Rack, Ruin and Murder: (Campbell & Carter 2)

by Granger, Ann

  ‘Have you checked upstairs?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet. Downstairs is fine. It’s a mess but it’s always a mess. Uncle Monty lives like that.’

  ‘It must have been a fine house once,’ Carter said, making conversation.

  Her reaction was unexpectedly vigorous. ‘It’s still a fine house! It’s beautiful. It needs some repair and decoration and a good clean through, but it’s a wonderful place! I’ve always loved it. Uncle Monty loves it, too, and I understand just how he feels. Mum doesn’t. She thinks it’s a ruin. But there’s real history in here.’

  There is some friction between mother and daughter, thought Carter. Jess Campbell witnessed that.

  ‘You came here a lot as a child, I think?’

  She nodded, steam from the hot drink spiralling upward before her nose. Her eyes lost that combative shine and became misty in memory. ‘Oh, yes, during the school holidays. That was when Aunt Penny was alive and Uncle Monty was not nearly so decrepit. Aunt Penny kept him in order. But in the end, it got too much even for her – and she went away. Mum was fond of Aunt Penny and furious with Uncle Monty. They had a blazing row about it and that put an end to our visits to Balaclava for a long time. Uncle Monty sort of turned inward after that. He missed Aunt Penny and wanted her back but he knew that wouldn’t happen.’ Tansy’s voice was sad.

  There was an awkward pause. Did Sophie leave me because I was impossible to live with? Carter wondered. I wasn’t the best of husbands and the police work got in the way. It always seemed to have first call on my attention. But, in the end, Sophie met someone else. In a funny way, if Penny Bickerstaffe had met someone else, Monty wouldn’t have been left feeling it was his entire fault. But she didn’t; and Monty’s been living with the thought that he’d driven away the woman he loved.

  He was glad when Tansy, who also seemed to have drifted away on a line of thought private to her, broke the silence.

  ‘When Aunt Penny died, Mum tried to get Uncle Monty to come to the funeral, but he wouldn’t,’ she went on more briskly. ‘I don’t think she went about persuading him very tactfully. Mum has the knack of rubbing Uncle Monty the wrong way. He gets very cross with her. It’s easy to do,’ added Tansy disloyally but probably truthfully. ‘So they had another blazing row.’

  ‘The house would have been in a much better state during the time Mrs Bickerstaffe was alive and living there,’ remarked Carter.

  She pursed her lips. ‘To be honest, it wasn’t in a wonderful condition, even then. Of course, it was a bit better than this!’ Tansy indicated their surroundings with a wave of her hand. ‘But it was much too big for them and I think Aunt Penny lost heart. She only had the help of a local woman who came in to mop the floors and push a vacuum cleaner round downstairs, that was all. They only lived in part of it, you see. Here – ’ she nodded at the kitchen – ‘and the drawing room and dining room, one of the bedrooms upstairs and the smaller bathroom up there. The rest was just shut away and left to rot. I used to go up and explore, with Gary.’

  Carter blinked, surprised. ‘Gary Colley?’

  She flushed. ‘Yes. He was older than I was but he was still a child, then. We were great pals. He kept a couple of ponies down at their place. I used to go there with him and he let me ride round their paddock. He always walked or ran alongside in case I fell off. Mum is snooty about the Colleys, but I like them. They’re very kind, you know, in their way.’

  ‘What about the Sneddons? Didn’t they have two daughters?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, but I didn’t know them very well. Their girls were older than me and didn’t want a little kid tagging along. Mrs Sneddon was nice. I remember going to the farm once with my mother about something to do with Balaclava. I think Mum was worried about Aunt Penny. Mrs Sneddon gave us tea and cupcakes with different colour icing on them. I remember them because I thought they were wonderful. My mother didn’t bake – still doesn’t.’ Tansy’s lips twitched in the barest smile. ‘I didn’t like Pete Sneddon much. He was always a bit dour. He came into the kitchen while we were having our tea and cupcakes and told Mum to leave “the poor old bugger and his missis alone”. He meant Uncle Monty and Aunt Penny. Mrs Sneddon told him off for using language like that in front of a child. It put an end to our visit, anyway. Mum spoke to him sharply and dragged me away. We didn’t go back.’

  Carter put down his empty cup. ‘Perhaps I should take a look round upstairs?’ he suggested, getting to his feet.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ Tansy jumped up, perhaps glad to put a stop to the childhood reminiscences.

  They climbed the wide staircase and paused to gaze up at the Jezebel window.

  ‘Isn’t it great?’ said Tansy. ‘That one, over there . . .’ She turned and pointed to the boarded-up companion window across the landing. ‘That one showed Jael and Sisera – before a branch broke off a tree in a storm one night, about two years ago, and smashed it. In the original scene he was asleep and she was creeping up on him with a tent peg and a mallet, one in each hand. I always preferred poor Jezebel; but Gary liked the Sisera one better. He was really sorry when it got smashed and came over and did his best to repair the damage.’

  ‘Both violent subjects,’ Carter commented, thinking that Gary’s ‘best’ carpentry skills were limited. He had secured the broken window as he might have fixed the hole in the pig compound fence he’d told Jess of. ‘A pity murder at Balaclava didn’t remain contained in a coloured glass picture.’

  Tansy flinched and he was sorry he’d added that. The recent events at the house must have upset her. She walked away quickly down one corridor. Carter followed and, one after the other, they checked the rooms. At the room used by Pascal and Rosie, Tansy paused. Then she pushed open the door and they both looked in.

  ‘Someone had been using this room, hadn’t they? Without poor Uncle Monty knowing?’ Tansy’s voice sounded muffled. ‘Your Inspector Campbell told us.’ She looked around. ‘You can tell someone’s been here.’

  ‘Yes, they did use this one.’

  ‘Do you know who it was?’ she demanded with a sudden return to her usual belligerent style.

  ‘We do now know,’ Carter told her cautiously. ‘We think it’s unconnected with – the later event.’

  ‘Well,’ Tansy said fiercely, ‘whoever it was, they had no right!’

  ‘No, they didn’t. But your uncle had a habit of leaving the front door unlocked when he went out. It’s fortunate no one came in and vandalised the place, or stole anything. The people who used this room at least left it tidy.’

  ‘It doesn’t excuse them!’ Tansy was having none of it. If she found out it was Seb Pascal, Carter could imagine her going down to the garage and haranguing the hapless owner. She’d probably have a go at Mrs Sneddon, too. A distant memory of cupcakes wouldn’t save Rosie.

  At the moment he, Carter, was there and Tansy, lacking any other target, had decided to have a go at him. ‘You should tell us who it was. Isn’t it a crime? Are you doing anything about it, now you know who they are? Aren’t you charging anyone?’

  ‘We’ll inform the owner, Mr Bickerstaffe, of the intruder’s identity, in due course,’ Carter said firmly. ‘What action is taken, if any, will rather depend on him, the householder. He habitually left the door open when he left the house, so there was no forced entry. There was apparently no vandalism and, as yet, no items have been reported missing, so no theft.’ Tansy hissed in exasperation and opened her mouth, but Carter continued inexorably, ‘So at the moment we are left with trespass and that is a civil matter, rather than a criminal one.’

  ‘You mean it’s OK for whoever it was to waltz in here and make use of a bedroom?’ Incredulity replaced the arrogance.

  ‘Not OK, but difficult to prosecute through the courts. There was no confrontation between Mr Bickerstaffe and the person or persons concerned, no threats were made, no violence offered and even if there had been . . .’

  Tansy dismissed all this legal quibbling with a sweeping gesture. ‘My m
other will sort it out!’ she said firmly.

  Carter had already forewarned Pascal of that possibility, but he said nothing. It was better to let Tansy think she had had the last word.

  They retreated downstairs.

  ‘I’m just going to walk around the garden,’ Carter told her.

  She nodded and fell into step alongside him, although, truth to tell, he’d rather have searched out there alone. He briefly considered telling her so. On the other hand, she could act as his guide and he soon realised he needed one.

  ‘Whew!’ he exclaimed when he realised what a tangled mass of neglected and unchecked growth the garden had become. ‘We could do with a machete!’

  ‘There is a path down here . . .’ Tansy led the way, pushing aside undergrowth that tumbled and sprawled across the route forward.

  Sure enough, the remains of a crumbling brick-paved walk lay beneath their feet. An arched pergola had once spanned it but most of that had fallen, rotted away, and only a few mossy uprights remained. It was no longer possible to tell where flowerbeds had been. The lawns, too, were muddy, weed-infested patches fighting a losing battle with encroaching undergrowth. At the edges of one such patch Carter noticed fresh-looking footprints – a male shoe. Monty’s? Or could Taylor have made them during his surreptitious visit? But if the prints had been here when the search team combed the grounds, their presence would have been marked for investigation. Most likely one of the search team was responsible.

  Tansy squeaked and Carter was startled to see a mocking face leering at them from between damp foliage. Then he saw it belonged to a statue trapped in a prison of interwoven branches. It was lichen-covered and its scabby, bearded features grinned evilly at them.

  ‘It’s poor old Pan,’ said Tansy with a little laugh. ‘I’d forgotten him. So he’s still here. There are some other statues about the place. They’re probably hidden now, just as poor Pan is.’

  ‘Garden statuary, particularly Victorian examples, fetch a good price now,’ Carter remarked.

  It was the wrong thing to have said. Tansy rounded on him. ‘Why must everything have a price? Uncle Monty wouldn’t sell Pan or any of the others. I wouldn’t sell them! They belong here. People now are – are horrid. Everything must have a price tag. It’s sordid.’

  ‘Not everyone can afford such high-minded principles,’ Carter told her.

  Her face reddened. ‘And I’m a spoiled wealthy brat, is that it?’

  ‘I certainly didn’t suggest that, nor would I,’ he protested. ‘I don’t think it.’

  ‘Your Inspector Campbell thinks it.’

  Surprised, Carter protested, ‘I’m sure she doesn’t.’

  Tansy’s ire subsided. ‘I wouldn’t blame either of you. I’m not poor. My father’s a rich man. He makes me a generous allowance.’ There was a pause. Then she added sadly, ‘It’s not always a blessing, you know.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it is,’ he said sincerely. ‘Tell me, I know you said the house wasn’t all that well maintained, but was it still a beautiful garden when you came here as a child? When you could see all the statues and plants in all their glory?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it had run pretty wild, even then. It must have been stunning in Victorian times, even for quite a long time after that. I think the rot set in about the nineteen fifties. By the time I came here with my mother to visit it had long gone to rack and ruin. Uncle Monty and Aunt Penny kept just the bit round the house tidy. Uncle Monty pushed a squeaky old mower up and down the lawn. If I were here I’d help, scooping up the cuttings to add to the compost heap. Mummy always grumbled because I’d get green grass stains on my clothes. Aunt Penny had a few vegetables growing in the kitchen garden – behind that wall.’

  Tansy pointed. They had reached a tall mellow red-brick wall, pierced by an arched gateway. The wrought-iron or wooden gate that must once have stood in it had gone, leaving only its hinges to mark its presence.

  Carter went through the arch and stopped in surprise. This had once been a real kitchen garden, a Victorian gardener’s pride and joy. There were even the collapsed, ivy-grown remains of a hothouse, with a brick-built furnace room attached. Add this area to the area of the other garden, he thought, and you’ve got quite a bit of land here. But who could possibly restore it all to its former glory? The cost, the work involved, and the maintenance afterwards . . . it was prohibitive. An idea occurred to him.

  ‘Aren’t there two fields belonging to the estate? Between here and the road, I think.’

  Tansy shrugged. ‘They’re pretty small and not much use. Gary sometimes grazes his horses in them – or Pete moves his sheep down there.’

  ‘Mr Bickerstaffe might not want to sell the house and gardens, but he could raise some cash selling the fields . . .’

  Tansy expelled breath in a hiss and glared at him. ‘Are you thick or what?’ she asked. ‘Uncle Monty wouldn’t sell. He’s right.’

  ‘No, of course he wouldn’t,’ Carter agreed. ‘It would let the outside world in and your Uncle Monty is determined to keep it out. I’m sorry I suggested it. I don’t admit to being thick, as you put it, but my mind was wandering for a moment there.’

  Tansy blushed. ‘No, you’re not thick and I was very rude to say that. Sorry. You are probably quite horrifyingly intelligent. I’m not, you know. I am rather dopey. Always have been.’

  ‘Now then,’ he said severely, ‘don’t put yourself down. Perhaps you haven’t yet tackled the right sort of challenges. You may surprise yourself at how well you’d manage.’

  ‘I’ll have to manage when my mother goes to New York.’ She gave him a wicked grin. ‘But I have a let-out, you see. If the worst comes to the worst, I can go and live in Jersey with my father.’ She frowned. ‘Although that might give him a shock, cramp his style a bit. He has glamorous girlfriends.’

  Poor kid, thought Carter. She’s been made to feel an inconvenience, probably when she was quite young. It’s stayed with her. I don’t suppose either of her parents intended it. I hope Millie never feels this way about her mother and me. I don’t think she will. But I can’t say now, after listening to Tansy Peterson, that it won’t be on my mind.

  He looked down at the earth. There were more footprints here. If they had been left by the late Jay Taylor, he’d certainly covered every inch of this place. But the marks were too fresh to be Taylor’s. Pascal and Rosie Sneddon had seen him here during the long dry spell when the earth had been baked hard. They might be Gary Colley’s footprints as he spied on the police. Carter told himself they must have been left by the search team. But then he dismissed this conclusion, feeling annoyed with himself. His mind really must be wandering. Both Colley’s prints and those of the search team would have been made before the recent rain. These, pressed clearly into the mud, had been made post-rain. Some later visitor had been taking a look at the place now it was in the news. There was nothing like a suspicious death for attracting sightseers. Or was someone else still interested in Balaclava House for whatever reason had brought the late Jay Taylor here?

  He didn’t want Tansy to notice the prints. She was sharp enough to draw the same conclusion he had. The idea that even more interlopers had trespassed on the hallowed soil of her beloved Balaclava House would send her ballistic. He moved away from the incriminating evidence.

  They left the garden and returned to the front of the house. ‘Are you going back inside?’ Carter asked Tansy.

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’ll lock up now and go home. Unless you want to go indoors again?’

  ‘No, I have to get back to my office.’

  They walked to her car. Tansy patted the roof and said, ‘People wonder why I don’t buy a new one. But I like this one. I told Inspector Campbell so.’

  Carter glanced back at Balaclava House and then at the ageing car. ‘This isn’t a joke – I’m quite serious – have you ever thought of working in the antiques world?’

  She looked surprised. ‘I’m not bright enough.’

  ‘I�
��ve told you,’ he reminded her, ‘not to put yourself down.’

  Tansy studied him for a moment. ‘I think it’s possible,’ she said slowly, ‘that you are a nice man.’

  ‘Don’t run away with that idea,’ Carter advised her. ‘Remember, I’m a policeman.’

  ‘One who doesn’t do anything about whoever has been walking in and out of my uncle’s house, using one of the rooms.’ She wasn’t going to let him get away with that.

  ‘I explained that,’ he said patiently. ‘We will discuss with Mr Bickerstaffe what he wants to do.’

  ‘Then, are you close to arresting anyone for anything? For killing that man who was found here?’