by Faith Martin
‘And all your chap did just now was touch her on the shoulder,’ the colonel pointed out. ‘On the day, the murderer must have actually stabbed the poor woman. Wouldn’t it have been even more . . . well . . . obvious? How could we have sat here and not seen it?’ he asked, his voice wavering in disbelief.
Avonsleigh stared at him. Then at his wife, who, for the first time since their marriage, looked totally bewildered. And the fact that Vivienne Margaret was all at sea made him break out in a cold sweat. He looked at Bishop.
Bishop looked at him.
They all looked at the conservatory.
But no matter how many times Myers went through it, and no matter how they arranged the chairs, it always came out the same.
They must have seen the murder. But they hadn’t.
They hadn’t!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jenny sat back in the heavily brocaded chair and stared at Lady Vee.
She stared back. At her feet, the dog snuffled in his sleep, his paws twitching. He had treed a particularly smelly squirrel and was having a high old time. Her ladyship ignored his odd wuffle and continued to stare at her cook, who was developing a faraway look in her eye. She’d just finished bringing Jenny up to date on their afternoon’s extraordinary discovery on the terrace.
‘And Inspector Bishop tried every angle?’ Jenny asked at last, and Lady Vee nodded vigorously.
‘We did everything but actually sit with our backs to the conservatory. I just don’t understand it.’
‘Damned odd,’ Lord Avonsleigh said. For once he was book and newspaper-free, and he looked faintly undressed, just sitting there.
‘On the day of the murder,’ Jenny said cautiously ‘had the gardener put anything in the conservatory? Some large plants? Big ferns. Boxes, anything of that kind?’
Lady Vee shook her head. ‘A clever idea,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘but no. I would have remembered. The conservatory was just the same today as I remembered it that awful day. And believe me, I’ve gone over that afternoon many times in my mind. I’ll ask Seth, mind, just to make sure but . . .’ She shook her head firmly, her jowls wobbling. ‘No, I’m sure there was a clear view when Miss Simmons was killed.’
‘And you definitely saw nothing?’ Jenny probed delicately.
‘Nothing.’
‘Not a sausage,’ his lordship confirmed mournfully. The dog, responding to the word ‘sausage’ even in his sleep, gave a yearning sigh.
Baffled, Jenny shook her head. ‘Nothing caught your eye, I suppose? Elsewhere in the garden, I mean. You didn’t all look away at anything at any time while you were out there? A passing kingfisher, perhaps, or a squirrel, a stray cat — anything that might have caught your undivided attention and taken it away from the conservatory for a few seconds?’
Lady Vee thought long and hard before replying. ‘Again, Miss Starling, it’s a good idea, but I can’t remember anything of that kind. George?’
He shook his head and sighed. ‘No. I’m sure there was nothing. We just sat and chatted. There’s no getting away from it, I’m afraid,’ he said grimly. ‘That poor girl was killed right under our noses and we didn’t see a thing.’
Jenny shook her head firmly. ‘No, my lord. That’s simply not possible.’ Her voice was hard and flat, and both glanced at her in surprise.
Jenny noticed and smiled faintly, but her backbone was stiffening. ‘If something’s impossible, it’s impossible,’ she said flatly, ‘and that’s that. Ava Simmons couldn’t have been killed without you seeing her, so she wasn’t. That’s the only way to think of it. To do otherwise is playing right into the killer’s hands. You can’t give him or her that advantage.’
Lady Vee felt a not unpleasant chill flash across her skin. Although she’d asked her cook to be her eyes and ears, she hadn’t truly, in spite of her ‘experience,’ expected Miss Starling to be able to actually do anything. Suddenly, listening to the determination in the cook’s voice, she knew she’d been mistaken: Jenny Starling had caught murderers before, and now she could see why. And how. She glanced at her husband, who met her eye and nodded.
He had felt it too.
For the first time since the awful incident, Lady Vee began to see light at the end of the tunnel. ‘But Miss Simmons was killed in the conservatory,’ she said, frustration and puzzlement making her voice even louder than usual.
‘She was found in the conservatory, yes,’ Jenny corrected. ‘But if none of you saw her killed there . . .’
‘You think her body was moved?’ Avonsleigh queried. ‘But the police found no evidence of it.’
‘No. But we already know that our killer is a very clever killer indeed, don’t we?’ the cook said softly. ‘Our killer has been, perhaps, too clever for his or her own good. At least, that’s what we must hope for.’
‘But the blood on the floor,’ his lordship said. ‘I had a word with one of those lab boys before they left. They explained that after death, bleeding stops slowly. And they found a lot of blood on the conservatory floor. Even if the killer had killed her somewhere else, then carried her to the conservatory, he must have done it fairly quickly after killing her. And then we’d have seen him do it. Back to square one again. Not to mention the fact that he’d have got blood all over him, and probably left a trail on the floor leading right back to where the deed was actually done. Meecham located everyone fairly quickly — too quickly for the killer to have bathed or changed, one would have thought. Or wipe up his mess. And why go to all the bother of that?’
Jenny sighed. ‘It is a puzzler all right,’ she agreed mildly. Lady Vee, surprised by the quietness of the observation, looked at her quickly.
‘You don’t sound very angry, Miss Starling,’ she observed, a trifle timidly, lest she upset her.
But she needn’t have been so wary. Jenny merely smiled at her. ‘Oh, I don’t get angry, m’lady. Or at least, I don’t stay angry for long. It clouds the thinking, you see. And this case is going to need a lot of thought. Which reminds me, would you mind giving me the address of that gentleman who called who was expecting to see Ava?’
‘Of course,’ Lady Vee said at once. ‘Mr Anthony Grover. I know I asked him for it. I was going to call in one day and see how he’s getting along. It was a bit of a shock for the poor old chap, to come here expecting to see a friend, and learning instead . . . Quite. But I don’t think he’ll be able to help you much. Inspector Bishop asked him all sorts of questions at the time, and nothing seemed to come of it.’
Jenny hid a smile. ‘Yes, I’m sure Inspector Bishop was very thorough. But I can’t help but think that Mr Grover might know more than he thinks he does. Besides, Inspector Bishop’s style of questioning and mine are very different. You just never know. And,’ she added wryly, ‘it’s not as though we are swimming in clues, is it? Anything at all might be helpful at this point.’
‘True. Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Lady Vee concurred, rooting in her bag and coming up with the address. Anthony Grover lived in a small village not far from Weston-on-the-Green. The cook copied it onto her notepad with a smile.
‘Thank you. Believe me, if Mr Grover does have some useful knowledge, albeit unknowingly, I’ll find it out.’
Lady Avonsleigh again felt that shiver of coldness cross her skin, and wished the killer of Ava Simmons had been there. If he or she could have heard the cook speak and seen the glint in her eye — well, the killer would not be feeling so very smug now, of that she was sure.
‘I just hate the thought of someone in the castle gloating,’ she confided, her voice very angry indeed. ‘And with this dinner party tonight, I really don’t know how I’ll manage.’
‘You’ll manage, m’dear,’ his lordship said placidly. ‘You always do.’
‘Humph. Speaking of which, how is it all going, Miss Starling?’
The cook smiled, relieved to be back on familiar ground. ‘I’m starting with asparagus soup — full of iron and vitamins for your hypochondriac, but a melon boat for the one wh
o’s allergic to greens, followed by a fish course of baked trout. Good brain food and low fat. Then I have individual venison pies, which I’ll serve up with carrots and celeriac, and plenty of roast spuds — nothing green there!’
She paused for breath, and Lady Vee clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful. Oh, Miss Starling, you are a treasure.’
‘What’s for pudding?’ asked his lordship promptly, who could always be relied upon to get his priorities right.
* * *
That evening, Roberta joined them in the kitchen, her face alive with curiosity. She watched the new cook attentively, hovering over her as the final countdown to the dinner began. She loved the atmosphere in the castle when her grandparents entertained, and she’d always liked to watch the previous cook at work. The old dear had always seemed to work on the point of nervous breakdown, and without fail had always complained that she was getting too old for this sort of thing.
Eventually, of course, she really had become too old, because she’d retired. But Miss Starling, Roberta soon realized, was a whole different kettle of fish. Oh, the excitement was the same, there was the same sense of bustle; Elsie was rushed off her feet, and the stove seemed to be crowded with bubbling pots of sauce and simmering vegetables, all releasing mouth-watering aromas. But Miss Starling had everything under control. There were no last-minute panics. She didn’t wail, like the old cook had, that she’d forgotten this or burnt that.
Now, watching her sprinkle almonds over the rows of sizzling trout before putting them back for a final baking, she said forlornly, ‘I wish the police would tell me what’s going on,’ and pouted.
Her petulance was a little spoiled by the eager sniff she made as Jenny lifted the lid off a bubbling pan and the enticing smell of garlic and herbs wafted past her nose.
‘I daresay they think you have enough to cope with,’ Jenny said mildly. ‘What with your studies and your painting and now this dinner.’
Roberta laughed. ‘Huh!’ she agreed disgustedly. ‘And I’d rather eat here tonight anyway. Gramps invites the dullest old farts to his dinner parties.’
The kitchen was mostly empty. The others, in deference to the cook’s need for space and peace in which to work, wouldn’t file in until it was time to actually eat. All the staff loved it when the castle entertained, of course, because it meant that they too enjoyed the feast, albeit downstairs. And they had all, at various times and displaying various skills, pumped her for information on the menu.
Meecham was particularly fond of trout, she’d learned, and Janice had a liking for venison. It was, she’d said, posh food. The sort she never got to eat anywhere else. No doubt they were all scattered about, just counting down the minutes. Meecham would show up soon, since he, Janice and Gayle were all going to help transport and serve the food. But at the moment, only Roberta and Elsie were there, Elsie helping, Roberta actively hindering.
The young lady sat on the side of one of the work units, her long legs swinging, heels tapping on the cupboard doors in a most annoying way. She had at least discarded her filthy paint-smeared smock and was wearing a dress that was becoming just a little too small for her. She licked a spoon that she’d filched from the table and her face wrinkled in disgust. ‘Ugh, asparagus,’ she shuddered and threw the spoon into the sink.
Jenny sighed. ‘Don’t you have anything better to do, Lady Roberta?’ she asked, without much hope.
Although she might appear the epitome of control, she, like all great cooks, suffered from nerves. Was the trout done enough? Did the soup need more flavouring? Asparagus could be bland, and Lady Roberta’s ‘ugh’ didn’t bode well. Underneath, of course, she knew everything was perfect, but still . . .
‘No, as a matter of fact I don’t,’ Roberta said unhelpfully. ‘I was trapped by that Inspector Bishop again today. Really, it’s becoming so boring. He keeps asking the same old questions, over and over again. Was I sure what time I got to the music room, and I was. Am I sure that Malc never left, and I am. Could I be mistaken about this, that or the other. Today it’s “Was Malc acting strangely?”’
Jenny, staring at the celeriac, wondered if it had taken on a slightly greenish hue, or was it just her imagination? ‘Hmm? And was he?’ she asked, wondering if she ought to put in a dash of lemon juice, just in case. Lemon juice would whiten it up, but what about the acidity?
‘No, of course he wasn’t,’ Roberta said scornfully, unaware of the cook’s dilemma. ‘He was the same as always. He wandered around, like always. He never can keep still. He was fingering a pot of red paint, just like he always plays with his paint pots. He’s always fiddling with brushes and things too. I swear he keeps a whole shopload of stuff in that smock of his. You know I really don’t think that Inspector Bishop has a clue as to what’s going on,’ Roberta said, youthful scorn and disappointment rife in her young voice.
And that makes two of us, unfortunately, Jenny thought morosely.
* * *
Upstairs the guests began to arrive. Lady Vee, her back to the wall, figuratively speaking, had brought out the big guns. She was wearing a full velvet evening gown and dripped diamonds so huge they made the chandelier cringe. By her side, her husband stood in stalwart support.
‘Vee, darling, how brave of you to carry on like this,’ her first guest said, setting the tone.
The rest of the evening was spent, as she had predicted, going over the details in minute gory detail, satisfying even the most avidly curious. She smiled until her teeth ached, whilst her husband put on such a brave face his jaw felt like it was going to fall off. The food, of course, was superb, and they rounded it all off with a tour of the conservatory.
The evening was, by all accounts, a roaring success. When it was all over, Lady Vee retired to her bed muttering about ghouls, and Jenny, sat in her now deserted kitchen, muttered about dinner parties. Long into the night, both women lay awake, thinking about the invisible murder of Ava Simmons.
And what they were going to do about it.
* * *
Anthony Grover’s house was typical of that of a retired teacher: small, modest, impeccably neat and rather depressing. Only the garden showed signs of departing from the norm.
Jenny had come in her cherry-red van, which was now parked outside, its resplendent paintwork making it stand out like a sore thumb in the respectable street. Its personalized number plate EAT ME1 didn’t do it any favours either.
She stood by the gate, looking around and marshalling her thoughts. The garden was superb. Swathes of colour seemed to flow from one end to the other, following the colours of the spectrum. There was something about it that reminded her of those paintings by Frenchmen — all dabs and impressions of things — and it was then that she recalled Anthony Grover had been a teacher of art.
Ava’s father owned a gallery.
Avonsleigh was famous for its paintings.
‘There’s an awful lot of art about,’ Jenny mused thoughtfully, only just now realizing it. Not being particularly artistically-minded herself, she hadn’t really thought much about it before. There must be something in it, she thought. No wonder Malcolm Powell-Brooks loved working at the castle, and was far more interested in keeping his job than in fulfilling that minx Roberta’s fantasies.
She opened the gate and walked up to the door, her tread firm. She’d asked Lady Vee before leaving if she would telephone Anthony Grover and pave the way for her, otherwise he might object to a caller out of the blue, nosing into his private affairs. He might even, heaven forbid, think that she was a journalist.
He answered the door after only a few seconds, confirming her assumption that he was expecting her. Although she had already seen him briefly at the castle, she was a little unprepared for the fragile, practically wizened figure who stood before her. His shoulders had the stoop of those who suffered from some form of arthritis, and his voice wavered alarmingly as he smiled warmly and greeted her. The death of Ava Simmons must have been a hard blow for him.
‘You must be Miss
Starling. Her ladyship told me you might drop in. Were you a very good friend of Ava’s?’
Jenny followed him in to a small sitting room that overlooked the back garden. It was, if anything, even more beautiful than the front garden. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘I hadn’t worked at the castle long before it all happened,’ she went on, as delicately as possible, and took the seat he offered her.
He left before she could protest, and returned a few minutes later with a tea tray. In the meantime she’d looked around, noting the few but lovely paintings on the walls, and had become the recipient of a large tabby cat’s extravagant affections.
‘Oh, that’s Jemima. I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, looking down at his cat, which was now firmly curled up on the cook’s amply padded lap.
‘No, I quite like cats,’ Jenny said truthfully, giving the feline a stroke that went from nose to tail, and was rewarded by a loud, extremely satisfied purr.
‘Oh good. Some people don’t, you know. Ava wasn’t particularly fond of cats.’
Jenny sat up just a little straighter. This was what she was after. Information. Any kind of information. Background. Personality. Anything at all that might help her cast a light on Ava. ‘No? Well, as you said, some people don’t. Didn’t she like them as a little girl?’
Anthony Grover shook his head with a small smile. ‘No, not even then. I lived in Bicester for a long time, practically next door to the Simmonses. That’s how we got to know each other,’ he explained, settling down into his own chair with some difficulty and an obvious wince. ‘Her mother died when she was very young, and her father, well, he worked a lot. Since she went to the local school where I taught, and since she so loved anything to do with art, she got into the habit of coming around to my house, to look at my art books mostly. Sometimes I even took her into Oxford, to the museums. She loved it. She was such a studious little girl.’
‘Did she go to university there?’ Jenny prompted, although she already knew the answer.