On the threshold of marriage herself, there was something both endearing and slightly frightening about this dependency. Agatha Christie, she thought, in one of her Mary Westmacott novels, wrote of the burden of being loved. You were a shrewd woman, Agatha! And then Meredith remembered that in that particular novel the burden of love had led to murder.
They moved into an airy drawing room and there a fourth person turned to acknowledge their arrival.
Meredith had not expected anyone else. Toby hadn’t referred to another person. But when she saw the girl standing by the Adam-style fireplace she guessed that this, originally, was the reason that Toby had phoned his cousin to wangle an invitation to stay.
Alison was attractive and as a younger woman had probably been distractingly pretty, but this girl was beautiful in the classic mould. Meredith supposed her about twenty. She had a flawless skin, straight nose and rounded chin with full, slightly pouting lips. Her long, thick, ash-blond hair was braided at each temple in two narrow plaits which were drawn back and joined at the rear of her head. The rest of her hair hung straight as a waterfall from a central parting. The effect was to suggest the female subject of some painting of the Italian Renaissance. This impression was furthered by the scoop-necked loose blouse of some floating material with smocking at the bust and upper arms which she wore with her jeans. The mixture struck Meredith as successful even if oddly matched. There was something of the same effect in the girl herself. She seemed both to be at home in this comfortable room and yet wary of the newcomers. Her clear, steady gaze held either defiance or arrogance and Meredith wasn’t sure which.
‘Hi,’ she said in low throaty voice, ‘I’m Fiona.’
‘My daughter,’ Jenner said with some pride.
Yet it was a pride, Meredith thought, without that fierceness of emotion she had sensed in his previous introduction of ‘my wife’. It should be obvious this was Jenner’s daughter. She had something of her father’s way of assessing newcomers directly without troubling to disguise the fact. Beautiful, wealthy, confident, indulged. Trouble in top-of-the-range trainers, thought Meredith.
It answered another question, however. Yes, he had been married before. Toby, during their conversation in the Chinese restaurant, had said that Alison and Jeremy had been married only ten years. So, Meredith asked herself. Where is wife number one and did the marriage end in death or divorce?
They were offered drinks in a comfortable drawing room and then led out to eat lunch in a large Edwardian conservatory. The house must have a formal dining room so Meredith guessed this informality was not without its purpose. It made people more relaxed and chatty. At the end of the meal they retired to the drawing room again and coffee was brought there by a middle-aged cook-housekeeper of ultra-respectable appearance.
‘People do still live like this!’ she managed to whisper to Alan.
‘Oh, yes, they do …’ he murmured and she glanced at him. His attitude was deceptively relaxed. She could see that he was assessing the surroundings and the people in the room every bit as keenly as Jenner had assessed them on their arrival.
‘Right,’ said Jenner briskly when they’d finished their coffee. He set down his own cup on a small polished table and pushed the delicate porcelain away from him. ‘To business.’
This was the chairman of the board speaking but he was being honest. They were here, after all, for a specific reason, not just to enjoy what had been an excellent lunch. Meredith was interested to see that Fiona had settled back in her chair with a slightly bored expression. So she was to remain and hear everything and, from her attitude, had heard it all before. Whatever Jeremy and Alison had to say, it would spring no surprises on her, yet Toby had claimed that ‘nobody knew’ of Alison’s past history. At least four out of the six people in this room did. How many people, thought Meredith uneasily, do actually know about this?
‘You know the details, Alan? Toby’s told you?’ Jeremy was impatient to cut to what he saw as the important part of the discussion: what the police were going to do about it.
‘Well, no, not exactly,’ Markby said, refusing to be rushed. ‘I know about the threatening letter. I’ve not had time to do much other than exchange a few words with Inspector Winter on the phone. I understand that examination of the letter you gave him has not revealed anything very helpful. The writer is literate and motivated by considerable ill will.’
Alison winced and looked down at her hands folded in her lap.
Fiona said in her husky drawl, ‘Can’t they tell things from the print and all that?’
Alan smiled at her. ‘Alas, not since the demise of the typewritten letter. I take it that’s what you mean. The old typewriters grew worn with use and were often quite distinctive in what they produced. And, of course, if it was a question of cuttings from newspapers glued on to a sheet, then the newsprint of individual papers could be distinguished. But we live in the computer age and this writer has access to a computer and an ink-jet printer. The paper is a standard sort such as you buy in one of those stores which supply office necessities. The envelope is of the self-sealing type, probably from the same kind of store. The postage stamp is also of the self-sticking variety. No saliva to go on like the older standard do-it-yourself stamps. The Post Office has a lot to answer for. Besides no trace of DNA material, there are no distinguishing marks of any kind, no fingerprints, nothing.’
‘There’s one of those office supply places on the outskirts of Bamford,’ Jenner said.
‘Quite. They’re everywhere these days. He could have bought it there or anywhere in the country. Even if it turns out to be the sort supplied to a particular chain, such stores sell thousands of packs a week, often in big boxes of two and half thousand sheets. I’ve got a box of the stuff at home myself.’
‘He was very careful, though, wasn’t he?’ Meredith said thoughtfully. ‘To leave no trace at all like that? He thought about it all before he did it. He bought the self-sealing envelopes and the self-sticking stamps. He bought general purpose paper of the bulk sale type. He’s methodical, isn’t he? A planner.’
Alison, who had been watching her as she spoke, shuddered at the last words.
Alan was nodding. ‘Yes, he’s careful. He isn’t going to help us.’
‘You think it is a man, then?’ Jenner demanded, his bushy eyebrows meeting in a frown.
‘I wouldn’t like to say. We’ll say “he” for convenience’s sake.’
Fiona was twisting a finger in her long blond hair. She said unexpectedly, ‘What does he want?’
Yes, she was her father’s daughter, all right, Meredith thought. Behind the sharp gaze lay a sharp brain. She guessed that more than spite lay behind this campaign against her stepmother. Did she also suspect blackmail?
‘Until he tells us, we don’t know,’ said Markby. ‘It may be his sole aim is to embarrass and distress you. He may want money for his silence. He may still be mulling over his options.’
‘I don’t know,’ Alison said very quietly, ‘why anyone should hate me so much. And how does he know about it?’
‘Well, I’m afraid,’ Markby said to her gently, ‘that any criminal process is a matter of record. There are a dozen ways in which someone may come across the details.’
‘But not link them to Ally here!’ Toby said forcefully. ‘It all happened donkey’s years ago! She had a different surname then.’
Markby shifted in his chair and turned to Alison Jenner. ‘I’m afraid, owing to lack of time, I haven’t been able to look up the details of your trial. Without them—’
Jenner and his wife exchanged glances. Alison straightened her posture in the chair and said firmly, ‘I can tell anything you want to know now.’
‘Are you sure, darling?’ Jenner asked her. He reached out and touched her arm.
‘Absolutely sure, Jeremy. Not talking about it all these years, pushing it away as if it never happened, that’s what’s led to this situation, isn’t it? If everyone knew, no one could threaten me now
.’
‘We can talk about it in private, if you wish,’ Markby said.
She shook her head. ‘No, the family members here have been told. When Jeremy found out about the letters, Alan, we discussed it. I said Fiona and Toby must be told because it seemed likely now it would all come out about the trial. I didn’t want either or them to learn about it from newspapers. When we told Toby, he said at once he’d ask Meredith to speak to you. I know that wasn’t correct procedure. It’s probably put you on the spot and you’re privately cursing us. I don’t blame you. But we are desperate. One clutches at straws. Meredith should hear all the details because she’s the one Toby asked to approach you. You, of course, have to know. I was accused of the murder of my great-aunt, Freda Kemp.’
She paused and heaved a sigh. ‘It’s hard to know where to begin. You need some background facts if it’s to make sense. My parents were in the Diplomatic Service, as you were, Meredith. They lived in various parts of the globe and I was sent home to school. My guardian for practical purposes in this country was Aunt Freda. She was a single woman who ran a successful business finding nannies and domestic staff for people. By the time of the – the events which led to the trial, I was twenty-three. My parents had retired to St Lucia to spend the rest of their lives in the sun. Aunt Freda was long retired herself but she was still my remaining family link in this country. I used to go and see her when I could, though it wasn’t easy. She lived in Cornwall, rather off the beaten track, near Rock on the Camel estuary.’
‘I know it,’ Markby nodded. ‘A beautiful spot.’
‘Yes,’ Alison agreed. ‘I always loved it there. Aunt Freda had had a holiday cottage there for years when she lived and ran her firm in London. When she retired, she chose to make the cottage her permanent home. It had a large garden and she loved that particularly.’
‘That,’ Alan said, ‘I can certainly understand!’ He smiled. Alison didn’t return the smile. ‘Moving to the cottage was, if you like to use the expression, her undoing.’ She paused and they waited. As they did a shadow passed the window which gave on to the front of the house.
Both Markby and Meredith turned their heads and Meredith had a fleeting impression of a tall ungainly shape.
‘Harry Stebbings,’ said Jenner briefly. ‘The gardener.’
They sat and listened as Stebbings’ footsteps crunched away heavily across the gravel.
‘He maintains the grounds alone?’ Markby asked.
‘He’s got the help of his son in holiday times. A gormless youth by the name of Darren whom his parents hope will benefit from attending the local college of further education. I doubt it. I gather he’s studying photography!’ Jenner snorted.
Fiona giggled. ‘He wants to be a snapper of the stars, that’s what he told me, in those words. You know, part of the paparazzi pack.’
‘He’ll find that a cut-throat world,’ Markby observed.
‘Oh, he hasn’t got a clue,’ Fiona said carelessly. ‘He’s got one of those little digital cameras and he thinks he’s going to do it all with that. He’s never heard of any of the famous photographers and he’s got no artistic or dramatic sense. He thinks as long as you have the figures dead centre in the middle of the picture, that’s it.’
‘I’d be happy,’ Meredith observed, ‘if I could get the subject in the middle of the snap. When I take a photo, the subject always comes out on the bottom right-hand side.’
Markby gave her a brief conspiratorial grin before he turned back to Alison who continued her story.
‘I wish I could have visited Aunt Freda more often. She was getting frail. She was, after all, my mother’s aunt and my great-aunt. She was eighty when – when the tragedy happened. Perhaps I should say the additional tragedy, because it was already the saddest thing to have watched her decline. Living on her own down there, after such a busy life, she just went downhill. It was certainly a mistake, after a lifetime in a city, to cut herself off in such a peaceful but pretty well deserted place, at least it is out of season. Spending holiday breaks there had been fine. She hadn’t counted on the way permanent residence would result in making each day exactly like the one before and the one to come, the lack of stimulation which comes from meeting people, visiting museums and exhibitions, being part of the general buzz. I used to phone her and chat. I knew she was lonely. But she was obstinate, too. She wouldn’t admit she’d made a mistake. Also I fancy the thought of moving house again, having done it once when she left London, appeared daunting to her. I did suggest it and offered to help, but she would have none of it. She had company of a sort during the day because a local woman, Mrs Travis, used to go in and clean for her and get her lunchtime meal. Not that Mrs Travis was a great companion. She was a dour sort of woman. I don’t think she liked anyone much, that’s the impression she gave. She certainly didn’t like me!’
‘Any particular reason?’ Markby asked.
‘At the time I supposed it was just her disposition. Her husband had bolted and left her with a young son, a sullen kid about ten years old. He seemed to live in wellington boots and have a nature just like his mother. He tagged along with her during school holidays and sat drawing pictures on scrap paper but wouldn’t show them to me. I think his mother had warned him I wasn’t to be trusted. I wasn’t surprised she hadn’t warmed to me. I wasn’t the sort of person she’d ever had much to do with. I was working in London on a good salary in the advertising world, an independent young woman pretty sure of herself. No man had dumped me. I didn’t have a kid to worry about. I had choice of employment. You might not think it looking at me now but in those days, I really did have all my marbles!’ She gave a deprecating laugh.
Jenner frowned and said reproachfully, ‘Don’t put yourself down!’
‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘Everything was going for me. I’d drive down from London when I had a free weekend, city chick with wheels, and there would be Mrs Travis standing in the doorway wearing an apron and hand-knitted jumper and radiating disapproval. I was inclined to find it rather funny. My mistake. She did look after Aunt Freda very well, I have to admit. I think that probably, in her own way, Mrs Travis thought she was protecting her employer.’
‘From you?’ Markby asked.
‘Yes, even from me. She was the sort of person who thought badly of everyone. No generosity of soul herself and unable to see good in anyone else, except in Aunt Freda. And Aunt Freda’s kindness was probably seen by Mrs Travis as a weakness, making her vulnerable to conniving fast hussies from London. She couldn’t bar the door to me, though she’d have liked to, but all that scowling was to let me know she was “on” to me.
‘One Sunday, it was in August and a lovely day, I was getting ready to drive back to London. I had to leave in the morning. Mrs Travis didn’t come in on a Sunday so she wasn’t around. I was a little concerned about Aunt Freda because since my last visit she seemed to have gone downhill even faster. Her hair was untidy, which wasn’t like her. She rambled a bit and got a little muddled from time to time. Twice she called me by my mother’s name, Lilian. I knew Mrs Travis would be going in the next morning and I had to be back at my desk on Monday bright and early, so I had to leave. I decided to ring my aunt’s doctor as soon as I got a chance and report my concerns. The last I saw of my aunt was standing by her gate, waving goodbye to me.’ Alison paused and bit her lip. ‘I think I shall always see her like that.’
There was another awkward silence. The old Labrador which had been lying at Alison’s feet looked up anxiously at her mistress.
‘Drop of brandy!’ said her husband firmly. He got up and fetched it. ‘Here you are, darling, knock it back! Anyone else want one?’ He held up the bottle.
They all shook their heads, even Toby after a momentary hesitation.
The brandy seemed to do the trick. Alison began again briskly. ‘The police turned up on my doorstep at seven the following morning, I was up and about getting ready for my usual working day. It was just one policeman, a young constable
, very sympathetic. He was sorry he had bad news for me. Miss Kemp had been found dead in her garden. It appeared to be an accident but he had no details. Early as it was, I rang my aunt’s doctor in Cornwall. He hadn’t heard about it. He was not the doctor called in by the police to certify death. He promised to ring me back as soon as he knew something. He kept his promise. He rang me at lunchtime to say my aunt had been found by her housekeeper at around nine that morning. She was in the garden and had apparently fallen into the fishpond and drowned. It was only a small pond and if you put your whole arm straight down in it, the water would have come up to about your elbow. But my aunt had fallen forwards with her face in the water and it had been enough. She’d lain there overnight. The accident probably happened midafternoon on Sunday. There would have to be a post-mortem, the doctor said. But he wouldn’t be the one performing it. That was for the local pathologist. I could tell the doctor was upset, not only because he’d lost a patient in those circumstances, but because he was being cut out of the loop.
‘I was more than upset. I took the rest of the day off. In fact I took the week off because I was executor of my aunt’s estate and I needed to go and see her solicitor. He was a London man. I already knew what was in the will. She had left everything to me except for five hundred pounds to Mrs Travis. The cottage was mine, everything. I had the keys already. I went down there so that I could see the local vicar about the funeral, that sort of thing. I was there when the police came on the Thursday. The post-mortem had discovered a wound on my aunt’s head but there were no stones round the pond on which she could have hit her head by accident. Worse, there was no sign of pond water in her lungs. She’d been dead when she went in the water. Mrs Travis had been busy spreading poison. She told them how I had an expensive London lifestyle. She said I was always coming to see my aunt and I had hopes of inheriting. I had been there that very weekend. My aunt was wealthy. I had borrowed money from her.’
‘Was that true?’ Markby asked her.
Ann Granger Page 4