by Amy Myers
‘Under restoration,’ I said firmly. Pen doesn’t know Frogs Hill well enough to know whether the Glory Boot is inside or out, so this was an easy put off. I don’t want her poking her nose into it. She’d be bashing out an article on the Giovanni paintings as soon as she laid eyes on them and I’d be figuring in it as the Scrooge who won’t let the great British public see their rightful heritage – regardless of the fact that Giovanni is Italian and still alive and kicking. Instead I seated them in the living room, where Pen promptly marched round inspecting every photo she could. She was probably looking for one of Louise, but if so, she was disappointed. I’d hidden it the first time I brought Helen here.
Pen then produced from her battered rucksack every gadget known to technology including a voice-memo recorder. ‘So tell me, Jack,’ she began briskly. ‘How does this fire tie up with Victoria Drake’s murder?’ She shot the voice-memo under my nose. It got up it quicker than Pen herself.
‘I wanted to ask you that. Does it tie up?’
‘No games, Jack. It must do. And you somehow forgot to tell me about her death and the De Dion. So is Connor Meyton involved with murder and fire? Bob thinks so.’
Bob grinned nervously, clearly taking his lead from Pen. Mistake, usually. ‘Not that I knew the victim,’ he said virtuously, as though that ruled him out of any conspiracy theories in the making. ‘I know about the De Dion of course; Pen here said Mrs Drake was the owner, and I’ve heard how Meyton works.’
I can do virtuous too. ‘I’ll suggest DCI Fielding calls you.’
‘Great,’ he said. ‘I’ll enjoy being police flavour of the month.’
The guy had charm, I thought, and maybe Pen was smitten with him. If so, work came first for her. ‘Bit of a coincidence you finding the Drake woman’s body, Jack, which you overlooked reporting to me.’
‘Too busy reporting to the police, Pen.’
‘Then you’ll know if Meyton’s a murder suspect.’
‘Steady, Pen,’ I said. ‘He’s no more under suspicion than I am.’
‘Are you under suspicion, Jack?’ Dulcet tones from Pen.
I sighed. ‘Let’s stop fencing, Pen. What’s in this for you?’
Pen chuckled. ‘A story. A great one. Heard there was a body found at the fire. Went round to see Dean Warren.’
Breathtaking. ‘Before or after the police?’
‘Just after,’ she said complacently. ‘I followed them.’
Dave had told me Dean hadn’t come to the fire scene because he claimed he was ill. Zoe had come though. My brave Zoe. I forced myself to crawl to Pen, mentally that is. Full marks for her persistence. ‘What did he think caused the fire?’
‘Late-night revellers dropping a match.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Did he put a name to these late-night revellers?’
‘Oddly enough, no.’
Which might mean Dean was taking the fire as a serious warning.
‘Whose body is it, Jack?’ Pen persisted doggedly.
‘Is it likely I would tell you if I knew?’
‘No, but—’
‘Could be Mick Smith’s,’ Bob announced, knocking to smithereens any hope I might have had of keeping confidential information to myself. ‘Could go like this: Meyton falls out with Mick and moves south. Meyton sees a good opportunity in getting Alf King’s garage cheap as a front for his less than legal activities, including getting hold of this De Dion, but has to rid himself of Alf who won’t sell. Mick finds out, blackmails him – Connor gets rid of him.’
‘Flaw,’ I pointed out. ‘Why burn the place down if he wanted to buy it?’
‘Easy,’ Pen said dismissively. ‘Dean Warren is causing trouble, so Meyton changes plans and gives him a warning by showing what happens to sneaks who get in the way of his trading arrangements. Being close to the Channel, Kent’s a good place.’
‘Many poets have felt the same,’ I murmured.
‘Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach,’ Bob picked up in a show of erudition. ‘Oscar Wilde too. He liked it too. And that other chap, Gough. Some sweet Kentish hill. Know him?’
I blinked. ‘No.’
‘Victorian. Good stuff.’
Pen was goggling too, but not about poetry. ‘Mick Smith,’ she said firmly.
‘Certainly, Pen.’ Bob mock saluted her. ‘Pen wanted me to ask around about the gent, Jack, but he seems to have gone off the scene.’
‘So has Meyton. No harm in telling them that. There was talk before the fire about his plans to buy Alf King’s garage but then he softly and silently vanished away.’
‘Lewis Carroll,’ Bob said, pleased. ‘That’s said to be a danger sign with Meyton – vanishing. Buying a garage was way out of line for him. His usual game is to find cars to order, then charge one heck of a high commission.’
‘Nothing illegal about that,’ I said, ‘unless the cars are hot.’
‘You got it, Jack. Except when things go wrong as they did with Mick Smith. Meyton’s a guy not to tangle with. Liable to land up as food for the fishes.’
‘Dean reckons it was only the records Meyton wanted to see,’ Pen said. ‘Then you came along, Jack. Not only are you snooping around about possible murder but, as Meyton must see it, you’ve put your own nark in there.’
Zoe. That was scary. I hadn’t thought of that angle. ‘Have you had any luck on contacting Meyton, Bob?’ I asked. I like to sleep at nights and I wanted Zoe to do so as well. ‘The police are going to be asking you.’
‘No. Perpetual voicemail on all of them. I’ll give you another one though.’
Pen was getting restless. ‘So you confirm there’s a link, Jack, between this Meyton and the Drake murder. The Old Bill must think so too. They’re not daft.’
‘Generous of you to admit it,’ I murmured.
‘They just don’t have the resources that I do.’
‘They have me.’
Pen smiled sweetly. ‘That’s why we’re going to work together more closely, Jack.’
‘Like hell we are,’ I said without malice.
Beware the Greeks bearing gifts, I thought, watching Pen and Bob drive off. I wasn’t entirely clear as to why she’d come. It could mean she was storing up brownie points for some plan of her own; or it could mean that she herself was haring off in a completely different direction and wanted me off the track by roping Bob Orton in. I hadn’t forgotten that little trip she made to Treasure Island.
Accordingly, I made a plan of my own for the next morning. After dropping in to see how Zoe was, I drove over to Harford Lee, not least because there was a message from Helen asking me to come as soon as possible. She had sounded fairly frantic. Something was brewing, she said, and I should get there before boiling point. It seemed to me that given the Major’s temperament and Julian’s collecting zeal, that boiling point was always close, although I granted there was currently more at stake. I seemed to be in the middle of a triangle, the three points being Treasure Island, the Morrises and as always Connor Meyton. The question was which way to turn first. I’d like to think I was pulling the strings but at present it seemed more like a game of blind man’s buff in which I was reaching out to anything that might give me a clue where I was. Driving blindfold into any of these three situations would be dangerous, as Victoria Drake and Alf King had found to their cost.
Helen had told me to come straight to Burnt Barn Bottom, but as I drove past Cobba House I saw two cars parked outside, Helen’s Fiat and the Bentley. Treasure Island was locked up, so I walked back until I heard raised voices in the garden. In fact raised was understating the case. Julian and the Major were in fine form.
‘It’s my car, isn’t it? Do what I damn well like with it and that’s that.’
‘We had an agreement.’ Julian was more controlled but definitely in high-pitch mode.
To my dismay, Helen too was taking an active role. When I opened the gate to join the party I could see Julian and the Major sitting at a table on the terrace, with Helen pacing around in agitation. She ha
d not yet seen me and was shouting, ‘What agreement? And why don’t I know about it?’
It was clear that the pot had boiled and there was trouble afoot. When they noticed me, Helen came straight over. I’d never seen her really angry before, and a detached part of my mind registered that it suited her. She looked aflame with beauty. The rest of my mind tried to focus on the De Dion.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked, when I reached the terrace.
‘No damn business of yours,’ the Major promptly yelled at me.
‘That, Major Hopchurch,’ I said cordially, ‘is where you are wrong. If this argument is about the De Dion Bouton then it is a part of an ongoing case for the Serious Crime Directorate. Very much ongoing now that Alfred King’s garage has been burnt down.’
That stopped them all. Helen looked horrified. ‘When?’ she cried. ‘Is Zoe all right? And Doris? I should ring her.’
She didn’t add, ‘You should have told me,’ but there was no need. Her reproachful eyes told me that. With so much going on and my preoccupation with Zoe, I had not thought to do so. Stupid, stupid. ‘They’re both OK,’ I told her, ‘but it would be good—’
‘My De Dion is a private matter,’ the Major interrupted, impatient at this diversion.
‘Nothing’s private in a murder case, where it might have relevance to the victim.’ I felt a first-class prig but I was beginning to get extremely bored with these two jokers.
‘The car’s found and your job for us is over, Colby.’
‘Certainly—’ I began, but Helen intervened.
‘No way, Stanley. I too need to know what’s going on here.’
Julian and the Major looked at each other, and Julian climbed down. ‘It’s a matter of ownership, Helen. In fact Stanley believes he is the rightful owner of the car. The matter is being referred to his solicitors in Canterbury.’
Helen turned another reproachful eye on me and then the Major. ‘And Stanley didn’t seem to think I needed to know about it, either.’
‘Couldn’t tell you,’ the Major said gruffly. ‘Victoria Drake had the same documents as I did, but showing her as owner.’ Helen’s eyes grew rounder and rounder, and he added hastily, ‘It’s all nonsense of course. No woman in Edwardian times would go around pinching automobiles. If anyone did the pinching it was my grandfather.’
By Edwardian women he must have a pretty picture of ladies in long motoring coats, hats and veils in mind rather than militant suffragettes, I thought, but I nodded encouragingly, as Helen seemed incoherent at the Major’s unhelpful explanation. ‘She might be capable of hanging on to a car that wasn’t hers though,’ I suggested, ‘if she thought her love had been spurned.’
‘True,’ Julian grudgingly agreed, ‘but in this case Stanley has the valid claim. His solicitor agrees.’
‘Has he or she seen Mrs Drake’s provenance documents yet?’ I asked.
Silence. ‘No,’ the Major finally admitted.
Neither seemed inclined to tell me more about the argument in progress, so I kicked off on my own track. ‘Is that why, Julian,’ I asked gently, ‘this disagreement broke out, because you expected to be able to buy the car before or after the rally from Mrs Drake or the Morrises?’
‘Or now from Stanley,’ Julian added stiffly.
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ I said, ‘if the Major does own it.’
‘You’re not feeble minded, are you?’ the Major threw at me. ‘I’ve shown you enough to convince a jackass. You’re no lawyer.’
‘No,’ I agreed, ‘but I’m associated with the law.’
‘Then you’ll know I can damn well do what I like with my own property.’
‘Not in this case, Stanley,’ Julian said. ‘We’ve an agreement.’
The wheel seemed to have come full circle.
‘What is the problem?’ I said, emphasizing each word in a crescendo. Volume seemed to be winning the day with this pair.
Helen answered for her two suddenly silent co-trustees. ‘Stanley has agreed with Patricia Morris that she and he will jointly own the car no matter who has the better claim.’
I was taken aback. The last thing I would have expected. It didn’t seem Major-like behaviour. ‘That sounds reasonable,’ I said cautiously. ‘The trust could negotiate with both parties which would be difficult but surely possible.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Julian retorted, ‘Tom Morris is insisting that Patricia pursues her case for complete ownership.’
‘And does Patricia want to do that?’
‘In that household, of course. She’s gone back on her word with Stanley. And I,’ Julian added vengefully, ‘have been led up the garden path both by you, Stanley, and by Nick Morris.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘I was sponsoring that dreadful young man to drive the De Dion in the rally, provided I was first in line to buy the car.’
‘Julian has omitted the vital phrase beginning with if,’ the Major declared with awful clarity. ‘If the decision of ownership went against me. He has been negotiating behind my back and undermining my claim.’
I still couldn’t see it. ‘Where do you go from here?’ I asked firmly.
Helen looked weary. ‘Tell him, Stanley.’
The Major cleared his throat. ‘Patricia has agreed the De Dion can appear in the rally, but only, it seems, if I withdraw my claim to the car.’
‘Have you agreed to that?’ I could see the problem now. Tom Morris was pulling the strings with a vengeance.
‘I’m thinking of doing so,’ the Major muttered.
‘You’re a fool, Stanley,’ Julian said, cold with anger.
‘And you, Julian, are a nincompoop.’ The Major’s eyes blazed with fury. ‘I wouldn’t sell you my car if—’
I intervened for Helen’s sake. ‘Stop!’
It was so sudden that both men did. All three turned to me, a Solomon come to judgement. I couldn’t live up to his standard, but I could make a stab at it. ‘In the short term, you all want the same result. You want the rally to succeed and the De Dion to be in it. But you’re about to sacrifice the first for the second? Surely you can squabble about ownership afterwards.’
Helen leapt in on cue. ‘I’ll go over to see the Morrises,’ she said, ‘to try to sort the situation out. Jack’s right. Let’s concentrate on making the rally a success.’
There were reluctant nods from her fellow trustees.
‘I’ll go with her,’ I said, to even less enthusiasm. This was no mere desire on my part to be alone with Helen. Great though that would be, the meeting with the Morrises would be hard work. Even so I wanted to go, as somewhere I sniffed there was a factor I was missing, and it could lie with the Morrises.
By agreement, I took the lead and fixed the meeting (with some reluctance on the part of the Morrises) for the following Monday, and then returned to Frogs Hill, while Helen took up what she described as ‘normal’ Treasure Island duties. It seemed to me, however, that this morning’s pandemonium was getting to be ‘normal’, and I was looking forward to a peaceful lull in my own ‘normal’ duties.
I caught up with some paperwork, then had some lunch, and then strolled out from the farmhouse, coffee mug in hand, to enjoy the sight of the sun, which was beaming down on the Pits. Within, I could spot Len and Zoe happily—
Zoe?
I plonked the mug down on the gravel and rushed inside. There they were – my trusty team of two working harmoniously on the – yes – Zoe’s Fiesta. I was almost glad to see it. Zoe was clad in her usual overalls and seemingly engrossed in her work. Len was busily pretending he hadn’t seen me.
‘Hi,’ I said weakly.
Zoe glanced up. ‘Hi,’ she said and went back to work.
Normal life resumed – and thank heaven for it. No more would be spoken of Alf and his garage or of Dean Warren.
Or would it? Could Zoe have anything valuable to add to that story? It was possible, but I knew from experience I wouldn’t get anything out of Zoe until the dust had settled. There
was one further blessing. There was no sign of Rob. True it was early days, but if he was permanently back in the Zoe picture I wouldn’t count on that being the case for long.
The atmosphere at Lamberhurst was frosty, to say the least. Helen and I were the warmest things around. The Major had been anxious to come with us, but fortunately Julian had taken our side. Helen had come over on Sunday, and we had spent a happy day (and night) together. The Morrises’ home was a modern house on the far side of the village from Shoulder Mutton Green, and looked as opulently plush as I would have expected. Keeping up with Joneses was evident in everything from the stylish Tree of Life door knocker to the designer dog who feebly woofed as we went inside. Even he looked downcast.
Tom led us through to the garden, which was as designer conscious as the house, with neat weedless lawns, and bedding plants that obediently kept to strict rules by not sprawling around. Patricia was hunched in a chair between the two important members of the family – as they no doubt saw it. Helen and I were allotted two upright garden chairs facing the enemy battalions. Perhaps I exaggerated the importance of this factor, but somehow I didn’t think so.
Helen and I had agreed that she should lead the discussion, so that I could play silent sleuth and take over if the conversation seemed to be going awry. Officially we were there to check the position of the De Dion for the rally, rather than whether it had bearing on Victoria’s murder. Unofficially I had it very much in mind. I had had few clues as to the direction of the police investigation; all I knew for sure was that the inquest and burial had been adjourned.
‘In the circumstances are you happy for the De Dion to take part in the rally, Mrs Morris?’ Helen pointedly addressed her question to her.
‘Of course,’ Tom promptly answered for her. ‘Provided Major Hopchurch gives up his claim to own half of it. I thought I had made that clear.’
‘His claim is for all of it, I believe,’ Helen said. ‘Although I understand he has offered to go halves with you on the ownership, Mrs Morris, which is generous.’
‘He seems a sweet old thing,’ Patricia said uncertainly.
A sweet old thing? I wondered if we were talking about the same man.