The Art of Murder (Harriet Quigley Mystery)

by Nicola Slade

Across the room Harriet could see Fiona’s curly grey head bent over her clipboard as she ticked off names, and beside her was Jess Tyndall, leggy as a giraffe, her mahogany-tinted hair plaited into a suitably Arthurian crown. The hair-do went well with Jess’s olive-green tunic belted over grey leggings and high leather boots. She was industriously scribbling in a notebook and Harriet winced at the thought of more poems, and then suffered a pang of remorse. Who did she think she was to sneer at something that gave the other woman such pleasure?

  Fiona was counting heads and Harriet sympathised. However difficult the weekend might be, Fiona would cope. Just as she’d coped while teaching countless children and with a husband whose career took him all over the world at a moment’s notice leaving her in sole charge of their three boys.

  Harriet had known and liked her friend for more than 25 years. Even though her offspring had flown the nest with the recent departure of the youngest to university, her husband was still working abroad and here was Fiona, still being efficient and still teaching three days a week.

  Sam sauntered over to where his cousin lingered near the door into the hall.

  ‘Fill me in,’ he leaned over to whisper. ‘They’re not all from the village I think you said? I’ve met a couple of them before but some are complete strangers.’

  ‘Jess Tyndall’s a newish acquaintance,’ Harriet replied. ‘She’s the one with the King Arthur complex and a house called Camelot. Yes, really! I only met her last year when I moved to Locksley village and she seems friendly. She had to give up nursing last year, a bad back, and Fiona says she’s very eco-minded. I heard the other day that she’s into crafts – weaving, spinning, that sort of thing. Oh yes …’ Harriet stifled a giggle and Sam raised a curious eyebrow, ‘… I nearly forgot, she’s invited me to join her poetry group, but I’ve managed to avoid it so far.’

  ‘That bad, huh?’ Sam looked with renewed interest at the local poet. ‘Moon and June? Do you suppose she’ll ask me?’

  ‘Bound to,’ Harriet grinned at him. ‘I’ve hedged her off so far by telling her I was a history buff, not an English teacher. Anyway, she likes to think she’s a bit of a Tennyson, got a thing for the Round Table and all the knights. There are no nodding daffodils or gazing at the moon for her, she likes to – and I quote – ‘experiment with the various forms of language’ which apparently means she makes up her own words so that the reader can ‘take what he or she needs’ from the narrative. She also throws in phrases, ‘collages’ she calls them, regardless of context.’

  Sam rolled his eyes and Harriet carried on. ‘She seems very pleasant so good luck to her, but the trouble is, although her stuff rolls off the tongue in quite a Tennyson-ish way, it mostly doesn’t make sense. I’ve read some of her outpourings.’ She screwed up her face as she tried to recall some of Jess’s work. ‘Hang on, she pressed one on me the other day and the first few lines of the damned thing burrowed into my brain. Have a listen to this:

  “Ogival dragons lost in long and lucent spandrels,

  Evocations of the ardent darkling deep …”

  ‘Wait …’ Harriet shook her head as Sam’s face creased in a smile, ‘… I’ve forgotten the next bit, I thought it was burned into my consciousness, but – oh damn, here we go:

  “Trace margins on the golden midnight lightning

  And lo! in fastness and in turret, maidens weep.”

  Sam let slip a snort of laughter. ‘Hmm, never mind the maidens. I think I’d weep if I had to hear much more of that. To be fair, though, it’s got a nice tum-te-tum rhythm but it doesn’t make sense. Those are architectural terms, “ogival” and “spandrels”, in connection with Gothic windows, nothing to do with dragons …’

  Jess bore down on Sam at that point and began to tell him how much he would enjoy her poetry circle so Harriet turned to look round at the other members of the new art group. Now there’s a surprise, she thought, as she spotted a good-looking, 40-something man with dark, curly hair, wearing slim black trousers and a black open-necked shirt. He was lurking by the long window that looked out to the front drive and she observed him under her eyelashes. I haven’t seen him round the village. I wonder if he’s local? He’s a good decade or two younger than most of us here and he’ll be sought after if he’s going to take up with the art lot. There aren’t many handsome men to the pound in Locksley. Pity he looked terrified and clearly just wanted to escape but before he could hide behind the curtain she caught his eye and strolled over to talk to him. Harriet knew that strangers often found her intimidating so she introduced herself, chatting until he relaxed.

  His name was Tim Nicholls and after some gentle prompting he told her how he’d found out about the weekend.

  ‘I’m a solicitor, it’s a family firm. My secretary wrote down the details after she spotted something in a newsletter in the library,’ he confided. ‘She knows I’d like to get to know more people. I’ve been out of things since I sold my place and moved in with my elderly father a couple of years ago – he was too frail to live on his own. He died recently and I’ve been too busy at work to have a social life.’

  Her smile was encouraging so he explained. ‘I liked the idea of joining an art class. I did Art at A-level and I’ve had a hankering to take it up again, so on impulse I rang the number.’ He glanced across the room at Fiona. ‘She was so friendly and sympathetic,’ he said. ‘I told her about my life being on hold until recently and that I’m renting while I look for somewhere more in the country, now I’ve sold Dad’s house.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be an asset to the group,’ Harriet told him warmly and was touched to see him blush. ‘This weekend will be a good introduction for you.’

  He broke off as they heard a stir in the entrance hall. Tim swore: ‘Oh God, it’s that bloody awful woman.’

  ‘You know her?’ Harriet was surprised at the shock visible in his face.

  ‘No, no,’ he muttered, obviously back-tracking. ‘Thought it was someone else,’ and when Harriet turned to look at the newcomer, Tim melted into the background. She had no time to consider this because she spotted Jess Tyndall reacting in much the same way. As Harriet watched, Jess’s eyes suddenly narrowed under frowning brows as she stared at the woman on the threshold. At the same time Harriet heard a sharp gasp of dismay from closer at hand, from a skinny, middle-aged woman whose orange hair was tied back in a bunch. Harriet had recognised her earlier, with a nod and a smile, as a resident of Locksley village.

  Curiouser and curiouser, she thought, but there was no time to reflect. The newcomer limped into the room, leaning on a stick, with a bandage visible on one leg, below her trousers.

  ‘I’m glad to see everyone has turned up.’ Her voice was light, her smile charming, but Harriet thought her flickering glance round the room betrayed a nervous state.

  Fiona, who had been staring at her, closed her mouth. ‘What on earth happened, Linzi? What have you done to your leg? Are you all right?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Linzi Bray spoke sharply then shook her head with a sigh. ‘Don’t let’s talk about me. I had a bit of fall the other day and bruised myself, but I’ll be quite all right.’

  She put a hand to her eyes then smiled bravely as she nodded to everyone. ‘By the way …’ she said, turning to Fiona, ‘I hope to goodness you’ve thoroughly checked out my room.’ It was a whispered aside that nevertheless reached Harriet, though by now Sam had moved just out of earshot. ‘I know these people are absolutely lovely but they don’t have a track record, after all, and I have to be so careful about where I sleep. It’s vital that I don’t sleep in damp sheets, I could catch pneumonia.’

  Harriet knew Eve Paget was nearby and she wondered if Linzi realised just how far her voice, soft and pretty as it was, carried. The newcomer’s attention was all on Fiona and she laid a slender hand on Fiona’s arm as she added: ‘I’m sure our kind hostess won’t allow that to happen.’

  She smiled sweetly as she looked round at the rest of the art weekenders who were tidily but ca
sually dressed in contrast to her dainty elegance, all cream cashmere in matching sweater and trousers, perfect make-up and immaculate hair in natural-looking red-gold waves. With her insider knowledge Harriet had no trouble detecting a brittleness to Linzi Bray’s manner: dark shadows under her eyes and a tightening of her lips when she stopped speaking. Fiona had been right when she said the woman looked ill. She kept glancing round the room and Harriet thought she looked ghastly under the make-up.

  Eve Paget had noticeably sucked in a breath at the mention of damp sheets and she, too, had been close enough to hear the whispered remarks that followed. She stiffened before brushing past Harriet as she moved towards her latest guest.

  ‘Oh, Eve, there you are. Getting excited about the weekend?’ Linzi took the other woman’s hand in hers, her voice caressing. ‘I’m sure it’ll be a success and we’ll excuse you if there are any hitches.’ She fiddled with her bag. ‘Of course, I did ring you this morning, to change my room. I can’t manage the stairs at the moment, not with my ankle. I do hope it’s not too poky.’

  To Harriet’s astonishment this studied rudeness was delivered in a sweet, conversational tone accompanied by a smile and fluttering gestures of her hands.

  Eve stopped in her tracks on the drawing room threshold and did a double-take, but before she could retort Linzi glanced at her and tilted her head in surprise at the expression on her hostess’s face. She made one of the turnarounds that Fiona had mentioned as, with a melting smile, she limped closer to Eve. ‘Oh, heavens, I’ve done it again, haven’t I. I’m so sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to sound such a fusspot. Do forgive me. I can’t bear to be a nuisance and now this silly accident …’ Her face darkened briefly but the smile was back in place almost at once. ‘Even without that, I’m afraid my health is rather delicate.’ She reached out a hand and patted Eve on the arm. ‘There now, we’re friends again, aren’t we?’

  ‘I did explain when we discussed the weekend initially,’ Eve was professional and stiffly polite. ‘We don’t have any ground-floor rooms but after you phoned this morning I changed things round. The one I’ve allocated to you was originally the morning room. It’s just a few stairs up from the hall, with a lovely wooden handrail, and wide, shallow steps, very easy to negotiate.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you did say. It’s such an imposing staircase. I simply love that elegant curve.’ As she turned to leave the drawing room she halted and looked back at her hostess with a deprecating smile. ‘Oh, Eve, I must just check. You haven’t forgotten about my allergies, have you, dear? Or that I’m vegetarian?’

  ‘It’s all under control,’ Eve spoke slowly, her voice tight with suppressed anger. ‘You told me you were allergic to dust and mould, to citrus fruits, to peanuts and to dairy. I explained at our initial discussion that this house is cleaned every day and every room has allergy-resistant bedding. I personally gave your room an extra-thorough damp-clean today when you rang me, and a vegetarian meal poses no problem. I can guarantee that it will contain none of the items you mentioned.’ She took a deep breath and kept her voice level. ‘Although it’s possible that there may be nuts and dairy products on the main menu, my husband will make very sure that your own food will be kept strictly apart.’

  ‘How sweet you are; we’ll just have to hope that will be enough.’ Linzi smiled and turned away, adding: ‘Now, would it be possible, do you think, for me to have a cup of tea in my room in ten minutes? China, not Indian, please. I’m a terrible nuisance, I know, but I’m afraid tannin does me no good at all.’ She scanned the room appraisingly and then she paused, big brown eyes widening, as her gaze rested on Sam who came over to his cousin’s side.

  ‘Why, who’s this?’ Her smile was delightful as she nodded a greeting and after a moment’s hesitation she left the doorway and limped across the room.

  ‘A new face, what a pleasant surprise.’ She held out her beautifully manicured hand. ‘Let me introduce myself, I’m Linzi Bray. You are?’

  ‘Sam Hathaway.’ He had to stoop, she was built on miniature lines. ‘My cousin Harriet and I are late substitutes but I’m afraid neither of us is much of an artist.’

  His cousin was amused, but not at all surprised, to see that Sam was succumbing to Linzi’s charms. Slight, very pretty, she sparkled as she smiled up at him admiringly, keeping his hand in hers.

  ‘I’m sure you’re being modest,’ she told him, letting go with a flattering show of reluctance as she turned to nod pleasantly, but less effusively, to Harriet. ‘We’ll talk some more, Sam,’ she told him, reaching once more for his hand and holding it in both of her own. ‘I may call you Sam? I know who you are now. You’ve saved the weekend for us all. I’ll arrange a little dinner next week so we can get to know each other better. I’m simply dying to be friends.’

  ‘Are we all here now?’ Fiona was checking the list on her clipboard but Linzi dropped Sam’s hand again with a flutter of eyelashes and took over.

  ‘I’m sure Fiona’s done her job properly, but I’m such a perfectionist, I do like to check up on everything.’ She included them all in her smile. ‘I’m a bit frail today, so bear with me. You should each have a timetable of the weekend’s activities and you’ll need to familiarise yourselves with it. We’re on a tight schedule after all. Now …’ she beckoned to Fiona who was, Harriet could tell, biting her tongue in an effort to maintain her sympathy for Linzi’s predicament, ‘… come with me.’ The hand she laid on Fiona’s arm was shaking slightly but she rallied. ‘It would be such a help if you’d take me to see my room and help me up those stairs. I’m anxious to check that there’s no mould in the bathroom; it can make my allergies so much worse.’

  Fiona stalked out of the room, her back ramrod-straight, a reluctant arm held out to support her bugbear. Intrigued, Harriet drifted after her, leaving Sam chatting to one of the other newcomers.

  At the door Linzi looked back and beckoned. ‘Madeleine, you’d better come too, dear,’ she said and there was an anxious note in her voice that contrasted sharply with the earlier honeyed tones. It brooked no refusal. ‘I’m so sorry, but I’ll need some help with my unpacking, can you help? I’m such a nuisance.’

  The discouraged-looking woman with orange hair was, Harriet remembered, Madeleine Durham, who did several voluntary sessions at the community-run village shop. She choked trying to drink her tea quickly and hastened to obey.

  ‘Goodness,’ it was Sam at Harriet’s side, shaking his head and looking slightly dazed. ‘So that’s Fiona’s femme fatale? What nonsense, she’s charming. I imagine it’s jealousy at the root of their griping. She’s very appealing, rather vulnerable and sweet, and brave about what was clearly a painful accident. I hope there’ll be no bitching this weekend. I’ve seen enough cat-fights and squabbles in my time to make me turn Trappist.’

  Harriet made a wry face. ‘Linzi’s very attractive,’ she said mildly, ‘even I felt it, though she’s seems nervy. Mind you, I can see only too clearly why the local women lock up their husbands.’

  ‘That’s a thoroughly uncharitable remark,’ he looked down his nose in pious reproof. ‘Even if it were true, I’m far too fly to get myself tangled up in any siren’s toils.’ He was staring after Linzi so he failed to notice his cousin’s cynical grin, hastily wiped off her face as he turned back to add: ‘I don’t think I’ve come across her before. I’m sure I’d have remembered.’

  ‘From what I observed you’ll have plenty of opportunity to get to know her. Be careful, Sam,’ Harriet warned, veiling her amusement, ‘I’m sure I’ve seen her name and photograph in the local papers. Apparently she’s heavily into fundraising and goes to all the posh charity functions.’

  Harriet wondered suddenly whether there might be a clue to the alleged stalker there. It was possible, she supposed, that someone, perhaps a little unbalanced, could have read the same reports and been seized with resentment at a stranger’s good fortune. ‘Don’t forget, Sam,’ she touched his arm affectionately, ‘we’ve both been out of things lately. You’ve
been … busy,’ she hurried on, reluctant to remind him of his quiet withdrawal from social activities since his wife’s untimely death, though he was coming out of his darkness now. ‘I’ve not been anywhere much either in the last couple of years, what with Mother being so ill and then my move to the village. We’re out of touch with what goes on.

  ‘Fiona says Linzi moved to Winchester about two years ago and has thrown herself into all kinds of social and fundraising events, particularly since the husband walked out. Of course, she has pots of money, so naturally she’s always wel—’

  She halted abruptly as two more guests arrived, jostling in the doorway for pole position as they squabbled over who should go first. The woman won and was preceded into the room by her nose, with her low-slung bosom a close second.

  She was in her 60s, medium height, not fat but very solidly built, with a shiny, apple-cheeked face on which the prominent nose looked distressingly out of proportion. She had a self-important bottom and even in the throes of horrified recognition Harriet was struck by the thought that you could comfortably balance a tea-tray on that backside. The woman advanced into the room, teeth bared and dazzling, her face surrounded by an unrestrained frizz of grey hair that reached halfway down her back. She flicked her mane from side to side like an over-excited Shetland pony as, clad in a voluminous smock affair that failed to disguise the aforesaid bottom and imperfectly restrained bosom, she surged forward. Her lanky, balding, spouse trailed disconsolately behind her.

  ‘Harriet?’ Sam followed her gaze and glanced back at her as she managed to subdue the shock he had seen clearly etched on her face. ‘Who are they?’ he hissed.

  ‘Tell you later … Goodness, what a surprise!’ She managed a polite smile as the woman advanced with an outstretched hand. ‘I didn’t realise you were a member of the art group.’ She suffered a limp handshake and made the introductions. ‘This is my cousin Sam Hathaway,’ she murmured. ‘Sam, this is Clare Smith who lived down the road from Mother years ago, back when I was still working in London.’