The car climbed laboriously up the long hill out of town, cleaving its way through the mist like the prow of an old ship. On a fine day, there would probably be a magnificent view from up here.
‘Do you get much of this mist?’ I asked, ‘It’s been lovely in London all month.’
‘Not really – it’s a bit humid just now, though. The beginning of autumn, I suppose.’ We turned left up an opening I had not even been able to see.
‘Almost there now.’
Left again, between some gateposts, and the car stopped. I sat still, clutching my handbag, reluctant now to leave the companionship of the car and meet Matthew Haig again.
‘Well, in we go!’ Mike said cheerfully.
I climbed out and shivered as the cold breath of mist enfolded me again. Mike opened the boot to get my case and I stood waiting for him, staring up at what I could see of the house. The grey stone wall rose imposingly in front of us and disappeared into the mist a few feet above our heads. The front door was set back in a recess flanked by two bay windows, and above it late roses clung to the stone like sodden blotting-paper.
Mike and Sarah came up to me, and the three of us started for the door. As Mike reached out a hand, it was opened from inside and an elderly woman stood there, tutting with distress at the weather and our damp condition.
‘There you are, Mr Michael, sir. I thought I heard the car. And you must be Miss Barton, dearie. Sarah, my lovely, Miss Tamworth’s been looking for you all over!’
She shepherded us inside like an anxious hen, ineffectually trying to brush the drops of moisture off my sleeve and feeling Sarah’s long hair. ‘Now, take these wet things off, all of you, and I’ll show Miss Barton to her room. Give me the case, sir.’
‘No, no, Mrs J., I’ll take it. Emily, this is Mrs Johnson, Matthew’s housekeeper and a treasure beyond price!’
‘Get along with you, sir!’ said Mrs Johnson delightedly.
‘Sarah? Is that you?’ A sharp voice sounded from above us, and a woman appeared on the staircase that rose gracefully at the far side of the hall.
Sarah pulled a little face at Mike and answered meekly enough, ‘Yes, Tammy.’
‘You’d no right to go off like that without telling me! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, and your tea’s been ready for over half an hour.’
‘It was my fault, Tammy,’ Mike said quickly, as the woman reached the foot of the stairs and came towards us. ‘I asked her to come with me; I was afraid Miss Barton wouldn’t entrust herself to me if I were by myself!’
The woman’s face softened slightly. ‘For which we couldn’t blame her,’ she said briskly, and held out a hand to me. ‘How do you do, Miss Barton; I’m Olive Tamworth. I hope you’ll be happy here.’
‘Thank you,’ I stammered. Miss Tamworth, though roughly of the same age as Mrs Johnson, was entirely different. The housekeeper was comfortably stout and motherly, with grey hair which escaped in little curling tendrils from her bun. She had a gentle wrinkled face, Cornish blue eyes, and a general impression of softness.
Miss Tamworth, on the other hand, was small and neat, sharp-featured and angular. There was no softness about her; not a curve in her body that I could see. But for all that, I imagined that the briskness covered a warm heart, particularly where Sarah was concerned.
‘Straight upstairs now and brush your hair before tea,’ she was saying. ‘And you’d better give it a rub with a towel first. Why hadn’t you the sense to wear your hood?’
‘Where’s Mr Haig?’ Mike enquired, picking up my case and starting for the stairs.
‘In the library, I believe.’ Miss Tamworth’s tone implied that he could not be expected to rush out to greet a new employee.
Mike winked at me, and we went up the stairs in convoy. As we did so, I saw that the hall was not square, as I’d thought, but an inverted L-shape. Just short of the stairs, a small passage branched off to the right, ending in a handsome stone fireplace with an oriel window on each side of it, and two big leather armchairs. A pottery vase full of leaves stood in the empty hearth.
‘The library’s down there,’ Mike said, seeing the direction of my glance, ‘I’ll take you to Matthew when you’re ready.’
Mrs Johnson opened the door directly opposite the stairhead and stood to one side for Mike and me to go in. He put the case on a stool, ‘I’ll wait for you in the hall,’ he said, and left me with the housekeeper.
‘Well now, miss, I think you’ll find all you need, but if I’ve overlooked anything, you only have to ask.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. It was pretty room, gay with chintz curtains and an armchair beside a gas fire.
‘There’s a wash basin behind the screen,’ Mrs Johnson pointed out, ‘and the bathroom is down the corridor to your right. We usually have the main meal at mid-day, but Mr Haig ordered dinner for tonight, in case you hadn’t had a proper meal on the train.’
‘That was kind of him,’ I murmured,
‘It will be ready at six-thirty, miss.’
Mrs Johnson withdrew. I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to six. I went over to the window but the mist still blanketed the view. My head was beginning to ache.
I washed my face, made up again quickly, and was starting to brush my hair when there was a knock on the door and Sarah peeped round.
‘Are you ready to come down?’
‘Almost. Come in.’
She needed no second invitation. ‘I sleep next door,’ she volunteered. ‘That way –’ with a nod of her head. ‘Tammy’s opposite me, but Mrs Johnson’s the luckiest – she sleeps downstairs, in a room off the kitchen.’
‘What fun!’
‘Yes. But she’s only here during the week; at the weekends she goes to her daughter in Chapelcombe.’
‘And who does the cooking then?’
‘Tammy, and she doesn’t like it. She says it’s not her place.’ The child’s light voice unconsciously took on the older woman’s clipped tone and I felt my mouth twitch.
‘She didn’t mind when Mummy was here,’ Sarah added casually, ‘because there were always parties and things. She used to be Mummy’s nurse, you know.’
‘Oh!’ I was slightly taken aback by this confidence. I’d gathered from the cover of his books that Matthew Haig’s marriage had been ‘dissolved’, and wondered if the child missed her mother.
‘Ready?’ she asked again.
‘Yes.’ I stood up with a quick glance in the mirror, and followed her down the stairs.
Mike was waiting for us in one of the leather armchairs. Sarah went for her belated tea, and Mike, taking my elbow, led me to the library door. ‘Cross your fingers!’ he whispered, and knocked.
‘Yes?’
Mike pushed the door open and we went in together. Matthew Haig was sitting at his desk, and he looked up with a frown. His eyes rested fractionally on Mike’s hand, still on my arm, then went to my face. I was confused to feel it grow hot.
He stood up. ‘So you’re here, Miss Barton.’
‘I met her at the station,’ Mike said.
Matthew’s eyes flickered to him, with an expression I couldn’t read. ‘Thank you.’
‘It was a pleasure.’ Mike smiled at me. ‘Well, I must be getting back. ‘ ’Bye, Emily, see you soon.’
I felt, rather than saw, Matthew’s raised eyebrow at the use of my first name.
‘Goodbye – thank you.’ The door closed behind him, and for the second time that day I felt deserted.
Matthew Haig and I stood looking at each other. He was wearing an olive green sports shirt, long-sleeved and soft-collared, with no tie. It made him look younger than he had in London, but no more agreeable.
‘Sit down.’
I did so, and he resumed his seat behind the desk. ‘Have you been shown your room?’
‘Yes, thank you. It’s – very pretty.’
‘We’ll begin work tomorrow, but you might like to take these notes with you and glance through them this evening, to give you an idea of
the plot. There’s a rough draft of the complete novel, and the first two chapters in fair copy. This was as far as – Miss Harvey had got.’
‘She left in the middle of the book?’ I hadn’t realized that.
He shot me a look from under his brows. ‘Yes.’ His voice ruled out further comment. ‘Regarding daily routine, I work in here from nine to twelve each morning. The afternoons are free – I usually play golf. Then I like to start work again at five. We generally eat at midday, and have something on a tray in the evenings. However, I’ve asked Mrs Johnson to serve a meal in the dining-room tonight.’
‘Yes, she told me. Thank you.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘It should be almost ready. I imagine Mrs Johnson’s just waiting for Sarah to get to bed.’
There couldn’t be many eight-year-old children in bed by six-thirty. No doubt Sarah was glad an evening meal was the exception rather than the rule.
‘Are there any questions you’d like to ask?’
‘I don’t think so, thank you.’
‘Then we might as well go in search of dinner.’
He pushed his chair back and led the way along the passage to the main hall.
Mrs Johnson was coming out of the kitchen, bearing a succulently smelling steak and kidney pie. ‘It’s just ready, sir,’ she said in her soft, Cornish burr.
At Mr Haig’s gesture, I followed her into the dining-room. It was a large, impressive room, oak-panelled, with an ornately-carved mantelpiece and hunting prints on the wall. Down one side, a series of long windows looked over the garden – not, today, an inspiring view – and on an end wall, the large bay I had seen from the front of the house curved gracefully out into the mist. I shivered before I could stop myself, but if Mr Haig noticed, he gave no sign.
Miss Tamworth came in behind us and the three of us took our places at one end of the long dining table.
The meal, excellent though it was, was not a comfortable one, being eaten almost entirely in silence. Opposite me, Miss Tamworth’s eyes never left her plate, and at the head of the table, Matthew Haig gazed down the length of the room into space. I was devoutly thankful, like Sarah, that this need not be endured every evening. I thought wistfully of the family meal at home, with all of us eager to tell of the day’s happenings. This evening my place would be empty. I remembered Gilbert’s misgivings, and a small knot of depression formed inside me.
The sweet course was duly served. The hot food had made me sleepy and my jaw ached with the strain of not yawning. The headache which had begun earlier throbbed in my temples with persistent pain.
At last the meal was over. I said tentatively, ‘If you don’t want me this evening, Mr Haig, I think I’ll go to my room. I’m rather tired after the journey, and I’d like to unpack before going to bed.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll get you those notes to take up with you.’
I went with him to the library and he handed me a sheaf of papers. ‘Good night, Miss Barton. I hope you . . .’ he paused, and seemed to change what he’d been about to say: .. sleep well,’ he finished lamely.
‘Thank you.’
I went up the long staircase to my room and thankfully closed the door behind me. Someone, presumably Mrs Johnson, had drawn the curtains and lit the gas fire, and the little room was warm and welcoming. I slipped off my shoes and dropped the notes on the bed. I’d have a bath, unpack, then settle down to read the typescript.
Lying blissfully in the hot water, I thought idly about the people in the house and wondered what my predecessor had made of them. I wished I could meet Linda Harvey, and remembered Mike’s reaction when Sarah had mentioned her. Matthew Haig hadn’t been very forthcoming either, but surely it was unusual for a secretary to leave in the middle of a book? Perhaps he’d had to dismiss her.
The bath had refreshed me and I no longer felt so tired. Back in my room I unpacked quickly, folding clothes away into drawers and hanging dresses in the cupboard, impatient now to read through Mr Haig’s manuscript. Finally, having slid the empty suitcase under the bed, I was free to settle down in the chintz chair with the typewritten pages.
CHAPTER TWO
I awoke the next morning to find the room filled with golden light, and slid out of bed to run to the window. My room was at the front of the house, and immediately below lay the gravel drive leading to the gateway through which I’d driven with Mike. On either side of the drive, lawns as smooth as billiard tables stretched away to distant laurel hedges.
I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of the sea from my window, but in this I was disappointed.
Beyond the boundaries of the garden lay moorland, rising to the left, and on the right dropping down to the road up from Chapelcombe. A heavy dew lay on the grass but all trace of the mist had gone.
I turned from the window, picked up the zipped writing-case which I’d laid on the table the previous night, and climbed back into bed with it. This seemed the ideal chance to write my duty letter home.
Well, I arrived safely, I began conventionally, and was met at the station by Mr Haig’s daughter – who’s about eight – and his cousin (very good-looking!). Touchstone is quite a big house, but I haven’t seen it properly from the outside because, believe it or not, it was shrouded in mist when I arrived! However, it’s quite imposing, and set in stately, formal gardens surrounded by clipped laurels.
My bedroom is small and pretty, and I’ve just woken up. Last night, I read through the hundred or so pages of the draft novel and it’s fascinating – a murder story, which is unusual for Matthew Haig, but with the sympathetic characters that are in all his books. Which is strange, because in real life he doesn’t seem to like people much!
I paused. Outside the window a bird was singing, but there was no other sound.
It’s to be called MOTIVE FOR MURDER, I went on, and from what’s been written so far, I think the idea is to tell the story of a murder from five different angles; that of each suspect in turn. They all have motives, and it will be a challenge for the reader to guess which one actually committed the crime.
A knock on the door interrupted me, and Mrs Johnson came in with a tray of tea. ‘Oh, you are awake, miss. ’Tis a lovely morning, and all that nasty mist gone, praise be.’
‘It looks wonderful,’ I agreed, laying aside my letter and taking the tray from her. ‘Thank you. I was hoping I could see the sea from my window, but I can’t.’
‘Not quite, no, but it’s not far away. Just down the slope and across the Chapelcombe Road. Now miss, there’s breakfast in the dining-room at eight for Miss Tamworth and the liddle lass. Mr Haig has toast and fruit juice in his room. Would you like something up here, or will you go down?’
I eyed her over the teacup. ‘What did Miss Harvey do?’
Mrs Johnson started, and her quick, apprehensive glance dropped from my steady gaze. ‘Miss Harvey? Well now – well, I seem to remember she changed her mind each day. Sometimes she went down, but latterly –’ She broke off, confused, and rubbed her palms on her apron.
‘Latterly?’ I prompted gently.
Mrs Johnson kept her eyes down. ‘Latterly she didn’t want no breakfast at all, miss.’
‘Oh.’ I regarded her meditatively but apparently she was not to be inveigled into speaking of Linda Harvey, either. I thought of the dim, silent dining-room of the evening before – it made a poor comparison with my bright bedroom.
‘I’d like breakfast here, please Mrs Johnson, if that’s all right. Toast and fruit juice would be lovely.’
‘Very good miss,’ Mrs Johnson made her thankful way to the door. ‘And Mr Haig said to remind you he’ll expect you in the library at nine.’
‘Thank you.’
The door closed behind her and I frowned to myself, mentally adding another paragraph to my letter.
There appears to be some mystery about the girl who was here before me – nobody wants to talk about her.
But I couldn’t write that, of course: it would worry them. I was not, however, going to let it
worry me.
I had another drink of tea. This was better than dashing off to the tube, I thought with a smile. Breakfast in my room, and a leisurely stroll to the library when I’ve finished! And the plot of the novel was far more fascinating than the dry legalities of the office I’d left behind. This afternoon, when I was free, I would go and look at the sea. Linda Harvey, whoever she was, must have been mad to let a job like this slip through her fingers.
* * *
At five minutes to nine I knocked on the library door and went in. Matthew Haig was already at his desk. He barely glanced up.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Mr Haig.’ I laid the typescript on the desk in front of him.
‘You got through it all right? Good. Well, there’s a lot of stuff on the tape that I’ve done in the last few weeks since – I haven’t had a secretary. We won’t waste time on that now, because I want to start dictating, but perhaps you’d type it out as soon as possible.’ He motioned me to sit down. ‘I usually dictate until about midday, then for the last hour before lunch you can type out your notes. That should give you plenty of time – I don’t get through much new work in a day.
‘In the afternoon, as I think I told you, I play golf, and as long as you’re up to date with your notes, your time is your own. You’ll also have two free evenings a week. Is that satisfactory?’
It was, of course, very satisfactory; despite the evening work, these were shorter hours than I’d been used to. His brusque manner, though, made it sound as if he was interviewing a somewhat inadequate charlady.
‘Quite, thank you,’ I said.
‘Right, then we’ll start. Incidentally, I shall expect you to keep me straight – tell me if I change the colour of someone’s eyes in midstream, or repeat myself.’ His mouth lifted slightly in what might be taken for a smile, so I dutifully smiled back.
We began to work, and despite his claim not to go quickly, I was kept busy, cursing myself for not having looked up the outlines of such words as ‘murder’, ‘deceased’ and ‘mortuary’, which were new to my shorthand vocabulary.
Some coffee arrived at eleven, but Matthew did not pause in his dictation, and a thick layer of skin had formed before I was able to ease my cramped fingers and drink it.
Motive for Murder Page 2