by Frank Smith
‘Not much, I’m afraid. Couldn’t find any prints on the weapon. It’s gone to the lab for further examination, but I doubt if they’ll get much off it. I don’t know if the killer wore gloves or wrapped the handle in something like a cloth, but there was a smear of what looks like fresh green paint on the handle, and that might tell us something.’
Green? Paget’s thoughts flashed to the house. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said. ‘You might try taking a sample from the hallway between the side door of the manor and the kitchen. The paint was still a bit wet when we were there last night, and if it does match, it could suggest that our killer came from inside the house rather than outside. Anything else? What about the suitcase and the carryall? Anything there?’
‘Everything was pulled out and scattered around, as you probably saw last night,’ Grace said, ‘but I don’t think the killer found what he was looking for, although he didn’t spend much time on her bag of dirty laundry.’ Grace pointed to a large evidence bag containing a smaller plastic bag. ‘It was open and he probably looked inside, but when he realized it was underwear that needed washing, he left it alone.
‘But I didn’t,’ she said smugly, ‘and I found these.’ She plunged a hand in one of the pockets in her white suit, and pulled out a glassine envelope and held it up. ‘Take a look at these little beauties. They were tied up in her tights and knickers. Two rings, a chain bracelet, a necklace and two pairs of earrings. You might want to ask them at the manor if they can identify them, because judging by what you told me this morning about the girl, I doubt if they belonged to her.’
Paget held the bag up to the light and whistled softly. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. He started to slip it into his pocket, but Grace’s hand shot out to grasp his arm.
‘Not so fast,’ she told him. ‘You’re not leaving here without signing on the dotted line for that lot.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘Don’t trust anyone when it comes to evidence,’ she said with a grin, ‘especially coppers, and that’s a direct quote from Charlie.’ Grace produced a receipt book. ‘So let’s have your autograph, Chief Inspector. And remember, they have been recorded and photographed.’
‘Was there anything else?’ he asked when Grace had finished listing the items on the receipt.
‘About the only other thing of interest was a minute quantity of a white powder, wrapped in a twist of paper at the bottom of her handbag, which I’m pretty sure will turn out to be cocaine,’ she said as he scribbled his name and handed the book back to her.
Paget wasn’t surprised, considering the picture of Antonia Halliday that had begun to form in his mind, and it might go a long way to explaining her behaviour. ‘What about the scene outside the barn? Anything there, yet?’
‘Several things,’ Grace told him. ‘We found shards of glass from a car’s back-up light next to the rusty old water tank out there, which is where Major Farnsworth was found. We found paint from the car on one of the pipes as well as on the side of the tank itself, so between that and the glass, we’re hoping that Forensic can come up with a make and model of the car. It looks as if the car backed into the water tank and the major at the same time, then spun its wheels before taking off down the track. There is one identifiable tyre impression close to the barn, where it was sheltered from the rain, but there is no way of knowing when it was made or if it has anything to do with the crime. Just about everything else was destroyed by the rain.’
‘Have you checked the tyre impression you do have with any of the cars belonging to the manor?’
‘Yes. The housekeeper gave us the key to the garages, but none of the tyres match our impression. Mrs Bromley’s car is normally garaged here, but I was told it was impounded in Clunbridge yesterday after it was involved in an accident. So, assuming Miss Halliday was waiting here to be picked up by car, the tyre impression and the glass could have come from the car that came to pick her up. We didn’t find a mobile phone amongst her belongings, but if she had one, she may have used it to arrange for transportation, and if she did . . .’
‘We can go to the source for her phone records,’ Paget finished for her. ‘And we know she did have one because Mr Bromley told me she was always using it.’ He smothered a yawn, and rubbed his face vigorously to stave off a sudden urge to close his eyes. ‘Anything else?’
‘Just one thing,’ Grace said, ‘but you may know about it already. The small office at the back?’ She flicked her head toward the back of the barn. ‘By the look of some of the furniture, it was probably used at some time in the past as an office for the farm manager or some such person, but the lights and some of the fixtures have been upgraded, and it’s clear that it’s been used for other purposes quite recently.’
‘Other purposes?’ he asked quizzically. ‘Such as . . .?’
Grace frowned. ‘Can’t say for sure,’ she said slowly, ‘because I’ve led a very sheltered life. But you’re the detective, so you tell me. Would a blow-up mattress and a packet of condoms give you a clue . . .?’
SEVEN
Paget found Tregalles and Charles Bromley in the study. They were standing facing each other in the middle of the room, and Paget sensed tension between them.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said cautiously. Charles responded with a curt ‘Good morning’ of his own, but managed to make it clear by his tone that the ‘good’ part of his greeting was in serious doubt. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, but the eyes themselves were clear and sharp beneath their bushy brows.
‘Is there a problem?’ asked Paget, looking from one to the other.
‘I’m afraid there is, sir,’ Tregalles said. ‘It seems that Mr Bromley’s brother, Paul, has disappeared. His bed’s not been slept in; his clothes and bag have gone, and so has his car. As far as I can tell, he may have left the house last night before we arrived.’
‘I see.’ Paget turned to Charles. ‘And you weren’t aware that your brother had left the house when we were here earlier?’ he said.
‘Absolutely not, and I’ve been trying to explain to your sergeant that Paul’s departure can have nothing to do with Toni’s death. He couldn’t have even known about it, but Sergeant Tregalles seems to think otherwise.’
Charles Bromley was not a simple-minded man. He must realize the implications of his brother’s disappearance. ‘When did you last see your brother?’ Paget asked.
‘I told you last night – or rather earlier this morning, I suppose it was – I saw Paul around nine o’clock last evening, and I haven’t seen him since. I assumed he was upstairs in his room.’
‘Do you know if anyone else was aware that he’d left?’
‘I’ve asked everyone, and no one knew he’d gone.’
‘Where did your brother leave his car?’
Charles frowned. ‘He parked it here beside the house when he first arrived, but after we had seen Nash off, Paul asked if he could put his car in Margaret’s garage, since she wasn’t using it.’
‘So you would have heard his car if he had come back up the drive on his way out before you left your study at eleven?’
‘Of course. He would have driven right past my window. But it would be quicker to drive directly out of the stable yard into Manor Lane, and I imagine that’s what he did.’
‘Can you normally hear cars going by in Manor Lane?’
‘You can, but that wall out there acts as a pretty good sound barrier, and unless it’s something like a tractor going by, it doesn’t even register.’
‘Which means he could have left at any time after you saw him.’
‘Which is exactly what I’ve been trying to tell your sergeant.’
‘But that still leaves us with a problem, doesn’t it, Mr Bromley? Are you quite sure there isn’t something you haven’t told us? Something you may have forgotten or overlooked, perhaps?’
Charles shook his head impatiently. ‘Paul can be unpredictable at times, and he may have decided, for whatever reason, to return to Lond
on. I don’t see anything particularly significant in that. You surely can’t suspect him of having anything to do with this terrible business?’
Paget remained silent, but his expression spoke for him.
Charles sighed. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said, struggling to contain his exasperation. ‘Paul hardly knew Toni. Last night at dinner was the first time he’d seen her in several years. The very idea that he might have had something to do with her death is ludicrous.’
‘Is it, sir? You told us that your brother came down here for the weekend. Now he’s gone within hours of his arrival, apparently without a word of explanation to anyone. You also told us that he was out of the house during the time when we believe Miss Halliday was killed. You said you saw him returning to the house about nine, and when you asked him about a cut on his face he said he’d run into a door, an explanation you doubted yourself, so I don’t call that ridiculous, Mr Bromley. I think it is behaviour that calls for an explanation. Which means I shall need your brother’s address, and a description of both him and the car he was driving. A photograph would be helpful if you have one.’
Charles eyed Paget stonily for several seconds, then made a face. ‘I suppose I do owe you an apology,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t quite straightforward with you when I told you that Paul was down for the weekend. He came down yesterday for a reason. It has nothing to do with Toni, I assure you. It was a private matter, a bit embarrassing, actually, and I saw no reason to mention it at the time, but now it seems I must.
‘The truth is, Paul and I had a bit of a row. He came down to try to borrow money to cover some . . . business losses. This wasn’t the first time he’d come down here expecting me to bail him out of some hare-brained scheme or other, you understand, and, quite frankly, I’d had enough. And when he told me the amount and said he needed it immediately, I’m afraid I lost my temper and told him he would have to look elsewhere for his money. I suppose, in the light of my refusal to help him, he decided he was wasting his time here and returned to London to look for help there.’
‘I see. We will still need his address,’ said Paget. ‘You may be right about why he left, but he was here last night and we shall need a statement from him.’
Charles moved to the desk and took an address book out of a drawer. He opened it and handed it to Paget, who copied the address. ‘Is there a business address where he might be reached if he’s not at home?’ he asked.
‘I’m sure there is, but I don’t have one. He didn’t say, but I’m assuming he’s still with Bainbridge-Grayson.’
Paget knew the name. Property developers specialising in industrial development, with offices throughout south-east England and the Home Counties. Not a small company by any means.
‘Do you know what his position is there, by any chance?’
‘Sorry, no.’
Paget closed the book and handed it back. ‘When, exactly, did you have this argument with your brother?’
‘Somewhere around three o’clock yesterday afternoon, as near as I can remember.’
‘And you had made it quite clear that you wouldn’t change your mind regarding his request for money?’
‘Quite clear.’
‘I see. Then, doesn’t it strike you as strange, given the urgency of the matter, that your brother would wait until late last night before seeking help elsewhere?’
Charles Bromley had offered Paget a choice when the Chief Inspector asked for a room in which he could conduct interviews. ‘There’s this room,’ he said. ‘I shan’t be using it this morning, and I can clear the desk. Or you can use the library if you prefer.’
Although the study was ideal for interviews in many ways, it was the presence of the desk that put Paget off and made him choose the library. It was a magnificent piece of craftsmanship, but it was so large that it dominated the room. He wanted the interviews to be as low-key and informal as possible, and he couldn’t see himself conducting them from behind such a massive piece of furniture. It was far too intimidating.
The same desk appeared in an oil painting on the wall behind it. A grey-haired woman, head bent and eyes fixed in studied concentration on a leather-bound ledger, was seated at the desk. It was hard to tell her age. Her features were strong yet finely drawn and unblemished. A handsome woman rather than a beautiful one, and there was a sense of purpose in every line.
‘My grandmother, Ellen Bromley,’ Bromley told him with almost reverential pride. ‘I had that painting commissioned as a gift to her on the occasion of her seventy-fifth birthday. I spent hours in this room when I was a youngster, watching her work, and playing quietly so as not to disturb her. And that’s the way I remember her,’ he said with a nod toward the painting. ‘It’s funny, but even though she’s been gone for more than twenty years, I still think of it as her desk. She raised us, you know. I was nine and Paul was five when our parents died. Killed in an avalanche while skiing in the Dolomites in nineteen sixty-eight.’ Charles had spoken of his parents in a flat, unemotional voice as if speaking of strangers.
The opening of the library door broke into Paget’s thoughts. He stood to greet Mrs Bromley as Tregalles, together with a uniformed WPC by the name of Maitland, ushered her inside and guided her to a seat. Slighter build, finer features, younger, and darker hair, this was not the same woman they had seen at the bedroom window when they arrived. Her right ankle was bandaged, and although she masked her discomfort well, she sank into the chair with obvious relief.
Paget pulled up a chair and sat down facing her. The young WPC retired discreetly to sit by the door, while Tregalles settled himself comfortably in a leather chair next to the window, and took out his notebook.
At forty-five, and despite her obvious grief, Margaret Bromley was an attractive woman with dark, expressive eyes. She wore a grey, long-sleeved dress with charcoal-coloured collar and cuffs. Made of a fine knitted material, and belted at the waist, it moulded to her body, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Tregalles, who remarked upon it later. Her short, dark hair was cut in a casual style that suited her, but nothing could conceal the pain and sadness in her eyes as she sat, hands folded in her lap, waiting for Paget to begin.
He said, ‘I know how difficult this must be for you, Mrs Bromley, so I’ll try to be as brief as possible. Your husband told us of the events leading up to dinner last night, and about what happened there, but I understand you went to see Miss Halliday in her room after Mr Nash had gone. Would you tell me about that, please? What did you talk about?’
‘Toni,’ she said quietly. ‘Please call her Toni. “Miss Halliday” sounds so cold.’
‘Of course. What did you and Toni talk about?’
Margaret Bromley closed her eyes for a moment, perhaps recalling the scene in her mind. ‘I went along to ask her if what she’d said at dinner was true. About being pregnant, I mean, because I thought she’d made it up on the spur of the moment as an excuse for her drinking and the accident.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I don’t like saying this about my own daughter, Chief Inspector, but I’m afraid Toni was like that, even as a small child. She could never bring herself to admit that she was responsible when she did something wrong.’
She fell silent, and Paget waited. ‘This is very hard for me,’ she said at last, ‘because I know the sort of things you will hear about Toni from other people, and I don’t deny that she could be difficult at times, but no matter what she may have done, she didn’t deserve to die like that.’
‘Can you think of anything she might have done, either recently or in the past, that might lead to such an attack?’
Margaret Bromley shook her head, unable to bring herself to speak. Tears were very near the surface. Paget allowed her time to regain her composure before he spoke again. ‘You were going to tell me about your conversation with Toni,’ he prompted.
‘Yes. Well . . .’ Mrs Bromley took a deep breath to control the tremor in her voice when she continued. ‘As I said, I was hoping she would tell me the t
ruth. I tried to make her understand that I wanted to help her, but I had to know the truth. But she wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say. She wouldn’t even stand still. She kept pacing back and forth, muttering to herself as if I wasn’t even there. When she did finally stop and face me, it was to repeat all the old accusations, and blame me for everything that was wrong in her life. I tried to reason with her, but it was no good, and we ended up having the most fearful row. In the end, I couldn’t take it any more, and I literally ran from the room and nearly knocked poor Julian down on the way. I was so upset I didn’t even see him standing there.’
‘Where was this?’
‘Outside Toni’s room. I ran right into him.’
‘Was he at the door or just passing?’
‘I think he may have been about to knock, although he must have heard us screaming at each other inside. I’m really not sure.’
‘You went from there directly to your room?’
‘Yes.’
‘What time would that be?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry; I have no idea.’
‘Can you recall roughly how long you were in Toni’s room?’
‘Just a few minutes. Perhaps ten. No more, I’m sure.’
‘Did you leave your room again after that? Talk to anyone?’
‘Mrs Lodge came up shortly afterwards. Something about the meals. We’d never finished dinner, you see, but I’m afraid I wasn’t much help to her. I was still very upset. She wasn’t there long.’
‘Mr Bromley said you looked in the study somewhere between eight fifteen and eight thirty.’
Margaret Bromley stared at him blankly, eyes unfocussed, vacant as if she had drifted off into a realm of her own, and Paget had an almost irresistible urge to snap his fingers to bring her out of it. Her eyes closed, then opened again, and she shook her head as if to clear it. She looked confused. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said huskily. ‘What did you say, Chief Inspector?’