade had no intention of offering her such a prestigious post, it would be too late. She could hardly go back to their nibs and ask for her job back. It would be too embarrassing.
And who wanted Ava out?
Elsie, of course, but Elsie didn’t have the sophistication to write such a letter. Whoever had planned it must have had some special headed notepaper printed up. One with the Lady Beade address embossed at the top.
No, this was the work of a cold, clear, clever head. It was the work, Jenny was convinced, of Gayle Meecham.
Jenny jumped as Meecham himself appeared by her side, and she felt absurdly guilty. After all, they’d been the ones pulling such a dirty trick. She had nothing to reproach herself with. Then she saw Bishop looking at him speculatively, no doubt thinking about the painting he’d sold to Simmons, and felt guilty all over again.
She pulled herself together, dished out the family’s breakfast, thanked Meecham stiffly as he relayed Lady Vee’s appreciation of some fine porridge, and watched him go.
So that was what all that whispering between father and daughter over in the corner had been about, she thought grimly. Meecham and Gayle had probably posted the letter that first day Jenny had arrived, so it would arrive stamped and authentic-looking, all ready to give Ava Simmons such a pleasant surprise the next morning.
But after the murder, Jenny thought, with a little bit of justified satisfaction, they must have been in a real flap. If the letter fell into the hands of the police, they’d find out that it was a hoax. And if it could be traced back to them, it would put them right in the spotlight.
Janice had her brooch.
The Meechams had their letter.
‘Fools!’ Jenny said angrily, and then smiled at Bishop, who gaped at her questioningly.
‘Practical jokers,’ she said faintly. ‘Would you like some fried bread with that, Inspector?’
* * *
Colonel Attling walked steadfastly past the bloodstained wall where the Munjib dagger had been displayed, his gaze firmly forward. Behind him, the Avonsleighs and his wife understood his feelings precisely. They all agreed a trial run of that terrible afternoon was needed, but none of them were comfortable with it.
Bishop coughed discreetly to halt the colonel. ‘So, this is where you paused, and admired the, er, dagger,’ he said. ‘What then?’
‘The clock struck three,’ his lordship said, wondering if all this was necessary, but willing to go along with anything at all that might help. He would have to call in on Basil Simmons soon. Offer his condolences and all that. A chap had to do the right thing. But he was not looking forward to it. Meeting a man whose daughter had been murdered whilst under your roof was not something easily done.
‘Right, the clock,’ Bishop said, and they all turned to look at the large, rather splendid eighteenth-century British timepiece. ‘Then . . . ?’
‘We all went onto the terrace,’ Lady Vee said, standing close to her friend, who was beginning to look a little green around the gills.
They all trooped obediently onto the terrace, where they took their original places. Bishop raised the sunshade, as it had been raised on that day (though it was cloudy now) and made sure everyone was sitting in exactly the same places.
The inspector himself drew up another chair and sat just slightly behind Lady Vee.
The conservatory was in plain view only a few yards away. In fact, its lush foliage and spectacular orchids made it a natural focal point of attention.
‘And you talked about general things. Mrs Attling, you admired an orchid, I believe?’ Bishop said, trying to relax the atmosphere, which had grown suddenly tense.
‘Yes. Er, that one there. Of course, it wasn’t quite as far out in bloom a few days ago,’ Mrs Attling said, pointing out the flower in question. Everybody looked at the conservatory. Bishop nodded to Myers. Myers smartly nipped across the terrace and went through the sunroom, ignoring Meecham, who was hovering, waiting to play his part in the drama. In the butler’s hand w
as a tray, but no food. Even Bishop hadn’t demanded that much authenticity.
In the hall Myers nodded to a young woman police constable who walked into the conservatory, standing on the very spot marked on the floor where Ava Simmons had met her death. Next, he walked up to her and touched her. The policewoman obediently lay down on the floor, careful to keep her skirt modestly covering her knees.
Myers looked up. And gaped. He had a clear view across the lawn. In fact, he could pick out every detail of the scene on the terrace, right down to the colour of the jug on the table, for less than twenty feet separated them. On the terrace, Myers’s own dismay was echoed on the faces of everyone at the table.
‘But that’s . . . I mean, we could see everything,’ his lordship spluttered.
‘I don’t understand,’ Lady Vee said faintly.
Bishop could feel a cold fist of panic strike his gut, but he cleared his throat, swallowing it down. ‘Perhaps it is because we were looking at it too obviously. Er, talk between yourselves. Let your eyes roam around the garden a bit. Er, Lord Avonsleigh, turn your head to talk to Mrs Attling,’ Bishop recommended, and gestured to Myers to start again.
Obediently, the policewoman rose and the two departed. The scene was played out again. But again, it was obvious to everyone on the terrace just what was going on in the greenhouse. Even his lordship, who was sitting at the most disadvantageous angle, being almost at a right angle to the conservatory, caught the movement out of his peripheral vision and turned to look.
Lady Vee, Mrs Attling and the colonel, who were all, in varying degrees, practically facing the greenhouse, couldn’t help but look up when Myers and the policewoman re-entered the conservatory. The movement was naturally eye-catching.
And Miss Simmons had been wearing a white blouse, Lady Vee thought in some consternation. That would have been even more obvious than the navy-blue uniform of the policewoman and Myers’s own dark suit.
‘I just don’t see how we could have missed it.’ She was the first to speak, after Bishop had had them all go through it a third time.