Unlike Canon Phillips he had no private income, but he had allowed Thirling to continue to take it for granted that it was his large, back-breaking garden that would be used for the village fête, and his wife’s threadbare drawing-room for meetings of the mothers’ union. The rectory where they lived had been built in the 1860s, in the architectural style subsequently nicknamed ‘ecclesiastical commissioners’Gothic’. The commissioners of the day had reasoned that a parson, being accustomed to officiate in a medieval church, would want to live in a house which incorporated as many medieval features as possible. At Thirling these included steeply pitched roofs, a battlemented porch, lancet windows, flagstone floors, howling draughts and acute discomfort.
The new parsons, Barry and Tim, would have none of it. When they were appointed to the Thirling group of parishes they had each taken one look at the empty barn of a rectory and had said, in their perennially youthful idiom, ‘No way’. They had insisted on living in small modern houses in other villages in the group, and the rectory was put up for sale by auction.
The villagers had very much hoped that the Old Rectory would be bought by someone who would live in it in the style to which the house had been accustomed in Canon Phillips’s time; an organizing upper-middle class couple who could be grumbled about behind their backs but relied upon to devote their time and energy to the smooth running of local affairs. Instead, it was bought by Jonathan Elliott, television personality and brilliant satirical novelist, and his wife Roz, a sociology lecturer at the University of Suffolk in Yarchester, whose combined income – with the addition of some capital inherited by Roz from her grandmother – enabled them not only to pay an inflated price for the house but to renovate it completely. Now damp-proofed and draught-excluded, double-glazed, centrally heated and extensively plumbed, the ecclesiastical commissioners’Gothic fantasy had become agreeably comfortable.
The Elliotts had three children, each of whose births had been planned to coincide with a long vacation and so to interrupt Roz’s work schedule as little as possible. The house was still too large, even for a family of five and even though Roz and Jonathan each had a study. To fill it, the Elliotts had living with them a succession of Roz’s girl students, who found the Old Rectory a temporary haven from whatever emotional, financial, sexual or academic problems threatened to overwhelm them.
It was not a matter of charity, Roz Elliott asserted, but an expression of feminist solidarity. She found it difficult to admit to anyone except her closest friends that it was the only way in which she could possibly come to terms with the embarrassing fact that she was a capitalist. To her husband, when he complained about the invasion of his privacy, she pointed out the unsought side-effects: the students naturally wanted to express their thanks, and it would be unsupportive not to allow them to do so in a practical way. The Elliotts were able to get their house cleaned – after a fashion – and their children minded in their frequent absences, without feeling that they were exploiting anyone.
The villagers’disappointment that the owners of the Old Rectory were not in the least concerned with local affairs was lessened when they realized that Jonathan Elliott appeared regularly on television. His Books and Writers programme had never before appealed to Thirling viewers, but now they all turned to it; not because they were interested in what he or any of his guests on the programme had to say, but because it gave them a vicarious sense of importance to know that during the course of the following week they would meet him in the village or serve him in the shop or the pub or the post office. There were hopes that he might even be prevailed upon to make a celebrity appearance at the next fête, to be held on the village green. A deputation had been sent, a decent interval after his arrival in the village three years previously, to ask him to allow the fête to be held in his garden, but the request was never put. The members of the deputation had retreated down the drive before they got as far as the house, appalled to find that the once-smooth lawns were now a grazing ground for livestock.
‘Mind the geese,’ said Chief Inspector Quantrill as Tait’s car scattered them.
‘They shouldn’t be allowed to stray,’ said Sergeant Tait, who had recently had a disconcerting confrontation with a goose when he called to make enquiries at a farm.
‘It’s a private drive. And one way of getting the grass cut, I suppose.’
The two detectives approached the old rectory in Tait’s up and coming Citroën, which he parked with a flourish on the gravelled circle originally designed as a carriage sweep. Tait looked cautiously about him before getting out of the car, and was relieved to see that the geese were confining their attention to a large area of rough, brilliantly green spring grass that sloped down from the carriage sweep to an overgrown pond. Beyond the pond was a hedge, above which rose the flint tower of Thirling church.
Quantrill eased himself out of the small car and looked incredulously at the Old Rectory. ‘Why on earth would anyone want to buy an ugly pile like this?’
‘Space,’ explained Tait. ‘It’s an architectural absurdity, I agree, but it has space and character. I like big old houses, too; I couldn’t bear to live in a featureless little suburban box.’ He remembered too late that this was a cruelly accurate description of the Chief Inspector’s own house.
‘Better find out whether you can afford to heat your big old house before you buy it,’ snapped Quantrill. ‘But then, of course,’ he added with heavy sarcasm, ‘when you’re Chief Constable …’
That was exactly the line Tait was thinking along. Not that he’d ever consider going in for a mid-nineteenth-century Gothic house, or for geese in the garden. Something rather more manageable, he decided: a compact house, Georgian or at the latest early Victorian, built at a time when architects still understood that style was a matter of line and proportion rather than of spurious ornamentation. He certainly would not want a massive gothic front door, such as they were now walking towards, surmounted by a ridiculous battlemented mezzanine tower—
But Martin Tait was not a detective for nothing. Quantrill was too disgruntled to notice the sudden movement on the top of the tower, behind the crenellation, but Tait saw it. He gave the Chief Inspector a vigorous push, just as a bucket of water was emptied over the battlements to fall with a splash on the gravel between them.
‘Next time,’ piped a threatening voice from above their heads, ‘it’ll be boiling oil.’
‘What the hell—?’ spluttered Quantrill, retaining his balance with difficulty.
‘It’s a kid,’ said Tait. He called back sternly: ‘Watch it, Buster!’
A dark curly head rose above the battlements, which proved to be no more than knee high to a twelve-year-old. ‘I didn’t pour the water over you,’ the boy said. ‘I could’ve, if I’d wanted to, but I didn’t. I’m repelling unwanted suitors,’ he added, cheerfully unaware that there was anything anachronistic about carrying on such a medieval activity while wearing a Star Wars T-shirt. ‘Which of the students have you come to see, Claire or Mandy?’
‘Neither,’ boomed Quantrill. ‘Is your name Elliott?’
‘Yes – I’m Piers.’
‘Right, Piers. I’m Chief Inspector Quantrill, and I’ve come to see your father if he’s at home.’
The boy’s ebullience subsided. He lowered his voice: ‘Oh Lord – do you have to?’ He scrambled over the battlements and down a knotted rope that hung at one side of the tower, almost falling down the last few feet in his hurry. His agitation was so genuine that Quantrill relented and spoke more kindly.
‘It’s all right,’ the Chief Inspector assured him, ‘we shan’t mention the water.’ He flicked his damp sleeve. ‘Just a few splashes, no harm done.’
Piers shook his head. ‘It’s not that. Jonathan’s in a foul temper, and when he’s in that kind of mood it’s always best to leave him alone. If you disturb him, he’ll be even worse when you’ve gone. Couldn’t you come back and see him tomorrow?’
‘Sorry,’ said Quantrill. ‘Official business.�
�
‘What’s upset your father?’ Tait enquired in a matey voice. ‘I mean, is there any particular subject we ought to avoid mentioning to him?’
‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘Jasmine Woods.’
Quantrill and Tait both blinked rapidly and avoided each other’s eyes. ‘Any particular reason?’ asked Tait.
‘Well, she’s dead,’ said the boy. ‘I know that, Claire and Mandy were talking about it when I got home from school. She died today. Pity, she was nice – quite interesting to talk to. But Jonathan isn’t wild because she’s dead, he’s been wild ever since yesterday lunch-time. He and Roz – that’s my mother – had a row about Jasmine yesterday afternoon. I know, I heard them.’
‘Yes, well,’ said Quantrill hastily. He had scruples about obtaining ingenuous information from children concerning their parents. ‘I’m afraid we do have to see your father. Could you take us to him, please?’
The boy shook his head. He twisted at the wrought-iron door handle with both hands, and pushed the massively hinged door ajar. ‘Down the hall,’ he pointed, staying firmly where he was, ‘first passage on the left, second door on the right. And rather you than me.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘Piers! Piers, don’t!’
The policemen turned in the doorway. Two more children were running up from the garden, one a much smaller and grubbier version of Piers, the other a girl of about ten. Unlike the boys she was neat in appearance; almost prim. Her straight light-brown shoulder length hair was held back by a band of ribbon, and she wore a plain blue denim skirt, a clean white T-shirt and knee-length socks that were horizontally striped in blue and white. She reminded Quantrill of someone. He dredged his memory and came up with one of the illustrations in Alison’s childhood copy of Alice in Wonderland.
Yes, Alice. Alison … For a fiercely protective moment he thought of his daughter, and of the emotional shock she had sustained. He felt for her all the more keenly because the small girl in front of him had all of Alison’s childhood neatness, and a look of distress about her too.
‘You can’t disturb Daddy!’ she was protesting to her elder brother.
He shrugged. ‘I can’t help it, Vanessa – it’s not me that’s doing the disturbing. It’s not my fault if they want to see Jonathan. They’re policemen.’
‘Well, tell them he’s not seeing anyone.’
‘They won’t be told.’
‘Did you explain why?’
‘Yes.’ Piers suddenly went bright red. ‘Well … sort of …’
‘You didn’t let on about—?’
‘Well …’
His sister, younger and half a head shorter, glared at him with contempt. Quantrill had at first been surprised that a woman as uncompromisingly liberated as Roz Elliott had managed to produce such a conventional daughter, but evidently Vanessa had inherited her mother’s strength of character. ‘Idiot!’ she told her elder brother. She glanced at the smaller boy, who had been following the conversation apprehensively, all dark curls and big eyes and open mouth. ‘Push off, Toby,’ she ordered.
Toby went. Vanessa turned to the policemen and gave them a grave, social smile. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said sweetly, as though she assumed that they had been deaf to her exchange with Piers, ‘but Daddy’s very busy and this isn’t a good time to interrupt him. He’s creative, you see, and creative work is very difficult. It needs complete concentration. Perhaps I could give him a message for you?’
Quantrill refused with equal politeness, wondering what the girl was trying to conceal. The row between her parents over Jasmine Woods? But why should she think that significant? Her brother didn’t; didn’t even seem to know that the woman had been murdered. But then, Vanessa was clearly more perceptive than Piers. ‘Is your mother in?’ Quantrill added kindly.
‘No – she’s gone to the university, to a union meeting. I expect she’ll be staying in Yarchester overnight, because she’s going on to Birmingham tomorrow to talk to a women’s group. We’ve got two students living here, they’re out in the garden if you’d like to see them instead—?’
‘No thank you,’ Tait intervened firmly. He was anxious to start talking to the man who had quarrelled with his wife about Jasmine Woods just a few hours before the murder. It wasn’t difficult, he thought, to guess what had occasioned the quarrel.
Vanessa Elliott sighed. ‘All right,’ she said reluctantly, ‘you can see him. But what you have to understand about Daddy is that he works under considerable stress. He’s on television, you see. He always looks relaxed on his programme, but he’s really very tense. He’s preparing now for tomorrow’s programme, and that means that the tension is building up. He’s – well, a bit difficult. That’s what Piers should have explained to you. You have to make allowances for Daddy because of the stress of his work.’
‘Right,’ confirmed Piers, still pink with mortification but anxious to demonstrate family loyalty.
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ said Quantrill. ‘First passage on the left, second door on the right, I believe?’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Vanessa. ‘If you’re on your own,’ she explained primly, ‘he might swear.’
But Jonathan Elliott said nothing at all. He sat over a portable typewriter, one elbow on either side of it, his shoulders hunched, his face half hidden by his long thin hands. He made no movement as his daughter went in, apologized for disturbing him and said that two policemen had come to see him; but his fingers tensed.
Vanessa gave him a half-protective, half-exasperated look. She smiled and shrugged at the visitors and went out, closing the door softly behind her.
‘This is Chief Inspector Quantrill, I’m Sergeant Tait, County CID. You may perhaps remember me, Mr Elliott, we met at a party about six weeks ago.’
Elliott lifted his face from his hands, and the youthful darkness of the curls on top of his head was immediately qualified by his greying sideburns. His face was set, strained, grey with fatigue and with odd patches of stubble left after a careless shave. In contrast, his long pointed nose was sharp and white. His heavy eyelids flicked up for a moment while he looked at Tait, and then lowered again.
‘If you say so.’ His voice was harsh, his north-country intonation more pronounced. ‘What do you want? I’m going up to London to do a programme tomorrow, and I haven’t time to con-cern myself with anything else.’
‘Criminal investigations, Mr Elliott,’ pointed out Quantrill, ‘take precedence over television programmes. We’re enquiring into the murder of Jasmine Woods.’
‘So I gather. The local woodentop was here earlier.’
The Chief Inspector gave him a huffed look. ‘One of my officers was making preliminary enquiries. He saw your wife, I understand?’
‘Yes.’ It was, apparently, all Elliott wanted to snap out on the subject. He glanced angrily at the typescript he was working on, ripped it from the machine and began to screw it up; but then he changed his mind. He smoothed out the sheet of paper on his desk and at the same time expanded his answer, phrasing it with rather more civility.
‘I didn’t see your officer myself – he caught Roz just as she was going off to Yarchester. She was able to give him all the information he needed. We went to Jasmine’s for drinks at midday yesterday, and left just before half-past one. Jasmine was alive and well at that time. Roz and I spent the rest of the day at home, and we saw and heard nothing unusual. There’s nothing else I can tell you.’
‘And that was the last time you saw Jasmine Woods?’
‘Yes.’ Jonathan Elliott got up from his desk and walked to the double-glazed gothic patio-door of his study. Outside, the evening sun, low under a rain-dark sky, picked out the yellow of the daffodils that sprouted haphazardly from tussocky grass. Beyond what had been a back lawn, half a dozen different trees were beginning to put out leaves in assorted shades of green.
He turned to the policemen again. He was over six feet tall, about the same height as Quantrill, and he made a point of addressing himself t
o the air above Tait, the shorter man’s, head.
‘Look, I’m really cut up about Jasmine’s death,’ he said abruptly. ‘I want to make that clear.’ He walked back to his desk and picked up the creased sheet of typescript, smoothing it with nervous fingers. ‘What you have to realize is that I work under pressure – first to a deadline, and then in conditions of stress: under lights, in front of cameras and with guests who are totally unpredictable. No, not just unpredictable – they’re bloody terrifying. Sometimes they dry, sometimes they won’t stop talking, sometimes they’re drunk. You’ve no idea of the strain I’m under, trying to look relaxed while my guts are churning with anxiety.’ He pushed the curls off his forehead, suddenly embarrassed. ‘Well, that’s not your con-cern, is it? But whether or not you’ve a criminal investigation on hand, my work has to go on. I can’t stop because Jasmine’s been murdered – but I want you to know that I do mind about her. She was a good friend.’
He sank into his chair, snatched a blank sheet of paper and rammed it into his typewriter. ‘So,’ he continued, his mouth tight, ‘I’m working today and tomorrow under even greater difficulties than usual. Do me a favour, will you? Get the hell out of here and do your investigating somewhere else, so that I can get on with my work.’
Quantrill and Tait glanced at each other. The Chief Inspector nodded; his sergeant could carry on with the interview. It was Tait who had met Jonathan Elliott at Jasmine Woods’s party, and suspected him of having designs on her; it was Tait who was getting hot under the collar because he’d been told to get the hell out of there. If Quantrill had taken umbrage every time he’d been told that, in the course of his police career, he’d be as much a nervous wreck as Elliott. He sat down, uninvited, to watch and listen.
Tait made a cool start. He propped himself against a bookcase, crossed one ankle over the other and folded his arms. ‘Ah,’ he said, superficially tolerant, ‘but we still have some investigating to do here. Primarily into your relationship with Jasmine Woods.’
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