by Amy Myers
‘Do please come with me,’ he said flatly, taking her up by the lift to the third floor where a small room holding just a table and chairs awaited them. Not his office, she thought. No such honour for her. This was probably where they interviewed violent criminals and traitors.
She sat down; he sat down opposite her and waited for her to speak but she didn’t.
‘The murder, Miss Drury,’ he said at last. ‘Have you come to confess?’
He might have meant this lightly but it riled her.
‘No, I’ve come to help.’ Holy herringbones, what made her say something so childish?
‘Thank you,’ he said gravely, although she detected what might have been a quiver at the edge of his mouth.
‘I know you have your own lines of enquiry,’ she said crossly, ‘and won’t be able to talk to me freely. So perhaps I should talk to you.’
‘Thank you,’ he murmured again. No quiver this time.
‘The dope you told me about. Charlie’s dance. Could the dance be more than that?’
He frowned. ‘In what way?’
‘Mr Parkyn-Wright seems to have been the sort of man who liked power. Power over people. I don’t mean political power and all that.’
‘Go on.’ Deadpan voice.
‘I mean he could have been gathering information and using it to threaten people. It might have been only his dope clients but it could have been others too. Perhaps Charlie’s dance was so named because he was leading them a dance, threatening them.’
‘Blackmail?’ Then he added, ‘Why have you really come here, Miss Drury?’
Nell was taken aback. ‘I told you. To help. I want Wychbourne Court to return to normal.’
This sounded feeble and there was no comment on it from the nice inspector. ‘Do you have anyone in mind who could have been subjected to blackmail?’
‘No – yes, I mean yes, but I’ve no evidence. Just possibilities.’
‘About whom?’
‘Those who could have killed him but who aren’t likely to be on drugs.’
‘Would one of those be Guy Ellimore?’ His voice was very cold.
Nell gasped at the suddenness of the attack. ‘He could have been one of them but—’
‘And he is a friend of yours.’
It wasn’t a question, just a statement. She flushed. ‘He was a friend; he isn’t now.’
‘And yet you are here, Miss Drury. On his behalf?’
Anger rose and she tried to contain it. ‘You’re hardly likely to stop suspecting him just because I came.’
‘It’s as likely as your being concerned for the good of Wychbourne Court.’
That did it. She took a deep breath. ‘That is why I came, for the Ansleys and Wychbourne. I work there, I’m part of it and I love it. I thought you might not have considered the blackmail angle. I came because I know some of the people involved, one of whom was Mr Ellimore. Not him in particular, though. There are others who might have secrets in their lives. Lots of people do have but it doesn’t drive them to murder.’
Inspector Melbray rose abruptly to his feet and walked over to the window, beckoning to her. ‘Would you come here, Miss Drury?’
Unwillingly, she obeyed. What now?
‘Look down there,’ he said.
Below she could see the River Thames, people flocking together on Westminster Pier with many others hurrying or strolling along the Embankment, oblivious to what was going on up here.
‘Londoners, those who live and those who work here,’ he continued. ‘It’s a sunny day. They’ll be eating sandwiches on the grass, or crowding into Lyons teashops, or meeting friends in restaurants. It’s lunchtime but I’m not free to do what I choose. If I were, I’d offer the great chef a sandwich for having made you wait so long. But I can’t. That’s outside my job, just as investigating this case is outside yours.’
‘I understand,’ she said stiffly.
‘Tell me, Miss Drury, what do you put into your vegetable soup?’
She stared at him. What on earth was he talking about now? She was tempted to reply ‘arsenic’, but she held back. ‘Whatever’s going. Anything.’
‘How do you define “anything”?’
She steeled herself. Presumably this had some subtle point that she had missed. ‘Anything I judge that might blend well.’
‘That’s how a case progresses for me. Cases such as this one.’
She froze. ‘And does Guy Ellimore “blend”?’
‘Among others. Yes.’
She was trembling but she couldn’t tell whether it was through anger, fear or tension. Did she really think Guy could be implicated? She had been stupid to come. Nevertheless, she had to admit that Guy had joined her group on the ghost hunt and she’d assumed that he had only just come from the supper room. If he hadn’t he could in theory have killed Mr Charles before that. Believe no one. Even Guy. Or even Arthur.
What had she expected to happen this morning? She had had some hazy idea that the inspector would listen to what she had to say and reply, ‘Thank you, Miss Drury. That was very helpful. I’ll look into that.’ But no.
She crossed over to the riverside to recover her wits before she set off back to Wychbourne and, looking back at Scotland Yard, she saw him emerge, complete with bowler, and briskly set off perhaps to one of the teashops he talked about or maybe the Savoy. Either way, no sandwich for Nell.
It was mid-afternoon before she arrived back at Tonbridge railway station, by which time she was longing for the comfort of her chef’s room. But who did she see appearing out of the blue? Guy.
‘I thought you’d like me to drive you home,’ he said.
‘How did you know which train I’d be on?’
‘I didn’t. I’ve been waiting ages.’
She was forced to laugh. ‘You’re an idiot, Guy. Anyway, my motor car’s parked here.’
‘Splendid. I’ll follow you in stately fashion to Wychbourne and we can have a drink at the Coach and Horses. It’s not opening time yet but we can plead for a cup of tea.’
As she parked her Austin Seven at the pub Guy drove right in behind her, but by that time at least she had worked out what to say. ‘I have to be back for dinner preparations,’ she said as they sat at one of the tables outside. ‘I can’t stay long.’
‘Twas ever thus.’
There was an awkward pause but he slid over it. ‘How’s it going at Wychbourne?’ he continued casually. ‘No sign of an arrest yet?’
‘No. We’ll have to wait until the inquest.’
‘Could be adjourned again. I shall be spending the rest of my life in this place, I can see that. Still, I expect they’ve had time to do the drugs test now.’
‘You know?’ she asked incredulously.
He laughed. ‘I thought it wouldn’t be news to you. I made a few enquiries in London about Charlie Parkyn-Wright. Rumour has it he was a dealer.’
‘I don’t officially know that and nor is it generally known here.’ Advance with caution, Nell thought. ‘Have you been called as a witness?’
‘Not so far. What could I say apart from confirming your story?’
‘Why did the police ask you to stay then?’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose because I could prove that you opened the cupboard and seemed surprised when a corpse fell out.’
‘Why did you come up to the gallery at all?’
‘Are you rehearsing me for the inquest or my next grilling by the police?’ he asked quietly.
She stood her ground. ‘Either or neither.’
‘Very well, Madam Inquisitor. Before I followed your group up to the gallery, I had been in the ballroom playing – all the world and his wife will testify to that – and then at about twelve o’clock I went to the supper room.’
‘Witnesses for that too?’
He shot a curious look at her. ‘Actually, yes. I had a long chat with somebody and when he left I thought of catching you up on the hunt.’
‘Who was it?’ Drat, she’d gone too fa
r.
‘You’re really making me wonder, Nell. Do you think I stuck that dagger in Charlie? Why would I? I’ve seen him at London clubs time after time. Do I look as though I’m on drugs? I wouldn’t be able to hold the band together if I was.’
‘I’m sorry, Guy,’ she said penitently. ‘No, I don’t see you as a murderer, but it’s because I don’t that I have to ask. Does that make sense?’
‘Nothing you did ever made sense to me, Nell. Including turning me down.’
‘I’m not a rover, Guy.’
‘And I am. As you say, things haven’t changed. But only because we didn’t make them change.’
‘It’s too late, Guy,’ she said gently.
‘I lied to you, Nell.’
Instant fear. ‘Over the ghost hunt?’
‘There you go again. No, this afternoon. I didn’t wait for you. I was on the same train and spotted you behind me on the platform. Does that make you feel better?’
It did. He was Guy again. The one who had twisted her heart and hung it out to dry. The Guy she once long ago had mistakenly thought she had loved. Not now. Who to believe? Guy? Or follow the inspector’s advice? Trust no one.
NINE
The dairy this morning was a refuge and Arthur would add a measure of common sense to her own chaotic thoughts. Nell was relieved that he had returned to Wychbourne Court yesterday evening. She had arrived first at their rendezvous, but shortly afterwards his familiar stocky plus-foured figure appeared.
‘My dear Nell, our Baker Street Irregular conveyed your message to meet at our usual trysting place just as I was about to entrust him with a similar task,’ he greeted her. ‘Well met by moonlight, in the ill-quoted words of Mr Shakespeare, albeit it is daylight and in a derelict dairy unlike the Athenian woodland of his Dream.’
The usual flower was in his buttonhole and he duly presented a rose to her, for which she gravely curtsied her thanks. His line of nonsense was a great cheerer.
‘Myself alone, I fear,’ Arthur continued. ‘Helen and Gertrude are staying with old friends for a few more days. I’m sure you can interpret that correctly.’
Nell could. A nursing home for Lady Helen, perhaps? ‘Will their old friends permit them to return for the inquest next Tuesday?’
‘Gertrude, at least. The police have been making the same enquiry, somewhat to my alarm.’
‘They’re only wanted as witnesses, I hope?’ she asked uneasily.
‘Fortunately I believe that to be the case. However, we have no idea what lines the police are following and we must defy augury. The readiness is all. Hamlet, I believe. Not a fortunate choice of play for me to quote, considering that most of the main characters end up dead.’
Nell shivered and he must have noticed, for he quickly added, ‘I jest, Nell. I do indeed. Have the police descended on Wychbourne Court in my absence?’
She hesitated, wondering whether to tell him about her visit to Scotland Yard. No, she still felt raw about that. After all, Sherlock Holmes hid plenty of information from Watson.
‘No, but they’ll be here for the inquest.’
‘It appears that as yet they have not troubled Gerald. They are keeping us in the dark like mushrooms but we shall spring up and make the most delicious soup. Tell me what you have been up to in my absence, Nell.’
She laughed, glad of his company. ‘I have a whole new theory.’
‘Do tell. I’m agog.’
He listened attentively as she relayed her theory that Charlie’s dance went further than distributing drugs. ‘He was blackmailing people, either about the drugs or other secrets.’
Arthur looked taken aback. ‘You have excelled yourself, Nell,’ he murmured. ‘It could explain so much. It fits the facts like a Lus and Befue suit. We must ask ourselves who such victims might be and into whose sphere of interest they fall. In mine, poor Helen is a former client who surely can be excused. No blood sullied Helen of Troy’s beauty, and she was too upset to have planned such details as daggers or the bloodstained cloth the inspector told me had been found. He still asked to see my garb for the evening, however, and no doubt inspected that of the other participants. Which brings me to hidden secrets. How does your garden grow in that respect, my pretty maid?’
Nell laughed. ‘As we arranged, I tackled the servants’ hall.’
‘Ah, the fount of all knowledge. Ignore it at one’s peril. More can be gleaned among the pots and pans than from the elegant Meissen marmites and centrepieces of the diners for whom they labour.’
‘The pots and pans department was persuaded to chatter,’ and Nell told him the results. ‘And then there are the upper servants – Mrs Fielding, Miss Checkam, Mr Peters, Mr Briggs – and me.’
‘Do not look so doubtful, Nell. I exclude you from suspicion. Mr Briggs too.’
‘No,’ Nell said slowly, remembering his outburst. ‘He has something on his mind about the murder.’
Arthur looked grave. ‘Can you pursue that with him?’
‘I’ll try. Perhaps he is just picking up the general tension – he doesn’t like that and Mr Peters and Miss Checkam seem to me to be more tense than just concern on the family’s behalf would cause.’
‘I’m not a medical man despite my mask of Doctor Watson,’ he commented, ‘but I don’t see Peters and Miss Checkam indulging in cocaine. However, do be aware that we might open a can of dangerous worms instead of tasty anchovies if we delve too deep into the secrets of others. A murderer has nothing to lose by killing twice. We should tread carefully, Nell.’
Trust no one, she remembered. No one.
‘Let me give you an example,’ he continued. ‘Miss Checkam, who thought Charlie such a pleasant gentleman and was, she claimed, on friendly terms with him. It seems, alas, that those friendly terms were only on one side. Hers. As for Charlie, I’m told it was the subject of a bet that he could not or would not seduce the unfortunate woman.’
Nell reeled in horror. ‘How far did that go?’
‘The whole way, Nell. To be blunt, he bedded her. She apparently believed that this romance would be kept secret to avoid his parents’ disapproval but would end in marriage.’
‘They hardly ever met,’ she cried in astonishment. If true, this was a terrible story.
‘They met here and also in London when she accompanied Lady Helen or Lady Ansley there. I believe, however, that according to the agreed terms, one bedding was enough to win the bet.’
‘Who was the bet with?’ Nell was beginning to feel sick on poor Miss Checkam’s behalf.
‘I was not told. It might have been with the Honourable Elise Harlington.’
‘Did Miss Checkam discover the truth?’
‘I believe so, but only shortly before Charlie’s death and probably therefore at Wychbourne Court. You see what this means, Nell?’
‘That Miss Checkam could have had reason to kill him.’ Nell’s stomach was lurching with the shock. Well, she had set out to seek reasons why Mr Charles might have been murdered and she couldn’t escape the consequences.
‘I’m sorry, Nell. This is the tarnished side of the Bright Young Things. My source for this was Helen and it might therefore not be accurate, but I do believe it is. And there is something else.’
Nell made an effort. ‘You’ve discovered that Mr Peters was Jack the Ripper?’
He laughed. ‘Little to fear on that score. Lady Ansley asked me to give you a message and it is not about Peters. She believes there might be some mystery hovering over Rex Beringer, Helen’s forlorn admirer.’
‘And still a guest here,’ Nell said. ‘Lady Ansley asked him to remain as she feels he is a calming influence on Lady Helen. Is that still the case?’
‘Why not? I have no idea – yet – what this mystery might be. Who else still remains a guest here?’
‘Miss Harlington of course, and Guy Ellimore, although he’s at the inn. But I really can’t see any reason for his wanting to kill Charles Parkyn-Wright.’
‘Then he has little need to worry.
Many people have secrets that they prefer to keep from examination from themselves, let alone others, but murder is not normally the path to salvation on such matters. The danger lies in deciding which, if any, is the exception.’
Usually Nell would have thought little of a summons to Lord Ansley’s office while Lady Ansley was away. In the current circumstances, however, it did not bode well. ‘I’ve been honoured – if that’s the correct word,’ he explained, ‘with a request from Lady Warminster. She is holding a party on Saturday the eighteenth of July and has asked for your assistance with a buffet. I’m sure it’s the last thing you want to do, and frankly she’s a most annoying woman, but I feel an obligation to General Warminster. That’s only two weeks from this coming Saturday. Could you cope with that? I expect she will want you to visit her to discuss her requirements.’
‘My guess is that her requirements would simply be that she should not be bothered,’ Nell replied forthrightly.
He laughed. ‘His first wife was so different to his second. So you’ll do it, Nell?’
Of course she would do it. For one thing, she could find out more about Lady Warminster, who had so abruptly left the party that Saturday night.
Two days later she was driving into the forecourt of Stalisbrook Place. It was a stone-built residence looking bleakly ornate compared with Wychbourne Court. I’m here for you to witness how grand I am, it seemed to be saying to her. The large reception room where she was asked to wait did nothing to contradict this assessment. Gentlemen in military uniform glared down from every wall and their long-suffering wives smiled weakly at their painters. Nell wondered whether they ever got together with the Wychbourne Court ghosts.
It took some time for Lady Warminster to arrive, sweeping in with diamonds already glittering around her throat. Never wear diamonds before the evening, Nell remembered the dowager decreeing. With her short blonde hair, blue eyes and laden with jewels, Lady Warminster must fancy she looked like an innocent from Hollywood – though how innocent was that? In fact, Nell could see the beautifully rouged mouth was already drooping and looked more like Lady Macbeth’s than a Cupid’s bow.
‘So good of you to agree to cook for our little party, Miss Drury,’ Lady Warminster purred without enthusiasm. ‘A mere sixty or so.’