He scoured up the ride, and found what he was looking for: an area of grass that had been trampled into mud.
‘This is the site of the number seven peg, Joanna Dodd’s,’ he said. ‘The saboteurs crowded round, provoking her, and then I joined her and so did the Glavens. She’d have been standing just about here.’
He marked the spot by sticking a hazel twig into the earth and flagging it with a page torn from his pocket diary.
Hilary was walking round the trampled area. For all her elegance, she was dressed for the job in trench coat and boots. ‘Is this from the wrecked video camera?’ she said, picking up a chunk of black plastic casing that had been half-trodden into the mud.
‘That’s it,’ agreed Martin. ‘No doubt the sabs removed the rest of it, as evidence against Lewis Glaven. He really was an idiot. He could have got away with destroying their film, but not the camcorder as well. He seemed to lose his head completely.’
‘Pity about that film,’ said Quantrill, ‘it might have been useful to us. You didn’t by any chance take your own camera to the shoot?’
‘I did, but I knew I’d be busy with the gun so I asked Alison to take the photographs. Lewis Glaven wouldn’t allow it, though.’
‘Sensible man,’ said Quantrill. He sounded as though he might be about to make one of his disapproving-prospective-father-in-law comments, so Martin cut him short.
‘Shall we get on with the job?’
Impatient to check his own peg, he paced out the distance as the gamekeeper would have done. He flagged Will’s peg at forty yards, and his own forty yards further on.
His markers were only estimates, of course: the scenes-of-crime team would be able to identify the peg sites accurately. But as he stood facing the wood the pheasants had flown from, he was confident that he’d got it right within a yard or two. Certainly the landscape seemed familiar enough, given that some of the trees had shed their leaves by the bucketful overnight.
Taking up his shooting stance, he recreated the shot that had been worrying him ever since he’d fired it. Raising an imaginary shotgun at an imaginary pheasant as it overflew the line – arguably low – he swung round to his right and took an imaginary shot. Missing it, he fired the second barrel as the bird went gliding down, and missed again. Then he held his stance.
He had transferred his weight to his right foot and he was now pointing his imaginary gun towards the trees that had been directly behind him. He shifted his gaze to the right, searching the bushes to identify the place where Hope Meynell had been shot.
When he finally caught a glimpse of blue police overalls, up near the trees, they were much further over to his right than he’d realised. He sighed with relief.
He didn’t need any measurements to reassure him: his shots would have gone nowhere near Hope. Even if he’d been pointing his gun in that direction, she would have been well out of range. He was in the clear, and forensic science would prove it!
For a moment he felt elated. But then he sobered. As far as he could judge, Hope would have been somewhere opposite pegs six or seven when she fell. The nearest Guns were therefore Will and Joanna; one or other of them would have to bear the responsibility, and that was going to be hard.
It had been quite bad enough for him, an outsider, to feel that he was responsible for accidentally wounding Hope Meynell. But it was going to be a hell of a lot worse either for Will Glaven, who loved her, or for Joanna Dodd, whose social circle would forever suspect her of having taken a jealous shot at her rival.
Chapter Eighteen
At the back of Chalcot House a breeze was stripping the last of the leaves from the shrubbery, twirling them round the stable yard and bundling them into corners. There were two vehicles in the yard, and both of them had been parked there long enough to be littered with dead leaves.
Chief Inspector Quantrill had arranged that he and Hilary would call on Lewis Glaven, before they left Chalcot, to take his statement. Tait went with them, to enquire after Hope before he went to see Alison. Quantrill had left his own car in the yard, and he was interested that the vehicle parked beside it was the one whose driver they’d disapproved of earlier that morning.
‘Ah, the shiny Daihatsu Fourtrak,’ said Hilary. She walked round it, amused. ‘It doesn’t look as though it ever goes offroad, but there are enough extras on it for a safari.’
‘D’you know who it belongs to, Martin?’ asked Quantrill.
‘A man called Brunt. I saw him here yesterday morning. He’s a self-important butcher who thinks he’s a crack shot. He turned up in shooting gear just as Lewis Glaven was briefing us, and offered to pay to join the shoot. Lewis sent him off with a flea in his ear. He was furious, so red and puffed-up I thought he’d burst.’
‘He doesn’t seem to have taken permanent offence, anyway,’ said Quantrill. ‘Go on, Martin, you’re the one who’s known round here: we’ll let you ring the door bell.’
The housekeeper, though gypsy-smart as always, was clearly in a state of some anxiety. Her neck was flushed, her eyes were over-bright, and she fussed conspicuously over the expected visitors.
‘Is there any news from the hospital?’ asked Tait, as she darted ahead of them to the gun room and threw an unnecessary extra log on the fire.
‘Not yet – but no news is good news, isn’t it?’ Ann Harbord gabbled, attacking the logs with a poker and sending up a shower of sparks. The panelled room was mellow with sunlight, tidied but not yet thoroughly cleaned, with a lingering morning-after scent of cigars, doggy tweeds and whisky.
‘Mr Glaven …’ She paused to take a deep breath in a conspicuous effort to calm her voice. ‘Mr Glaven went to the hospital first thing this morning, and he said he hoped not to keep you waiting. Can I offer you coffee? Or something else …’
‘Coffee will be just right, thank you,’ said Quantrill. And then, curious to know more about the Daihatsu driver: ‘I’m sure I recognise that Fourtrak out there …’
Mrs Harbord was no longer merely flushed, she was definitely flustered.
‘It belongs to a – er – a local man. He called to ask after Miss Meynell, so I offered him a cup of coffee. Of course, I wouldn’t normally entertain him when Mr Glaven’s at home. But in the circumstances, with all the worry …’
‘It helps to talk to a friend,’ supplied Hilary.
‘It does indeed!’
The housekeeper gave the sergeant a grateful smile, regained her composure and darted off, ear-rings swinging. When she returned with the coffee tray Tait asked, ‘Is Laura home yet?’
It was clear that her daughter’s whereabouts were not Ann Harbord’s chief consideration. For a second she looked blank.
‘Oh – not yet,’ she said, elaborately casual. She pushed down the plunger of the cafetière. ‘I’m expecting her tonight. Or perhaps after school tomorrow.’
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘No … But –’
An alarm bell began to ring in Tait’s head. Quantrill and Hilary looked up; he stood up: ‘Do you know where Laura stayed last night? Have you spoken to anyone who’s seen her?’
‘No, but –’
‘For God’s sake, Mrs Harbord,’ Tait snapped. ‘Your daughter’s– what – fifteen years old? Don’t you care where she is?’
‘Of course I care!’ The housekeeper’s flushed neck darkened from pink to angry red and she poured the coffee with a shaking hand. ‘But it’s been a dreadful time for Mr Glaven and I’ve been doing all I can to support him. You told me Laura had been seen with Darren Jermyn after the shoot, so I knew she must be all right.’
‘Didn’t you do as I said, and ring round Laura’s friends?’
‘No, not after you’d told me she’d been seen.’ Aggrieved, the housekeeper put down the cafetière and appealed to Hilary.
‘Laura was being extra difficult, and I finally lost my patience with her. I know what she’s doing, she’s staying away for the weekend to punish me. Well, I wasn’t going to humiliate myself by ringing
round after her – you can understand that, can’t you?’
Hilary calmed her. ‘Do please sit down, Mrs Harbord. Tell us about Darren Jermyn. Is he Laura’s regular boyfriend? Would she have spent the night at his house?’
No longer on the defensive, Ann Harbord suddenly seemed to realise that Laura’s absence was potentially serious. For the first time, she sounded shaken.
‘Laura wouldn’t be with Darren – he lodges in the village, and his landlady’s very strict. Anyway, their silly affair’s finished, and a good thing too. They were all over each other in the summer, but then Laura went off him. He sometimes hangs about looking hopeful, but she’s not interested.’
‘It was Darren she was seen with yesterday afternoon,’ Tait reminded her.
‘Well, she still talks to him. I saw them talking outside here yesterday morning. But there’s none of the lovey-dovey stuff. All she cares about these days is pheasants.’ Ann blew her nose resentfully.
‘You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Harbord,’ said Quantrill. ‘I’m sure there’s no cause for alarm, but we’d all like to know exactly where Laura is. Will you please ring round her friends right away, while we’re still here? Just to check.’
All three of them smiled reassuringly at Ann Harbord as she retreated. As soon as she’d gone, Quantrill and Hilary looked uneasily at Tait.
‘That information about her being seen with the boy after the shoot,’ said Quantrill. ‘No doubt there’s more to it than you let on?’
‘Yes. It was the gamekeeper who saw them, and he said they were “messing about with each other”.’
‘Oh my God …’ sighed Quantrill, contemplating the worst possible outcome.
But Hilary deplored his inclination to gloom. ‘They’ve been in love before and they could be in love again,’ she said. ‘Let’s be positive for once. Mrs Harbord will find that Laura’s been staying with one of her friends, Hope Meynell will make a good recovery – and we shall drink this coffee before it’s cold. Now, can we get on with taking Martin’s statement?’
As they did so, they heard low voices in the corridor and the opening and closing of the back door. The gun room overlooked the yard, and they saw a squat figure climbing up into the driving seat of the Fourtrak. Mr Brunt the butcher was evidently on his way home.
Half an hour later, when the statement and the supplementary questions and the coffee were all finished, they heard a vehicle crunching up over the gravel. Lewis Glaven’s Range Rover came to a stop and he eased himself out wearily, looking as though he’d aged a decade overnight. His two labradors stepped out after him, as subdued as their master.
There could be no doubt about the news he was bringing to his housekeeper. Martin felt his insides knot with dread as he hurriedly opened the door of the room, so that they could all hear.
Lewis Glaven spoke heavily, without any preliminaries.
‘Miss Meynell has died.’
‘Oh, Mr Glaven …’ There was a deep and scarcely disguised affection in the housekeeper’s voice. ‘I am so very sorry … And poor Major Will – how has he taken it?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Harbord.’ Lewis Glaven’s own voice was flattened by weariness. ‘Will’s gone straight to the stables – riding’s the best therapy for him. Police still here, are they?’
‘Would you like me to send them away? I’m sure you don’t want them bothering you at a time like this.’
‘No, no, I must talk to them. Might as well get it over. Ask them to bear with me for five minutes. And then coffee for anyone who wants it, please, and perhaps some sandwiches …’
‘Of course, Mr Glaven!’
The detectives stood tactfully out of sight as he walked on past the open door of the gun room. But Quantrill, glancing back down the corridor towards Mrs Harbord, was greatly intrigued by what he saw.
The sadness in her voice was belied by her expression as her eyes followed Lewis Glaven. It was a shining expression such as Douglas Quantrill had once seen on Molly’s face, a very long time ago. He recognised its components immediately.
He was then an over-sexed young fool of twenty-one, in an antique world where condoms were as difficult to come by as willing girls. Telling Molly he loved her had produced the desired effect, but he hadn’t reckoned on making her pregnant. The expression was the one she’d worn when Douglas, cornered by her father, had finally agreed to marry her.
That was exactly how Ann Harbord was gazing after Lewis Glaven: with great relief, with love, with happiness, and with an unmistakable gleam of triumph.
When Lewis Glaven entered the gun room, followed by his dogs, he was freshly shaven and brushed. His eyes were heavily bagged and his face was almost as grey as his moustache, but he was clearly making an effort to appear normal. He accepted their condolences and then, a good host as always, offered them a choice of drinks. His housekeeper had already put fresh coffee on the table, and an attractively presented platter of cold roast beef sandwiches.
‘To be frank,’ Glaven said, standing with his back to the fire beside his recumbent dogs, and swallowing whisky and water, ‘Hope’s death came as something of a blessing. She’d have been permanently brain-damaged if she’d survived. That doesn’t lessen our distress, of course. Nor my son’s grief. Nor her father’s, poor devil …’
‘Wasn’t her mother there?’ asked Hilary.
‘Her mother’s dead.’ Glaven reached absently for one of the crustless sandwiches, filled with thinly sliced rare beef. ‘Naturally, I told Meynell that I take full responsibility for what happened. Never forgive myself … And I’ll never hold another driven shoot at Chalcot. Told the keeper so last night.’
He finished the sandwich, poured himself a second drink, and agreed with Quantrill that he was ready to give his statement. Hilary turned to a new page in her pocket-book. Martin, remembering reluctantly that as a witness he could take no further part in the investigation, made an excuse and got up to go. His host accompanied him to the door of the room.
Martin was badly shaken by Hope’s death. Such beauty … Such a waste … And what must Will Glaven be feeling? What would he himself have felt if the victim had been Alison?
He began to express his sympathy to Lewis Glaven by way of farewell, but his host cut him short.
‘Thank you. Thank you, I’ll pass on your message to Will.’ Glaven gave Martin a penetrating look and a brisk handshake, and told him to see himself out.
It was an anti-climactic departure from Chalcot House, after the hopes Martin had arrived with yesterday. But until he’d been officially cleared of blame for the accident, he could hardly expect a cordial invitation to return. And even then …
He drove away feeling low. The recollection that he was going to see Alison didn’t cheer him, because he would have to break the news of Hope’s death to her and she was bound to be distressed.
It cheered him even less to think that he would then have to endure Sunday lunch with his prospective mother-in-law.
Lewis Glaven’s account of the circumstances leading up to the shooting tallied with Martin Tait’s, given that he had witnessed them from a different peg.
‘And you all stay on your pegs, do you?’ asked Quantrill. ‘You don’t move away to get a better shot?’
Glaven looked shocked. ‘Certainly not. That’s one of the principles of shooting driven game. Besides, it’s a question of safety. If people move about, they’re liable to be hit.’
‘I’d have thought that was a good reason’, said Quantrill bluntly, ‘for not taking an inexperienced young woman to watch a shoot at close quarters.’
Lewis Glaven sighed, as if despairing of making him understand. ‘It’s traditional, d’you see. A traditional part of English country house life.’
Hilary was trying not to look amused at this reversal of Quantrill’s authority on country matters. He declined to meet her eye.
‘It’s also traditional, I believe,’ he said, ‘for the Guns to drink alcohol during a shoot.’
‘Certainly.
Damn cold, waiting about. Need something to warm you up. Besides, alcohol’s a relaxant. It makes for better shooting.’
‘But not for safer shooting.’
Lewis Glaven’s voice took on an irritated edge. ‘We pride ourselves on safe shooting, here at Chalcot. All the Guns yesterday were experienced shots.’
He said it with complete conviction. There was nothing in his tone or his look to suggest that he was excluding Martin Tait from his warranty. But Quantrill realised well enough that the exclusion was implied.
To state it would of course point to Martin as the Gun most likely to have been careless enough to shoot Hope Meynell. Lewis Glaven was clearly too courteous a host to suggest any such thing. Even so, the unspoken suggestion floated in the air of the room, as tenuous and pervasive as smoke from the log fire.
Whatever Quantrill himself felt about Martin, this was an occasion for closing ranks.
‘Chief Inspector Tait is well aware of the importance of safe shooting,’ he said. ‘He’s an excellent shot on the police firing range – but as you know, he’d never before been to a shoot. I can’t help wondering why you invited him to a private shooting party.’
‘Not for his own sake,’ said Lewis Glaven promptly. ‘Perfectly presentable and agreeable, of course. But it was his girlfriend I particularly wanted here this weekend.’
‘My daughter?’
‘Didn’t know who she was at the time, but yes. I’d met them together at the County Show, d’you see. Charming girl, and rather like my son’s girlfriend – not used to shooting, either of them. That’s why I asked Tait to bring her, to keep Hope company. Your daughter did an excellent job. Very grateful to her.’
‘Thank you – now I understand.’ Quantrill sighed: ‘Alison will be grieved that it’s ended like this. She was saying last night that if only she hadn’t tripped, she would have caught up with Hope and possibly saved her.’
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