“Tunnel tie.” Lord Kirkbride wiggled the one in his right hand. “Bedroom tie.” He wiggled the left. “The tunnel tie is the …” He grimaced. “… murder weapon. It must be. Ree—Anna, I mean—found it next to Oliver’s body.” He nodded to Anna. “But which one is the one Max brought down to the terrace Saturday evening for Tom to do a magic trick? Which one is really mine?”
“The tags are slightly different.” Jane turned each tie over. “Same manufacturer, slightly different script in the needlework, I’d say, but—”
“I’ve never paid any attention to the writing on the tags.”
“I thought not. Who would?”
“I’m not sure I could tell you who’s made any of my ties. I know where I’ve bought some of them, but that’s no help, I don’t think. I might have brought either of these ties with me to Eggescombe.”
“You’d know where these came from, darling. They’re school ties.”
“That’s true. Mummy would take us to Gorringes to get kitted out, so the tie may have come from there—or it might have come from the shop at the school, but I’m not sure how that might be helpful in identification.”
“Forensics might prove useful.” Tom continued to study the neckware.
“Cloth has no value for fingerprints,” Jane said, “but DNA analysis might be revealing.”
“But I know my tie—whichever of these is mine—had been touched by many hands. Mine, yours, Jane’s—you handed it to me when we were packing last week—Gaunt when he unpacked our clothes, Max when he retrieved the tie, you, Tom, when Max gave you the tie, yes? Dominic when he was being silly and put it around his waist, Oliver himself when … well, you know. Perhaps Mrs. Gaunt when she was tidying the next day, and who knows who else? Maxie doesn’t seem to remember where he left it. Anyone might have handled it when we were in the drawing room Saturday evening toasting Oliver’s engagement. I’m not sure how narrowing this will be for investigators.
“And then there’s the other tie. Who knows what information it might yield up? And whose damned tie is it anyway? The only other Old Salopian here at Eggescombe is Oliver. And as he’s unlikely to shed any light on this …”
“Still, darling, forensics might yield up something.”
“Yes, of course. I must hand them over soon. The police’ll be displeased I’ve kept them this long.”
Tom passed his eyes from one stripey strip of cloth to the other. A glimpse of his own school tie, still tucked in a drawer at Dosh and Kate’s in Gravesend, always brought back to him feelings of nostalgia—because he loved his school days—and relief, because he didn’t have to wear the bloody silly thing anymore. (Though priesthood had conferred on him a different sort of neckwear.) Outside the school gates most days, he and his mates would whip their ties off and tie them around their heads. Once you were done with your school years, the only occasion to wear a school tie was at an old boys’ event, as Jamie had done at Exeter; otherwise school ties fell by the wayside like comic books and roller skates. And yet, someone at Eggescombe other than Jamie, for some reason, was in possession of a Shrewsbury tie. Tom gave them both a last glance before Jamie rolled them back into his trouser pockets.
“Odd,” he said, nostalgia replaced by revulsion, “somehow, it all feels like sleight of hand.”
“Did you not see or hear anything?” Tom asked. They had moved into the back garden, Roberto’s death fresh in their heads.
Anna hesitated. “No.”
“You’re certain.”
“I’d not been in the tack room long when you and Jane arrived. I knew you were coming to tea, but, as I said earlier, I wanted to stay out of the way. I had no idea you would take the tunnel.”
Tom studied her expression. Was she prevaricating? Who at Eggescombe would Anna be most likely to shield from scrutiny? John, of course, her lover. Was she keeping from them his true whereabouts? Had she glimpsed him at the stables? It seemed unlikely, so un-John-like, sneaking about. He gave Anna a small smile to disguise his fervid thinking. It was Hector his mind glanced on next. Hector, whom he had seen dashing across the great hall, then, a little later, arriving out of breath, in the estate office. Granted, he had been in trainers and running kit; it was the queer timing, this run in the noonday sun. If Anna had glimpsed Hector at the stables, would she keep silent? Hector’s mother, the dowager countess, was her great protector.
A silence fell, broken only by the rustle of a rising breeze high in the sycamores beyond the courtyard. If anyone remained wedded to the notion that a stranger to Eggescombe had brought mayhem this weekend, that notion had died with Roberto Sica. Tom’s mind roved further: Where had Lucinda and Dominic spent the last several hours? By the pool, as they said they were to do? And the staff, Gaunt and his missus? What were their routines and how, on this afternoon, might they have diverged? Even the reclusive Georgina, who seemed to have abandoned her family and guests? Did her migraines preempt any agency? And what of the police? Roberto’s death sent them back to square one, he knew that, despite DS Blessing’s reticence.
He looked again at Anna. “If I may ask, why did you leave Abbotswick this morning and come here? Marguerite said she hadn’t been expecting you.”
Anna pushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “I had to get away. A reporter from one of the London papers was being an utter pest. The others either loitered by the Gatehouse or holed up at the Pilgrims, but this one was nearly camped on our cottage doorstep.”
“Andrew Macgreevy.” Jane’s lips twisted.
“That’s the name. How did you know?”
“He’s sort of my bad penny.”
“He did introduce himself. He professed interest in David’s death.”
“He’s always been a dog with a bone.”
“You know him well?”
“Well, for one thing, he was an ongoing presence during the brief investigation into Boysie’s death and during John’s trial in Aberdeen.”
“And,” Tom added, “he appeared in Thornford last year after an unhappy death in the village.”
“Him!” Anna snapped. “Then he’s the man John thought might expose him in the press, and expose us to the red-haired man—to William’s true killer. We lived on tenterhooks for months, but nothing—”
“My wife’s doing,” Jamie said.
“I know he comes across as the worst sort, but Macgreevy has his moments.” Jane worried a fingernail. “He contacted me last year in London, during the incident that Tom mentioned—the one where a young woman was found dead in a taiko drum—saying that he had located John in Thornford. He gave me his word he would not write anything until John had been … restored to us, to the family. And then, of course, John vanished. Andrew’s kept his word in the meantime, but …”
“He must recall a sister and brother at Tullochbrae with a situation similar to yours, Ree,” Jamie said. “He’s put two and two together.”
“Perhaps he can be useful—Andrew, I mean,” Jane murmured.
“Darling, have you lost your mind? I want John to come home of his own accord, not be run to ground by the gutter press.”
“Yes, but my idea is to deflect Macgreevy’s attention—away from John. Not by setting him on some wild goose chase”—Jane addressed Anna—“but towards proof of Oliver’s criminal behaviour. The police seem to have had little success in finding your brother’s killer, haven’t they? And now all their resources have shifted to investigating Oliver’s death. If Andrew had an inkling that Oliver was the hit-and-run driver—”
“But oughtn’t we rightly to tell the police what Anna has told us?” Tom interrupted.
“The vicar’s correct, darling,” Jamie said. “It’s a police matter.”
“No, no! Jane is right,” Anna cried. “If we tell the police everything now, they’ll suspect John of Morborne’s death right away. And maybe Roberto’s.” Her face pinched. “That he’s … gone off somewhere only makes him look guilty.”
“He’s not guilty,” Jane declared. “
The last time, when Boysie was killed, John gave himself up immediately, and he was innocent.” To Tom and Jamie, she added, “Let’s give John a little time. He’ll come back. Of course he will.”
Tom caught a flick of uncertainty in her voice. He glanced at Jamie, whose lips had pinched to a thin line.
“Besides,” Jane continued, noting their doubt, “if the police chase after John, the papers will, too. On the other hand, if Macgreevy chases after John and The Sun prints a story, the police will get the wind up and they’ll be manhunting John. However, getting Andrew chasing after Oliver as hit-and-run driver will keep him out of our hair, and he may find the proof that the police need.” Jane tapped her forehead. “Genius, don’t you think?”
Jamie gave her a sidelong glance. “Perhaps. But how might Olly have arranged it?”
“The hit and run? If he arranged it,” Jane responded. “He might have simply taken the chance when he saw it. Sorry, Anna, if this is disturbing to you.”
“But, darling, his hire car, in the Hall’s forecourt, is pristine.”
“Jamie, he set out from London in his silly Cadillac and it broke down—he said—in Salisbury.”
“Which could be true.”
“But that doesn’t mean the hire car here is the one he hired in Salisbury. Hector! Hector knows something, I’m sure. Remember, Jamie, when we arrived on Thursday, Hector talking in the forecourt with a uniformed policeman—PC Widger? Hector said later it had something to do with Saturday’s constituency meeting, but when Bliss and Blessing interviewed us in the great hall yesterday, Hector was strangely forgetful about PC Widger’s mission that day, which was examining cars on behalf of the hit-and-run investigation.”
“Darling, no. Hector’s a busy man. He can’t remember everything. You’re getting a bit carried away, don’t you think?” He glanced at Tom as if seeking moral support.
“Stolen a car?” Tom supplied.
“It would have to be an older model,” Jamie said. “Cars are such bloody complicated machines now. Hard to break into.”
“This can’t be that difficult.” Jane continued on her own track. “The investigators just haven’t given David’s death priority. Oliver had another car—a car in between his Cadillac and the car here at Eggescombe—which he … destroyed, or something, to cover up what he had done. He was Oliver Quinton fforde-Beckett—clever, amoral, selfish, destructive Olly—of course he would get away with it! It’s all so suspicious. Olly never did lazy days in the countryside. He worked all the time. He rarely participated in the Leaping Lords, did he, Jamie?”
“Well, not this year. He wasn’t at a practice this year, I don’t think. And he missed the charity event we did last month in Yorkshire. I’m not sure how current his logbook would have been.”
“So on this occasion, he leaves his fiancée in London and drives down to Devon days in advance—to do what?”
“Darling, it’s too tawdry.”
“Jamie, your cousin’s done worse, much worse.”
“Of course. You’re right. Good Lord, Oliver must have been desperate. What on earth drove him to kill Boysie in the first place?”
“I don’t mean to interrupt.” Marguerite put her head around the door. “But your housekeeper has arrived at last, Tom. I’d invited her to your birthday tea. And she’s with Mrs. Gaunt. They’re both in a bit of a state, I would say, and asking for you.”
Startled, but not concerned, Tom followed Lady Fairhaven back into the dower house through the mudroom. An empty hook claimed his attention. He had earlier asked Miranda to affirm that the ghost she had seen had been wearing white, not red. Now, breathlessly, as they were moving with some urgency, he said:
“I must ask you this, Marguerite, while it’s on my mind: The red jacket that was hanging here Sunday morning, when Jane and I visited you—that’s the one the police removed earlier today, yes?”
“Yes.” Marguerite drew the word out.
“But Roberto wasn’t wearing anything red, if he was the ‘ghost’ my daughter saw on the lawn that night.”
Marguerite halted in her stride. A murmur of voices drifted from the corridor. She studied his face a moment. Hers was a study in resolve. “I had to choose, you see,” she said finally.
“I don’t quite understand.”
“Anna wore the jacket, the hoodie, whatever it’s called. I lent it to her in the spring on a day that had turned suddenly chilly. She forgot to bring it back and it completely slipped my mind. It’s Roberto’s. It’s an old Arsenal jacket. Roberto is … was mad about football, rugby—all that. But he wasn’t missing the jacket. On Sunday, when Anna went chasing after Oliver, she put it on against the cool of the morning.”
“But, Marguerite, why didn’t you tell the police that Anna has been wearing it, not Roberto?”
“I couldn’t. I have no idea why the investigators had glommed onto the hoodie, but I couldn’t tell them Anna had been wearing it yesterday morning. Any mention of Anna leads quickly to John, don’t you think? And Anna has suffered too, too terribly in the last week.”
“Would Roberto have known you’d lent the hoodie to Anna?”
“I’m not sure. And, of course, I can’t know now.”
Tom bit his lip. “You’ve made a kind of sacrifice, I think.”
“I assumed Roberto would bear up. He was a big boy. I know he had every reason to loathe Oliver, but I didn’t think—”
“I don’t mean sacrificing Roberto. I mean sacrificing something of your own, something more … fragile.”
“Ah.” Marguerite’s lips wavered into the shadow of a smile. “I understand. Well, my dear man, I would have been a fool if I imagined it would last forever. And in the end, it didn’t. But not in quite the way I imagined.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
With growing impatience, Tom rubbed his thumb and forefinger over a waxy leaf from the potted orange tree nearest his hand, breathing in the pungent graveyard scent of upturned soil and damp foliage. Lady Fairhaven had suggested the conservatory for privacy, believing perhaps that plants living their faithful silent lives would be somehow restorative, but Tom felt the warm moist air settling along his skin more as a smothering shroud than a warm and welcoming blanket. With the afternoon ceding the sun to gathering cloud, the sky seemed to fall towards the glass panes, amplifying the sensation of confinement. The plants along the periphery fused to form a dense shadowy tangle. He might be in a walled garden at dusk, all colour leached away, but for an oasis of light wrought by a fat bulb below a lazily turning fan high in the glass dome. Under this tiny sun, the nearest leaves and branches, tendrils and petals, emerald bright, pink and orange and red, visibly curled and crept and twisted and surged forth as if in arrested attack. It was among them, in a green nook, on one of two facing white cane chairs, that Tom waited for Ellen Gaunt to speak. Madrun had stepped into the conservatory with them, but Ellen had asked if she might be alone with the vicar. He had accommodated her bowed head and silence for several moments, sensing her summoning the strength for some vital and immanent exchange. Finally, she raised her eyes from her lap where her clasped hands had been pressing against the soft folds of her white blouse, as if she were trying, literally but ineffectively, to hold herself in.
“My Mick did it, Mr. Christmas.”
In her eyes, in the glittering black pupils, Tom could see a mixture of horror, entreaty, and disbelief, shocking as much for its intensity as for its actuality. His heart went out to her. There was no need to ask, Did what?
“Can you be certain, Mrs. Gaunt?” he asked gently, removing his hand from the orange tree. “Surely your husband had no business at the stables this afternoon.”
She stared at him with mute puzzlement.
After a second, the penny dropped. “Oh, Mrs. Gaunt. You don’t know, do you?”
“I know there was an accident, Vicar.”
“Mr. Sica’s death doesn’t appear to be an accident.”
Ellen’s hands flew to her mouth. “No! You can’t
mean—?”
“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Gaunt. Police believe the electrocution deliberate.” He paused as Ellen digested this newest horror. “When you referred to your husband … doing it, you meant, of course, Lord Morborne.”
“Yes,” she replied softly.
“Mrs. Gaunt, look at me. Did your husband tell you that he did? Did he say, I strangled Lord Morborne?”
She blinked. “No.”
“But clearly something has brought you to that conclusion.”
“My husband wasn’t in our bed when I woke Sunday morning, Mr. Christmas.”
“I’m not sure I see the—”
“I always rise first, always. Always have. When I opened my eyes I could see him leaving our bedroom in the Gatehouse, in the T-shirt he wears to bed—not his suit, as he would properly wear, you see.”
“Yes, but—”
“And when I opened the door to the Gatehouse to go up to the Hall to start cooking breakfast, there he was! Oh, Mr. Christmas, the look on his face. I can’t describe it. And he couldn’t speak, couldn’t get any words out. He dashed past me, up the stairs. I’ve never seen him in such a panic. I knew something was horribly wrong, but …”
“Duty called?”
She acknowledged the truth with a little nod. “Then, later, you arrived in the staff quarters, Mr. Christmas, and said that Lord Morborne had died, been murdered, I …”
“Has Mr. Gaunt a … history of violence?”
Ellen seemed to stare through him. “No. No, he doesn’t—a mercy given what his father was like. But that look on his face! And then when he did arrive at the Hall to begin work, he asked me … told me not to say anything. To say, if I was asked, that we’d spent all night in the Gatehouse, as usual, that I’d gone up to the Hall at the usual hour and that he’d followed later, after he’d fetched the newspapers from the village shop as he’s done since we’ve been here—that we honed to our usual routines.”
Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) Page 31