Sculpt a Murder

by Lily Ashton

  Alice took in the varnished black floorboards, the stone-coloured booths and freshly painted walls. However there were cables hanging from the ceiling and the kitchen was visible through a gap in the wall.

  “It’s looking good. I like your colour scheme, it’s clean and fresh.”

  “Obviously there’s some finishing off to do and that’s where I hope you can help us.”

  “You want to hang some family photographs on the walls, I understand?”

  “That’s right. Here, I’ll show you.”

  They sat in one of the booths and Emilio untied a red ribbon around a large folder on the table. Inside was a stack of black and white photographs, which he passed to Alice.

  “These were hanging on the wall of my grandfather’s restaurant in Vieste, my home town. Nonno had a big brick oven which took up the whole of the back wall. He made it himself and it produced the best pizzas in the world.” Emilio twisted around, clutching the back of his seat, resting his other arm across the top. “I’ve copied the design for my own oven.”

  Emilio patted the photos. “Anyway, I’ve picked out these ones and I want them hung on the walls here. Carry on the family tradition. I’ve added some recent pictures of my children, too. Mustn’t forget them.”

  Emilio jumped up from his seat. “Let me get you a cup of coffee. I’ve brought my own espresso machine from home, until I get the big one delivered. While I make it, you have a look through.”

  Alice picked up the photo at the top of the pile; a young man with an eager face and slicked dark hair stared back. He must be Nonno. In the background, a small balcony looked over a bay lined with fishing boats. There were other family members underneath Nonno’s photo, obvious from their striking resemblances. A young boy, a warm smile revealing two missing teeth, leaned into Nonno’s enveloping arm.

  “That’s my dad.” Emilio put an espresso cup on the table. “He was seven years old when that picture was taken and he was already working in the kitchen. Just doing a few odd jobs, but that’s where he learned the trade. Ten years later, he was running the place.”

  Emilio moved the prints around with his finger, picking up one with another young boy.

  “Me with my son in the same spot. See, there’s the bay in the background. My cousin runs the restaurant now; good business he does too. I want to expand the family firm over here.”

  “There’s some lovely pictures here, they’ll look good on the walls.”

  “I’m glad you like them. You’ll hang them all won’t you?”

  Alice sipped the excellent espresso. “These two have faded along one side, they must have been hanging in a sunny spot. They look damaged, but there’s not much we can do about it. This one especially.”

  “Yes, I wondered if you’d say that. No problem, I’ll keep Uncle Alfredo at home.”

  “And this one.” Alice held up another photo of Nonno, this time shaking hands with a man in a dark suit sporting a bushy moustache. “It’s buckled and torn around the edges, also the corner’s been ripped off. And it’s faded. I’m not sure we can use it.”

  “No, no I definitely want this one. That was the mayor of Vieste and Nonno’s first customer. Nonno said the photo brought him luck and it always hung in the same spot in the middle of his restaurant. It’s going up just here.” Emilio slapped the wall above their booth.

  Alice examined the photo again. “In that case, I’ll take it to the framer and we’ll see what he can do with it.”

  There were clothes hanging from every possible point in Devi’s bedroom in The Bull Hotel. T-shirts and pyjamas, neatly folded and arranged by colour, were heaped on the furniture. Devi cleared two easy chairs by the window and invited Alice to help herself to tea.

  “I’m so sorry about the mess. I’ve just received the samples for my new clothing range and I wanted to see them straightaway.”

  Alice glanced at the blue and white striped t-shirts and straight black trousers flung across the bed.

  “They’re the sort of clothes I would wear myself. I was expecting your range to be more … colourful.”

  Devi laughed. “Everyone says that. People expect to see bright Indian colours, saffron and orange especially. I’m always asked about those colours. But these are casual clothes that work better in more muted colours. And they sell better, too.”

  Alice reached for a t-shirt and rubbed the material.

  “It’s soft, isn’t it?” said Devi. “All my clothes are made from good quality material. I don’t expect to pay good money for a sub-standard product. The cotton is grown in India.”

  “Are the clothes made in India too?”

  “Some are made in Kolkata and some in a factory in Bangladesh. But others are produced in Europe. I want to create jobs in different regions.”

  “And the launch? That’ll be in London, I assume?”

  “The first one, yes. And that’s coming up soon. There’ll be other launches in New York and Mumbai afterwards.”

  “What made you decide to branch out of acting and into clothing?”

  “It’s not that much of a stretch really.” Devi crossed lithe dancer’s legs. “When I began my acting career, I made my own costumes because I had to. When I worked on bigger movie projects, I helped to design my outfits. One day, I was playing with drawings of clothes that I wanted to wear off set and decided to make them up. Devi Dutta Clothing was born.”

  She poured a cup of Assam tea. “You must come to my launch, it’s going to be at a restaurant in Soho. I’ll show you a picture.” Devi rifled through a stack of photos on the windowsill and handed one to Alice. A tuxedo-clad Christian leered out at her.

  “It was your brother’s idea. See, there are steps up to a balcony that runs across the back of the restaurant and down the other side. Christian thought I could use it like a catwalk. The guests would be able to see the clothes properly and it’s a great backdrop for pictures.”

  It did look an ideal location.

  “I like your brother.” Devi wound strands of wavy hair around her finger. “He’s full of great ideas. I keep telling him, he should come to Mumbai with me and set up a business. It’s the entertainment capital of India with lots of creative people, he would fit in really well.”

  Alice’s eyes ran over the Bollywood star. Beautiful, talented, successful and sweet-natured. It was hardly surprising her brother had fallen for Devi. And Christian deserved a loving relationship. Even so …

  Alice should mind her own business and let whatever was going to develop between Christian and Devi, run its course. But Alice’s self-contained mother was not a big part of her life and her father had abandoned the family long ago. The thought of her only sibling skipping off miles away to Mumbai made Alice feel nauseous.

  “I promised I would tell you about Harry Horton.” Devi got up and slammed the window closed. “The high street traffic is so loud! That’s why Renton Hall is such an ideal spot for a hotel.”

  “You’re right, it is peaceful there.” Alice picked up the teacup. “Apart from the odd murder, that is.”

  “And why was Nick killed? I’m sure you want to ask me. Well, the answer is because Harry was jealous of Nick.”

  More jealousy? Was there anybody around Nick Carberry that was not envious of him?

  “Nick was always talking about Harry, he was very fond of his younger cousin. Although it was always clear that Nick was the leader – and Harry seemed happy enough to tag along. Actually, Harry has spent most of his life following Nick around.” Devi moved a gold bangle around her wrist. “The Hortons and Carberrys are close families. Harry is an only child and both his parents worked, so Harry would spend his school holidays at Renton Hall. Nick said that Harry tried to stay as long as he could.”

  “Ah. Now I see why he’s so attached to the place. He practically grew up there.”

  “And he was close to Nick’s mo
ther too. Nick told me that his mother was not the most … maternal of women. But she felt sorry for Harry. She made sure he had good food and plenty to do when he stayed at the Hall.”

  The Assam was good, and Alice poured herself another cup.

  “Once they were adults, the two men’s lives diverged. Nick went into advertising and, as you know, set up his own successful business. Harry went into law and has been at the same firm for the past twenty years, his entire career in fact. Nick had a wide circle of friends, some of whom are celebrities, whilst Harry lives a quiet village life.”

  “I don’t see how a different life translates into a motive for murder.”

  “I agree, it’s not obvious. That’s because Harry had become so good at hiding his feelings towards Nick. But the fact is that Harry was consumed with jealousy. He wanted to be Nick, to have everything that Nick had. I’ve seen Harry a lot over the past few months and I saw all the signs. Harry copied the way Nick spoke, the way he sat. He pretended to be interested in the things that Nick enjoyed. And I know for certain that Harry was jealous of my relationship with Nick – he told me so one time.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Food at last.” Devi carried over a plate of fruit. “Please help yourself.”

  Alice selected a slice of mango and dipped it into a pot of yoghurt. “I’m sorry to ask you, Devi, but about your relationship with Nick …”

  Devi kicked off embroidered silk slippers and tucked her legs onto the chair. “I was looking for an advertising agency to launch my first clothing line and I invited C&N to pitch some ideas. I loved their approach and I have to say, I liked Nick straightaway.” She blushed and pulled her hair over her cheek. “Anyway, the launch was a big success. The agency had worked hard and I was delighted with the results. Nick wanted to take our relationship further, and I was pleased that he felt that way because I liked him. Though I didn’t think I could be his girlfriend and his client at the same time.”

  “I understand. That’s a tricky combination.”

  “Nick felt the same way. But as the launch project was finished by then, we were no longer working together. But it did mean that he couldn’t pitch for any future business from me.”

  “Which is why your latest launch is being handled by another agency.” Alice licked yoghurt from her fingers.

  “Yes. Our relationship continued, but just between you and me, Alice,” – Devi leant forward and patted Alice’s knee – “as much as I liked Nick, it was difficult having a long-distance relationship. We wouldn’t see each other for weeks and when we did meet up, we were together all the time. It was exhausting. In fact, I told Nick that I couldn’t carry on, the week before the party.”

  “But you still went. And, if I may say, you looked like you were still a couple.”

  “Nick asked me to go. He didn’t want to let Eleanor down. Anyway, at the family dinner the evening before, Harry made some inappropriate comments about me and Nick. And then he said a terrible thing.” Devi looked out of the window for a moment. “We were talking about Nick’s plans to open a new office in Dublin, when Harry said: ‘Your ambition will be the death of you.’ Everybody else ignored him, but he said it with such force, it scared me. Especially when he repeated it just as I was leaving. I felt that I needed to stay close to Nick.”

  Devi’s dark eyes turned liquid. And for the briefest of moments, Alice wondered whether the tears sprung from the woman or the actress.

  “What about Jeremy Evans? Did Harry kill him too?”

  Devi’s forehead creased. “You mean the gardener? I don’t know what Harry would have had against him.”

  But she didn’t rule out Harry as Jeremy’s killer. Interesting!

  “But as for Nick …” Devi grasped Alice’s arm and looked straight into her eyes. “Alice, I’m absolutely certain that Harry meant to harm Nick. Harry Horton is the murderer.”

  Chapter 11

  A blue tit flitted along the hedgerow, keeping pace with Alice’s pony as it plodded along a narrow path beside a corn field. After promising to book herself a ride, Alice had finally arranged a hack at Farrell’s. She was riding Patches, the pony she saw regularly in a field near Daisy.

  Despite the lapse of time since her last ride, Alice had quickly found the rhythm of the pony’s stride. She relaxed into the saddle, enjoying the patchwork of fields that stretched out to the horizon. Patches followed the instructor’s horse around a stack of newly harvested wheat, through a gap in the hedgerow and into the adjoining field. They cantered to the other side, the wind rushing against Alice’s face. Patches stretched his neck and pushed on faster, hooves thundering on the ground. Alice felt her heart gallop too and she almost whooped out loud. She pulled up and eased out the reins, and they joined a path beneath the trees and headed for home.

  Alice patted the pony’s black-and-white-patched neck. She thought of the photo she had seen of Devi standing beside a similar pony, while modelling her clothing range. The shot was one of several in a brochure produced by Nick Carberry. The glossy pages had perfectly showcased the range and had become a hit on social media, proving Nick’s accurate reading of the market.

  The actress’s assertion that Harry had been jealous of his cousin all his life, and was waiting for the opportunity to kill him, seemed far-fetched indeed. Why would Harry have waited for the night of the party, anyway? He must have had plenty of less public opportunities to bump off his cousin.

  Could it be a classic case of the good-looking, successful man and the not so bright, can’t get the girls, embittered cousin? Hardly – Harry had been successful too. He was married, apparently happily, and had just been promoted. Harry’s slow rise to partner did not seem to have impressed Cheryl, but forty-three seemed a reasonable age for promotion to a senior position in a law partnership.

  And then there was Simon Newgate. Presumably he would get the whole business now, as everyone seemed to assume. Although Simon, too, could have found a less dramatic way of getting rid of his partner.

  Alice did not want murder to spoil her ride. She ran her hand along Patches’ neck and ambled back to the stables.

  Back at Joe’s apartment, Alice showered and dressed. In the spare room, she opened the wardrobe and took out her Mary Potter painting. She gazed over the little brown jug remembering how she had bought the artwork from an online auction. The next day she had fretted over the cost; far more than she could afford. But when the painting had arrived, it was even more beautiful in real life and she had never regretted her purchase. The painting had become her favourite.

  Alice had brought the work with her intending to hang it up in Joe’s apartment. She had hesitated. Hammering a nail into Joe’s wall was so … permanent. But she should make more of an effort to adjust, so she took the painting through to the living room.

  Joe’s desk was in the corner of the room, the shelves above held folders of photographs and books on the craft. He had originally intended using the spare bedroom as an office, but he preferred the light from the balcony’s glass doors and the view over the river. The room was sparsely, but tastefully furnished. Framed photographs lined the walls. Alice had always liked this room and the Mary Potter work would fit in perfectly.

  She attached the fitting to the wall and hooked up the painting. She was straightening the artwork when a key in the lock broke the silence sooner than expected. A bag thudded on the floor.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Joe took off his leather jacket and hung it on the back of a dining chair. “Afternoon off?”

  “I took a break and went riding. Now I’m winding up to start work again.”

  “I see you’ve hung up your painting. It looks good there.”

  “You do like it don’t you?”

  “I do. And that’s a good spot for it.” Joe put his hands on the back of the sofa and stretched.

  “Sore?”

  “Crouch
ing all day to shoot chickens has played havoc with my back.”

  “Chickens? I thought you were at a wedding.”

  “I was. In a barn. They wanted a country touch. So I took pictures of chickens, the bride, the bridesmaids, then more chickens.”

  “They’ll look at the photos in five years and wonder what they were thinking of.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Still, it pays the mortgage. Did I miss anything while I was away?”

  “Jeremy Evans was murdered. At Renton Hall.”

  “Jeez!” Joe walked across the room, opened the balcony door and looked out.

  “But as to why … Eleanor and Nick adored him and I don’t think he could have had an enemy in the world.”

  Joe turned around, hands on hips. “Well, he had at least one. And if you carry on snooping around, you may find yourself going the same way.”

  “I won’t if I get to them first.”

  “I don’t know why you even take the chance. That Salisbury guy has things in hand and I’m sure he doesn’t appreciate you getting involved. Besides, won’t it cut into your work? The Renton Hall job is big enough.”

  “I’ve thought of that and I can juggle things. I’ll complete the job on time. Look, you don’t have to worry about me. Honestly it’ll be fine.”

  Joe gave a wry smile. “So who’s the poor devil next in line for one of your interrogations?”

  “I should have a chat with the person who knew Jeremy best. His wife.”

  Joe crouched beside Alice. “If you really must hunt down killers in your spare time, please be careful.”

  Sarah Evans’ pink-washed cottage lay at the bottom of a tree-lined lane on the edge of Little Cornbury, the village between Great Wheaton and Renton Hall. Butterflies danced over pink roses in Sarah’s vibrant garden. Beneath a pergola dripping with purple foxgloves, Alice tucked into Sarah’s homemade apricot cake.

  “The milk was fresh from the farm next door.” Sarah poured tea from an elephant-shaped teapot. She folded papery, gnarled hands around a sodden handkerchief.