Dying For You

by Evans, Geraldine

  He had put a faint stress on the all, but if Caroline had kept some details back she didn't betray herself. Instead, surprisingly, she looked a little mollified as if she thought his admission that no protection could be totally effective had given her a get out clause.

  Having abandoned caution, Rafferty decided he might as well pose another question. ‘Who decided the cars should be parked to the side of the house rather than in front of it?’

  Caroline shrugged. ‘Oh that's down to Guy, isn't it darling?’

  Guy broke in with a smile of rueful charm. ‘I'm no doubt guilty of the deadly sin of pride, but I love this house, and when Caroline asked if some of the parties might be held here I insisted the guests park to the side. My wife may not love this house as I do, but I've always considered the front of the house imposing and dislike an array of cars breaking it up. Once through the hedge and parked up, they can't be seen from the drive.’

  Convenient for the murderer; thought Rafferty. He would know exactly where to find Jenny when she went to drive home.

  ‘Our friends are expected to obey the rule, too.’ Caroline gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Of course, they all know Guy's little idiosyncrasy.’

  Her laugh made her seem less like Miss Robson, Rafferty's severe old religious teacher and made her rather plain face almost pretty. For the first time, he was able to understand what the urbane Guy Cranston had seen in her. Rafferty asked, ‘Is it only getting-to-know-you parties that are held here?’

  ‘No,’ Caroline told him. ‘We hold more intimate parties also for our long-standing members, many of whom have become friends. Though some, like most of our newer members, are sensitive about the fact they make use of our services and don't want it becoming widely known.’

  Rafferty nodded again. It was a sensitivity he shared. Anxiety that his shame would be discovered had been another reason to sign up under a name other than his own. The world at large – and Rafferty himself, he admitted – felt that only the sad and desperate signed up with dating agencies. The wags at the station would never let him forget it if it got out.

  ‘My sergeant phoned the manager of The Elmhurst after Mr Farnell told us there had been a mix-up about the venue of the first party and he confirmed the mix-up. I gather you and Mr Farnell were both late arriving at the first party?’

  Caroline nodded. ‘One of Isobel's muddles, I'm afraid. I was annoyed at the time, though I blame myself for not checking. It looks so unprofessional to arrive late. When I spoke to her about it afterwards Isobel made no attempt to apologise and continued to deny the error had been her fault.’ Caroline sighed. ‘If only such muddles were her only drawback, but the way she dresses at the parties is another problem and gives totally the wrong impression.’ She turned to her husband, ‘Really, Guy, I know you took her on as a favour to her mother, but I think Isobel's going to have to go.’

  Guy replied blandly, ‘If you think so, darling. I'll have a word with her.’

  Guy seemed to capitulate all too easily. But when Rafferty remembered Lance Bliss's comments about Isobel's pursuit of Guy, it was less surprising; like many men Guy seemed happy for his wife to ease him out of a difficult situation.

  ‘It was only by chance that I didn't head off for The Elmhurst myself,’ Guy told them. ‘I would have done, but Miss Warburton arrived just before I set out, so saved me a needless trip into town. Though, as Caroline says, by now we should all be aware of Isobel's little foibles and take the trouble to check the venue as she has something of a track record in that area.’

  ‘Still, it must have been awkward supplying drinks and so on for such a throng with no warning?’

  ‘That's not a problem,’ Guy said. ‘We hold so many parties here that we're always well-stocked. We buy the stuff by the vanload. I have a sub-office in Calais and drive there a lot for business. I'll park the van up, and get taxis to and from my various business meetings. Then I stock up with lots of lovely cheap booze at the hypermarket. We have three of those enormous American fridges in the garage absolutely full of the stuff. And as we only serve nibbles at these affairs it's simply a matter of opening packets and emptying them into bowls.’

  Rafferty remembered thinking it a pity so much booze was supplied but only nibbles were provided to soak it up. But perhaps that was done intentionally to loosen-up shy, newer members? It had certainly worked a treat for him at the second party.

  Caroline and Guy Cranston were amongst those whose alibis hadn't been substantiated by a third party. Rafferty questioned them about it.

  Caroline told them she and her husband had been together at the relevant times, having retreated to their study at the first party and to the room they kept on a permanent booking at The Elmhurst's annexe during the second.

  ‘With Guy away so frequently I'm forced to snatch opportunities to update him on agency business. It never takes much more than half-an-hour, but for obvious reasons, when the updating occurs during party nights we have to wait till the party's got going as we can hardly be seen to abandon our clients to look after themselves early in the proceedings. You'd be surprised how much encouragement some of them need, for all they're meant to be confident professionals.’ She frowned. ‘But you already know all this.’

  As if sensing that Caroline might be about to lose her temper at being forced to repeat herself, Guy volunteered some information. ‘I spend so much of my time away on business that when I am here I prefer to be able to stay home. That's one reason why I agreed to the agency parties being held here.’

  Guy smiled briefly. It was a smile of singular charm and Rafferty found himself warming to the man.

  Caroline said, ‘Guy hasn't time to take much part in the day-to-day running of the agency. He's more of a sleeping partner, so it's good of him to allow his home to be invaded by the agency members when our evenings together are so precious. In fact, it was our wedding anniversary the night of The Elmhurst party. I baked a cake.’

  Rafferty remembered it. The cake had been sliced and handed round with some ceremony, like a talisman to marital love. It had been good PR. Shame the cake had been too rich for his taste, though it had provided a much-needed lining to his stomach.

  ‘I'm a lucky man, Inspector.’ Guy put his arm round Caroline and smiled down at her. ‘Most wives expect to be taken out on their anniversary; but not Caro. She knows how many evenings I have to eat restaurant or hotel meals entertaining clients so a home baked cake is a rare treat, even if it does have to be eaten at the annexe of yet another expensive hotel,’ he added with a laugh.

  ‘I have so few opportunities to spoil my husband.’ Caroline confided, ‘so it's a rare privilege when I'm able to.’

  After learning of the semi-detached nature of their marriage Rafferty didn't doubt it. In spite or perhaps because of his lovelorn state, Rafferty found this marital mutual appreciation society no more to his taste that the anniversary cake. To conceal this, he asked Guy about his work.

  ‘I'm an importer, Inspector, mostly from the Middle East, Africa, India; carpets, carved idols, all sorts of exotic merchandise. It's interesting work, but the travelling can be wearisome. Of course, I make use of agents in the countries I import from and the internet is a Godsend, but I still like to check out new lines personally. It gives a good living so I mustn't complain.’

  ‘There's just one more question before we leave you in peace.’ Rafferty rose. ‘I understand that neither yourselves nor either of the full-time staff recall signing Jenny Warburton up as a member.’

  ‘That's right,’ Caroline told them. ‘As I said to your sergeant, the computer entry was made by Emma Hartley, our part-time member of staff.’

  ‘We can find no trace of Miss Warburton actually paying the joining fee. Have you any idea how that might have happened?’

  Caroline said, ‘Emma was in rather a bad mood on the day the computer shows Miss Warburton signing up. My fault, I'm afraid. It was Isobel's afternoon off and I'd asked Emma to work a little later than she normally would. She go
t in a bit of a temper about it. I imagine she overlooked the payment in her rush to get the paperwork done so she could go away on holiday.’

  ‘I would like to see the relevant paperwork. I understand each new member has to fill out a form listing their personal details?’

  ‘That's right. I imagine the original is locked in Emma's desk. I asked her son to hunt for his mother's office keys, but he was unable to find them. I suppose you could force it open, though it would be a pity as it was an expensive desk.’

  ‘I doubt that will be necessary. I'll arrange for a locksmith to call in.’ He paused. ‘I understand this part-timer, Mrs Hartley is not presently contactable?’

  ‘I'm afraid not. She and her husband are touring the continent, staying wherever the fancy takes them. I did try to get in touch with her, but when I rang her home her son said she had left in such a rush she forgot to take her mobile.’

  ‘If you could let me have Mrs Hartley's home number,’ Rafferty said. ‘I'll speak to her son myself. Hopefully, he'll have some sort of itinerary for her, no matter how rough. I would like to speak to her as soon as possible.’

  After Caroline searched in her briefcase, found her address book and gave them the details Rafferty made for the door. ‘Oh and you will check that you've let us have all your members’ details, won't you?’

  This time, the faint suggestion that she might have been remiss about this made Caroline's lips thin. But her, ‘Of course,’ made him think he might have been wrong to suspect any such concealment. He thanked them and said as he opened the drawing room door, ‘That's all for now.’

  As Guy stood up to see them out, Rafferty recalled the cleaning lady who had cycled through the Cranstons’ entrance gates as he arrived at the first party. If she regularly worked so late she must have encountered some of the party guests. By now, all too conscious that such a Nigel-knowledge question must be worded circumspectly, he said, ‘This is a big house. Do you employ staff of any sort?’

  ‘Only a cleaning lady. Annie - Annie Dobbs. Lives in the village. Last house on the left as you drive through St Botolphe,’ Guy replied. ‘My wife's here by herself most of the time so it doesn't get really messy.’

  ‘What about when you hold your party nights?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly, it gets pretty messy then.’ Guy laughed. ‘You wouldn't think educated professionals would be such slobs. But they put wet glasses down on polished surfaces, slop red wine on the fabrics and cause no end of work.’

  ‘Mrs Dobbs constantly complains about it,’ Caroline put in from her seat by the fire. ‘I sometimes think she loves this house more than Guy does.’

  ‘Did Mrs Dobbs work here the day of the party as well as the day after?’

  Caroline nodded. ‘She works six days a week, Sundays too, when we've held a party on the Saturday. When that happens she takes the Monday off. I like to be sure the house is always ready for entertaining. My members are used to the best, Inspector. They would soon complain if they felt our standards slipped.’

  Guy Cranston said nothing. But a little frown line had appeared between his eyes as if something had annoyed him.

  Rafferty followed his line of vision and saw a glass lying under the hall table. It had contained red wine and the dregs had dripped out onto the carpet. It looked as if some tiny creature had crawled away to die.

  After Guy saw them out, they walked round to the murder scene. The police tape had been removed. There was nothing to see but the industrial-size dustbins and the Cranstons’ cars and nothing but the gruesome pictures in Rafferty's head to indicate that this had been a scene of terrible violence.

  They returned to the front of the building and climbed into their car, still parked where they'd reprehensively left it, in front of the façade that, in Rafferty's opinion, wasn't nearly as impressive as Guy Cranston thought. Strange how people could so easily delude themselves, Rafferty mused as they headed for the gates. ‘We might as well see this cleaning woman while we're out this way,’ he said.

  Llewellyn nodded. ‘It's possible she may give us an insider's view on these agency parties.’

  They already had that, though Llewellyn, of course, was unaware of it. He hoped this Annie Dobbs saw or heard something which might give them a lead. They had precious few so far. And for all the good it had done for Rafferty to put himself through the risk of being recognized, he had learned little more than when he had sat back in the office devouring the reports as they came in.

  Still, it was possible Mrs Dobbs might have picked up on whether Estelle, at least, had been involved with any of the other members. Jenny had told him she had been as new a member as Rafferty himself. Of course, it was always possible she had lied, like Estelle, though the computer entry made that unlikely. But there had been a mix-up over her payment so it was possible there had been another mix-up also. Maybe this part-timer, Emma Hartley, who struck Rafferty as almost as inefficient as Isobel Goddard, might have concealed a backlog of new members for days before she got around to entering them on the computer.

  Guy must have been listening for their car to start up because as they approached the gates they did an open sesame routine and Llewellyn nosed the car out onto the road and pointed it left.

  Fortunately Mrs Dobbs was at home. She led them through to her kitchen and invited them to sit down. On the kitchen table was an array of brass ornaments that she had been in the middle of polishing. She picked up her rag and continued with her work. ‘I wondered when you'd get around to seeing me.’

  Here was yet another quibble. Rafferty sighed faintly and asked, ‘Do you ever work late at New Hall, Mrs Dobbs?’

  Annie Dobbs nodded, but didn't stop her energetic polishing. ‘Pretty often. Usually before and after they have their agency parties.’ For a brief moment, Annie Dobbs stopped polishing. She raised her head and her brown eyes settled worriedly on Rafferty. ‘For all that I love the house, I'm not sure I want to continue working there now. It's not as if I was happy with some of the goings-on. And now, with these murders...’

  ‘Goings-on?’ Rafferty repeated. ‘What sort of goings-on?’ How many kinds were there? Rafferty asked himself. The only goings-on he could imagine Mrs Dobbs referring to would be those of a sexual nature. And so it proved.

  ‘Most of their party guests tend to get a bit merry, but some of their more long-standing members take downright liberties. Give Caroline her due, she does try to put a stop to any promiscuity going on in the house, but she couldn't keep her eye on all of them all the time.’

  ‘And which members would they be? Do you know their names?’

  Mrs Dobbs was old-fashioned and it took a while to extract the details. Ralph Dryden, the property developer was one. Another was Rory Gifford, the TV producer. Rafferty was surprised to learn that Dr Lancelot Bliss was yet another of those Mrs Dobbs named as ‘taking liberties’. All had been guilty on different occasions of making for the bedrooms with several tipsy young women in tow.

  ‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘They were only taking their cue from the host.’

  ‘Guy Cranston? You mean he used to do the same?’

  ‘Not when Caroline was there; he was the soul of discretion then. But when her back was turned... God knows what he gets up to on his foreign trips. Caroline turns a blind eye. I remember she said to me once that Mr Cranston was a very physical man – said he needed an outlet.’ Mrs Dobbs snorted and rubbed the current brass ornament with even more vigour. ‘If my Bert carried on like Mr Cranston and them others, I'd find him an outlet all right – I'd hand him a spade and tell him to double-dig the vegetable plot. Be fit for nothing after that.’

  Mrs Dobbs’ revelations tied in with what Lance Bliss had said about the Cranstons having a semi-detached marriage and that Caroline gave Guy a long leash. Had he somehow managed to wrap this leash around his own neck?

  The inquisitive Isobel could scarcely have been ignorant of such goings on when they happened under her nose, especially as it seemed likely she formed part of
them. If news of them had got out, Dr Lancelot Bliss, for one, might have been dangerously compromised. He might even have lost the lucrative TV job he clearly relished so much.

  And then there was Caroline – Caroline with her romantically themed office and seemingly unromantic marriage. What did she think of its semi-detached nature? She was a Catholic, so Llewellyn had discovered. Rafferty thought back to some of the Catholic wives he had known in his childhood; stoics all, each had gained strength from their faith, strength enough to cope with their frequently wayward husbands. Did Caroline share that strength? According to the all-knowing, gossipy, Lance Bliss, she cut the ‘physical’ Guy plenty of slack.

  Lancelot Bliss had been more than generous in the gossipy information he had supplied about Isobel, Simon Farnell and Caroline and Guy Cranston. But he had become surprisingly reticent when asked about himself. Bliss appeared perfectly willing to gossip with a stranger about the agency partners and staff. What was it he'd said about Simon Farnell later on the evening of the first party?

  ‘Simon, as I imagine you noticed, is a rather predatory homosexual. I sometimes think he only put up the money to make partner in the agency because he believed he'd find lots of ‘closet’ type males would come within his orbit. I don't think he's been disappointed. But my, what a down he's got on little Isobel. I often wonder what she can have done to so incur his dislike. Caro, too, though that's more easily understood. Simon's got this yen to start a homosexual side to the dating agency. He's convinced it would be a big payer. Guy would be happy enough to give him the go-ahead as long as it didn't cost too much to get off the drawing board. It's Caro who's the stumbling block. She's a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic of course and takes the line that homosexuals are the Devil's spawn.’

  Rafferty recalled he had asked the by then, well-oiled Bliss, ‘So how on earth did Farnell manage to persuade her to allow him to become a partner?’

  Bliss had sniggered. ‘By hiding his homosexual light under a bushel, of course. Our Simon can be quite the devious little queen when he sets his mind to it. He dressed and acted like a really hetero male. Flattered her, flirted with her, the usual stuff. Caroline's not the most adept at telling flattery from the real thing and Simon can be a determined flatterer when it suits him. Caroline adores Guy, but he saves his most outrageous flattery for the women he's trying to bed.’