Strange Tombs

by Syd Moore

  ‘Yes, I’m sure, they are,’ I said. Data protection was a hot subject right now. But, I thought, it was possible that one of those assembled did know about the caretaker’s heart condition and had, indeed, used that to their advantage. Sophia had only just arrived though, so she was out of the frame.

  ‘The irony is,’ Laura continued and clutched her arm. ‘I’ve had a few scares in that department myself.’ She looked at Sophia. ‘It’s all been embarrassingly public – I fainted on stage at Hay. Mortifying. Though, I have to say, being tuned in to the condition and symptoms as I feel I am now, I really didn’t perceive signs of heart trouble in Graham at all.’

  So that was her line, and she was sticking to it.

  Imogen shook her head. ‘The silent killer.’ And everyone looked at her. ‘Heart disease,’ she explained. Tabby didn’t look convinced.

  ‘And you, you,’ Nicholas was back on his feet again, pointing his thin little digit back at Cullen. ‘You said you could get into the mind of a killer. That you “could really understand the impulse to kill”. I think those were your words weren’t they?’

  Cullen grinned. ‘I cannot lie. I believe I am gifted in that area.’ A slow grin spread onto his cheeks.

  Both myself and Tabby shuddered. There was something a little demented in Cullen’s eyes. Laura took his hand, ‘For heaven’s sake Nicholas, Cullen is in possession of a fantastic imagination. That doesn’t mean he will act on it. I have written two books from the perspective of a killer and I am most certainly not one.’

  ‘So you say,’ said Sam to a chorus of shocked gasps.

  Casting doubt upon the moral stature of their leader hadn’t endeared him to the group. My colleague, however, remained unfazed and stood up. ‘I’m not pointing the finger, so to speak, but we’d like to speak to everyone individually.’

  Robin’s face was a study in contempt. ‘Ay am not speaking to you! Ay said my piece to the police.’ And he crossed his arms and turned away.

  Starla shook her turquoise head. ‘No way, no way.’

  It was starting to look like we might have a mutiny on our hands but then Tabby stood up. ‘I’ll do it.’

  And rather surprisingly, the big hulk man agreed. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Great,’ said Sam.

  Nicholas made a huffing noise and muttered something like ‘Amateurs, ridiculous.’

  So I said, ‘And we’ll be noting those who don’t cooperate.’

  Sam tapped Sophia on the shoulder. ‘Is there a room available?’

  ‘Well, er, I’m not sure …’

  Then Tabby piped up. ‘They’re here at the request of MI5. Do you really want to be obstructing a government office?’

  I thought she sent me a very brief wink.

  Sophia’s hands picked at a frayed thread on her cardigan. ‘Well, I suppose when you put it like that,’ she said. ‘There’s Graham’s office.’

  ‘It would be great if we could settle in there, then,’ said Sam. ‘So we can get to the bottom of all this.’

  As he spoke, there was a creak at the door, and a slim woman appeared in the doorway. ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, Margot,’ cried Aunt Tabby. ‘You look better now, dear. Come and sit down.’

  She was the same age as Tabby but seemed younger on account of a more stylish dress sense: a silk pashmina wrap was draped loosely over her cashmere jumper. She wore shapely bootcut indigo jeans. Tortoiseshell glasses complemented her caramel-coloured bob, which was sleek, glossy and straight. But there was a sense of frailty about her. As she crossed the room I noticed she had a slight limp and as she bent down to sit she winced. Aware of my gaze she explained, ‘Arthritis.’

  Tabby leant over, once Margot had levered herself into the chair, tapped her knee and said, ‘These people are Rosie and Sam from the Witch Museum. They’re going to sort out what’s been going on.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. In her hand she held a tissue which she dabbed at her left eye. ‘So terribly sad. Poor Graham.’

  Sophia finished her tea and stood up. ‘I suppose I should start on dinner. There’s quite a few of us. Any volunteers?’

  Jocelyn raised her hand. ‘I’ll come.’

  She was so helpful.

  Maybe too helpful.

  Perhaps there was something seething and nasty underneath all that superficial niceness.

  We should approach everyone with an open mind. Like Sam said, no one was above suspicion.

  There was a guzzling sound in a nearby pipe. I looked around to see where it had come from but couldn’t work it out. This place was old.

  Nicholas tore his scowl away from Cullen. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I’ll help.’

  ‘Yes, and me,’ said Starla. ‘I make a mean quinoa salad.’

  ‘Uh,’ said Nicholas. ‘I hope it’s got gluten in it?’

  I was with Nicholas on that and thought quinoa barely counted as food.

  Sophia got to her feet. ‘Great, thank you. I’ll show these fellows the study and then meet you in the kitchen in five.’

  At which point Sam clapped his hands. ‘Right. Let’s do it then,’ he said.

  I put our mugs on the wooden table and followed him out the door.

  We tick-tacked across the marble floor and turned left at the entrance porch, past a door clearly indicating a cloakroom and unisex WC. I could see up ahead the entrance into what looked like a large kitchen, dining area and conservatory, but we didn’t make it that far: Sophia turned right into a room that was considerably smaller than the last one we had sat in.

  Graham’s office contained a large impressive desk with a laptop and several folders. I went over to the window and peered into the gardens. How nice to have such a lot of land, I thought and looked up and down, noticing that this office and the WC next door appeared to be the single storey extension that had been built onto the main section of the house. Whoever had designed the add-on had done a good job of blending it in to the rest of the house.

  ‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ Sophia instructed.

  Someone behind her coughed. The manager spun round startled and said, ‘Oh hi,’ then moved to one side and out into the corridor and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. A small solitary figure lingered in the doorway.

  ‘Well, you probably should start with me,’ it said, and stepped into the light. Margot flicked her hair. ‘I’m happy to fill in the blanks.’

  It was unusual to have someone volunteer for inquisition although it did make sense: Margot had missed out on the earlier bout of hysteria and finger-pointing that the writers had entered into with such vigour.

  I looked at Sam who shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’

  Margot selected a small chaise underneath the window. She wriggled about for a bit then tucked a cushion under her back, slipped her shoes off and brought her feet up.

  I immediately felt like I should act like a shrink and was about to ask her what seemed to be the problem, when I remembered that we were investigating a sudden death which had upset this patient, I mean resident, quite a lot. It was therefore only right that gravity be the order of the day. Consequently, I made my mouth look neutral by forcing the ends down and bowed my head.

  Sam did another shrug then took the swivel chair behind the desk. This left the leather tub chair positioned between the chaise and desk, and a hardwood stool that was also a step ladder, doubtless used to reach the tops of the very high shelves lining three of the walls. A leaded window dominated the fourth. Beside it hung a painting, oils I think, from the choppy surface. It showed Ratchette Hall at its peak, centuries ago. It was much bigger then. Part of it was clearly Tudor, though I wasn’t sure that section still stood. Unless there was another wing tucked away round the back somewhere.

  Sam coughed uneasily and sent me a ‘What do we do now?’ glance. I was becoming aware that possibly we should have worked out our plan of action before we got here. Everything had happened pretty quickly though. A
nd to be honest we just hadn’t thought it through. But here we were at the request of Monty who had asked us to come over and ‘dig’. To find out about the other residents, see if anyone had a motive to stiff this Graham bloke, and investigate the possibility that dead marble carvings might be able to spring into life.

  So, I thought, be logical – start at the beginning. Let the digging commence.

  Sam was still looking clueless, so I asked him to get his pen out. ‘Do you mind taking notes while I question Margot?’

  He sent me a slip of a smile. It had relief sewn into it.

  My background in Benefit Fraud meant that I’d done this sort of work before. Once I’d fixed my mind on an outcome it was fairly easy for me to structure questions so that subjects dribbled out information. Often without an awareness that they were doing so.

  There was, however, something about Margot that sang ‘organised’ to me. Maybe it was the careful colour coordination of her outfit, the way the shades complemented her hair. The statement pashmina, that was undoubtedly expensive, the understated skirt. The crisp cut of her clothes that suited her willowy frame and were just tight enough in all the right places to show off her small but perfectly formed curves. That look would have taken years to perfect. It was impressive. I hope I looked like that whenever I got to, er, whatever age she was. Would it be impolite to ask? Yes probably.

  The notion of Margot’s competent management persisted and informed my first question which turned out to be, ‘So when did you book this course, Margot?’ Which was a surprise even to myself, though on reflection a good choice.

  Her pencilled eyebrows soared. She hadn’t expected that. ‘Oh, months ago,’ she drawled. There were hints of Finishing School or Ladies Academies woven into it. Maybe she’d been a thesp in a former life. Whatever – her voice, as Gatsby might have noted, was ‘full of money’.

  ‘When?’ I asked. I was sure she’d know.

  ‘May, I think. When the catalogue for the autumn and winter courses came out.’

  I looked at Sam who noted it. ‘And what attracted you to the course?’

  She nodded. She had expected this one. ‘Oh Ratchette Hall looked like a wonderful place. Elegant. Historic. Situated in picturesque grounds. So inspiring. And obviously the chance to get away from mundane everyday life … to write. What joy.’ She found her handkerchief and dabbed once more at an invisible tear. An unconscious tick of distress. ‘At least,’ she paused, ‘I imagined it would be joyful.’

  Sam nodded sympathetically. ‘Well, no one could have known …’ he watched her face. I registered gratitude for his words in it. I think he did too.

  ‘So,’ he continued, brightening his features. ‘What’s your book about? Indeed, is there a work in progress at all?’

  That was another good question. I hadn’t thought about that. Though it was plausible that the stories they were working on might tell us a bit about the character of those writing them. Smart old Sam. He elicited a good answer too.

  Margot glanced out the window. I followed her gaze and realised that the office took in the view of the side of the house and gardens. The gravel drive wound up and round the wall to a double garage at the rear. Beyond that the garden spread out, complete, I think with flower beds and lawns, though it was properly dark now. The dew had whipped up into twists of mist that currently hung over wet silvery grass. A thick jagged line of denser blackness suggested that the property was surrounded, or perhaps was cut out of, a copse. As far as I could see anyway. Things might be clearer tomorrow. See, I was already guessing that we would have to return. I couldn’t see us getting through all the writers tonight, and judging from the sounds coming out of the kitchen, dinner wasn’t going to be long. I considered the quinoa and sighed at the same time that Margot did. Though her exhalation was deeper felt than mine, with the touch of a moan entwined.

  Her eyes came off the view, such as it was, and swivelled back to us. ‘My story? Yes. It’s about a lost child,’ she said and picked up the amber pendant hanging from her neck.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sam start.

  Personally, I thought that subject matter was quite common. A lot of crime writers pushed the boundaries these days. You had to be original, I guess. Sometimes that meant shocking people. And none of it, I thought, was any worse than what went on in the real world. Sam should know that, what with the Witch Museum and history and all that malarkey. I mean, you should see some of the stuff we had going on just a few centuries ago. The things people did to each other in the name of God or holiness or just to please themselves. There was a whole wall of Inquisitional torture devices which were enough to make visitors’ eyes water and young men walk with a wince for at least five minutes after they’d passed them by.

  ‘Lost kids?’ I asked for clarity. ‘As in dead?’

  ‘Singular. And no not necessarily dead,’ said Margot. She let go of the pendant and clasped her hands together then hooked them over her good knee. The gesture was a little coquettish and I wondered briefly how she had looked when she was younger. Charming, I’m sure.

  ‘Abducted?’ I ventured.

  Sam flinched again. I couldn’t work out why. Was I being indelicate?

  Margot didn’t notice Sam’s reaction, which was a relief: we should keep her on side so the information flowed. I watched her smile thinly and brush her hair off her shoulders. ‘It’s an intense situation,’ she said. ‘Interesting. Brings out extremes. Changes people. Permanently. Don’t you think?’

  I thought that ‘interesting’ was not necessarily the word I’d use if that scenario ever unfolded in my life, and was about to answer neutrally when Margot poked her long manicured finger at the pair of us. ‘Do you have children?’

  Oh bloody hell, I thought, here we go again. Just because we were a man and woman hanging out together it didn’t mean we were an item. Why were people so narrow? I mean this was a work situation. Plenty of men and women worked together.

  Although it was entirely possible that Sam and I gave out a vibe. It had been clear, for quite a while, that we had chemistry. We just weren’t sure what to do with it. It could be explosive. We didn’t want to blow anything up and were reluctant to, well, talk about it. And because we hadn’t talked about it over the summer months, when I had had other things on my mind which needed my attention, the whole thing had become ‘unspoken’. We had consequently fallen into a routine full of stalemate and potential embarrassment, neither of us willing to make the first move. It had become the elephant in the room, on a broomstick, that followed us around wherever we went. We’d sort it though, I was sure. We just hadn’t found the right time yet.

  I shook my head hurriedly to dispel Margot’s assumption. ‘No. Our relationship’s not like that. More complicated.’

  Margot careered on anyway. She wasn’t really interested in us, you could tell. She was more absorbed by her plot and keen to tell us about it, so we could go ‘Oohhh ahhh – amazing.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, lifting her chin, ‘if you don’t have children then you can’t possibly understand the power of that situation.’ There was a whining strain to her voice, a kind of indignant condescension that I hadn’t noticed before. ‘It’s only when you have children that you realise your vulnerability.’

  Hmm, I thought, well if you make your target audience parents who’ve lost children then you’re not going to be on to a bestseller, dear. But I didn’t say anything.

  Though Sam did.

  ‘Actually,’ he cleared his throat and straightened up a bit, ‘I disagree.’ Which kind of surprised me. ‘You don’t need to be a parent to appreciate what it’s like to lose a child. If you ever have the misfortune to be involved with such a tragedy, no matter the relationship, it wouldn’t leave you.’

  That sounded like it had come from personal experience and whilst I would have liked to have pursued it, I thought we might get derailed down a ‘plot line’ tangent. Plus I couldn’t really see where it was getting us in terms of the recent
death.

  Margot began saying something about legacy, which I interrupted with, ‘What did you think of Graham?’ Time to bring things back on target.

  She stopped. For a moment I thought she was going to have a go at me, because a big nasty crease appeared in her forehead, but then she just smiled and looked pleasant again, readjusted the hem of her skirt in a straight line across her knee, and cocked her head to one side. ‘Oh of course. Sorry. Graham. Yes, well he was perfectly nice. I can’t see that anyone would have a reason to scare him like that. I’m convinced it is just an unfortunate case of Halloween tricks gone wrong. So sad. He seemed lovely. But after that big build-up of Laura’s we were all a little nervous. That’s why everyone drank so much yesterday, I think. Tension. I almost felt like we were waiting for something to happen. Do you ever get that feeling?’

  I did actually, but I thought it wise not to distract her.

  She was ploughing on anyway. ‘You could understand why the incident, when it happened, whatever it was, might have tipped Graham over the edge. What with the heart condition. Such a silly tragic accident,’ she finished with real sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You make a fair point. Nerves, stress. Not good for some medical conditions. Did you know Graham prior to the course?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said, eyes widening with indignation. ‘I’ve never been here before, have I? Why would I know him?’ She began moving her arms around in a most aerated manner. ‘I mean, he was an administrator. I don’t mix with those kinds of people in my everyday life.’

  Sam leant forward and put his arms on the desk. ‘What kind of people do you mean, Margot?’

  She straightened her back and fluttered a hand to her neck. ‘Literary types.’

  I wasn’t sure if she actually meant that or had accidentally revealed her attitude to us ‘below-stairs’ types.

  ‘That’s why I’m here, of course.’ She smiled with guile. ‘I didn’t know him.’ Then her voice rose. ‘Really, I didn’t!’

  Sam softened. ‘We’re not accusing you, Margot. We’re ascertaining a foundation of facts.’ He glanced at me.