A Narrow Victory

by Faith Martin

  ‘Absolutely,’ Hillary Greene said.

  After their flirting-with-indigestion meal, Jimmy and Hillary returned to the bowels of the building where Zoe had just finished writing up the notes on the Rebecca Morton interview and was adding them to the murder book.

  Jake Barnes looked up as Hillary walked in. ‘Guv, I have those financial reports you wanted. Nothing really stands out, either at Olligree Interiors, or with Colin Harcourt’s double-glazing company. Although the latter has been doing surprisingly well, given the economic downturn. Which does suggest that he might have another income besides the one he’s filing tax returns on. Also, he’s not long sold up and retired. I’ve got feelers out,’ he added, before Hillary could tell him to follow it up. ‘I’ll know more in a couple of days.’

  ‘Right,’ Hillary said, accepting the folder of facts and figures from him with a sigh of weariness. Fascinating bedtime reading, she didn’t think.

  ‘I’ll go over these tonight,’ she said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘I’ve done a summary at the back, in layman’s language, guv,’ Jake said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

  ‘Suck-up!’ Zoe said softly.

  Jake shot her an affable finger.

  ‘OK,’ Hillary said. ‘Well, as a reward for all that number crunching, you can come with me on the next interview. We’re going to talk to the hostess of the party.’

  ‘Oh no, not Querida Phelps!’ Zoe wailed. ‘Oh, guv, I was hoping I could get to do her. After what Rebecca Morton said about her and all, I’m all agog.’

  ‘I’m sure Jake will be able to paint you a picture with words,’ Hillary commiserated.

  ‘Have fun,’ Zoe muttered somewhat mendaciously, watching them leave with a wistful look on her face.

  ‘So, where does this wonderfully named individual live, guv?’ Jake asked, as they trotted up the stairs and into the daylight of the lobby.

  ‘You tell me,’ Hillary said.

  Jake grinned. ‘Still testing me, guv? According to the notes, she’s still in the same house that our murder victim died in. Just the other side of Headington.’

  ‘Find that odd at all?’ Hillary asked thoughtfully, as they stepped out into the car park and paused to let a convoy of patrol cars speed past them on the way out. Probably a pile-up on the M40, Hillary guessed gloomily.

  ‘What? That she didn’t sell up and move out, you mean?’ Jake interrupted her dark thoughts. ‘I suppose, in a way. After all, it can’t be nice knowing that someone was murdered in the place where you’re living. I think most people would sell up and move, if they could. And Mrs Phelps certainly could. I did a quick financial check on her too, and she still is, and always was, wealthy enough to buy a place somewhere else if she’d wanted to.’

  Hillary nodded thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps she’s just not the sensitive type.’

  ‘My car or yours, guv?’ Jake asked, rattling his car keys in his pocket. This morning he was wearing black designer jeans and a mint-green shirt, with a casual white and black summer jacket that had probably cost more than her car had.

  Hillary, with a guilty glance at Puff the Tragic Wagon, kept on walking towards the gleaming racing-green E-type Jag. ‘Oh, yours, I think,’ she said, with no intonation at all.

  Jake Barnes grinned. ‘Yes, guv.’

  Querida Phelps’s house, ‘Spindlewood Grange’, missed being within the boundaries of the suburb of Headington by at least a good mile or so. Set in the rolling hills that would eventually stretch on into the Aylesbury Vale, there was not another house in sight of it.

  Furthermore, it could only be reached by an unadopted tarmac road that led you down past centuries-old large oaks and towering horse chestnuts, to a small tributary of the River Cherwell. It looked to Hillary as if at one point it might have been a working water mill, although there was no trace of a big wheel remaining. However, weeping willows ran the length of the garden, indicating a stream, and lush water meadows stretched as far as the eye could see. Grazed now by black and white cows, in the spring, when they were full of buttercups, they must have looked stunning.

  As Jake parked the car on the gravelled forecourt and they stepped out and looked at the late-seventeenth-century Cotswold stone building, Hillary gave a long, slow whistle.

  ‘No wonder she didn’t want to move, guv,’ Jake said, looking at the beautiful old building in front of him. He noted the newly installed expanses of darkened glass and the modern extension to one side, and nodded. ‘A mix of old and new. I bet it’s got every mod con inside that you could think of. I bet our man had a great time decorating it.’

  ‘Fancy living here yourself then, Jake?’ Hillary asked, then realized, with something of a jolt, that this enigmatic young man beside her actually could have afforded to buy a place like this had it been up for sale.

  ‘Bit too out of the way for me, guv. I like cows and all that, but I’d rather have some people for neighbours as well.’

  ‘Apparently our Mrs Phelps doesn’t share your social leanings,’ Hillary said, and began to look forward to meeting the woman herself. No doubt if she’d had Zoe Turnbull by her side now, she would have been fairly bouncing on her toes in excitement. A seventeenth-century water mill was just the sort of gothic background for a murder that would have had her salivating.

  ‘Let’s just hope the lady of the house is in,’ Hillary said, as she walked past the well-manicured lawns, the colourfully frothing flower borders and, most delightfully of all, a wooden bridge that crossed the stream as it wound in front of the house.

  The front door was, naturally, a double expanse of oak, with ancient-looking wrought black iron garniture. An old-fashioned round-handled bell pull took pride of place, and as Hillary rung it she had a sudden vision of the door being opened by a Lurch-like figure, who would, naturally, tell her that the lady of the house had died two years ago but if they’d like to come in, he’d go and see if she would see them.

  She was fighting back the urge to laugh when the door was abruptly thrown open, making Hillary take an instinctive step back.

  No seven-foot tall, cadaverous-faced butler stood there, but rather a striking woman with waist-length silver-white hair and eyes the colour of aquamarines. She was Hillary’s height but seemed taller, probably because she was as thin as a rake. She was barefoot and wearing a single, floor-length kaftan in a green-blue colour that almost perfectly matched her eyes. Although she could have been aged anywhere between sixty and eighty, she was still stunningly beautiful, with prominent cheekbones and a taunt jawline. She was well tanned too, and had the stained yellowish fingers of a cigarette devotee.

  ‘Yes? If you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses, you can bugger off,’ the vision said, in a perfect Sloane Ranger accent that would have made royalty feel common. The blue eyes sharpened on Jake like a predator, and a wide smile played with the woman’s somewhat over-generous mouth. ‘Although you can come on in, if you like. I’d be more than happy to corrupt you.’

  Jake blinked, then instantly rallied and grinned. ‘Thank you, I’d be honoured. But not while I’m on duty.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, not the rozzers? I only grow a bit of weed for my rheumatism, Officer,’ she mock-whined.

  Hillary reached for her ID. ‘Relax, we’re perfectly harmless. We’re not even real coppers, and have no teeth.’ She instantly fell in with the game. ‘Civilian consultants only, see, and honestly, we don’t give a damn about what you might be growing in your greenhouse. You’re Mrs Phelps, I take it?’

  Querida Phelps rolled her eyes. ‘For my sins. After the bastard died, never married again.’

  ‘So you’re a widow, Mrs Phelps?’

  ‘Dunno, darlin’, I divorced the sod before he popped his clogs. Does that make me his widow anyway?’

  ‘Not technically,’ Hillary said, vastly amused.

  ‘Damn! I rather like playing the role of the merry widow. Oh well, come on in. By the by, if you’re not here to bust me for possession, just what have I done to
bring the constabulary to my door? It’s ages since I streaked at that rugby match at Twickenham, and besides, I deny it utterly. No matter what evidence the centre forward has to the contrary.’

  As she talked, she showed them into a mind-blowing hall. The floor, Hillary realized, was made of reinforced glass, allowing them a view of the river which actually flowed under the house, proof that this had indeed once been an old mill. Back in the day, she suspected this vast space had housed the wheel. Above them, the space rose two storeys up to the rafters, the massive oak beams of which had been carefully preserved. A grandfather clock of impeccable heritage tick-tocked impressively against one bulging, lathe-and-plaster eggshell-blue wall.

  ‘Wow,’ Jake said, looking around. A vast array of copper- and lemon-coloured chrysanthemums stood on the floor in a massive Arts and Crafts beaten copper jug, at least three feet tall.

  ‘Like it?’ Querida Phelps said, waving a hand around. Rings sparkled on every finger, showing off huge stones that ranged from diamonds to rubies to emeralds and the inevitable aquamarines.

  Oh yes, Zoe Turnbull would have loved her, Hillary thought, and half regretted not bringing her.

  ‘I had it re-done yonks ago and never could bring myself to have it changed since. The young man who did it all died, and—’ Suddenly Querida Phelps stopped speaking, and shot a quick, assessing look at them. ‘I’m being frightfully dim, I do apologize. This is all about Felix, isn’t it?’ she said, all playfulness suddenly leaving her.

  Hillary nodded, and explained yet again who they were and what they were doing.

  ‘Right,’ Querida said solemnly. ‘And about time, if you ask me. In that case, let me show you around the ground floor. You can see Felix’s work for yourself. That’ll probably tell you more about him than I ever could. After that, I intend to open an award-winning bottle of Napolean brandy and get thoroughly drunk. And you’re welcome to join me.’

  Hillary looked at the older woman thoughtfully. ‘Still hurts, does it?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Oh yes. Oh no,’ she added, laughing suddenly as she caught the speculation in Hillary’s eye. ‘There was nothing like that going on. Not that I’d have said no, mind you. Felix was a lovely man. But alas, not into older women. I lent him a video of The Graduate but it was no go, I’m afraid. Ah well. It’s just that I got to know Felix really well in the time he did all this for me. And we realised we were kindred spirits, in a way. It made us grow very close.’

  Hillary looked at the vast wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the meadows, the plaster scrollwork on the ceilings around the centre rose where a large chandelier hung, the huge stone-built fireplace, and the ancient oak and peg flooring. ‘Felix made this place come alive, somehow, but without pickling it in amber, or making it look like something from a film set.’ Querida walked towards a drinks cabinet, disguised as an old globe of the world, and did indeed break open an impressive-looking bottle of brandy.

  She brandished it in the air at them, but both Hillary and Jake declined. ‘He and I just saw eye to eye on everything. From the colour scheme—’ All three of them looked around at the pale walls, the colour of ripe corn ‘—to the furnishings—’ She indicated the art deco mirrors, the old Chesterfields, the intricately carved ebony tallboys and tables ‘—and everything in between.’

  Querida took a sip of brandy and eyed the heavy lined velvet curtains in the palest of turquoise brocaded in old gold. ‘It was like magic. He seemed to know exactly what I wanted, and make my vision come true, even when I couldn’t see it for myself.’

  ‘It sounds as if you got on well. Is that why you invited him to the New Year’s Eve party?’ Hillary brought her around to the point.

  The older woman shuddered suddenly, her long white hair rippling as she threw herself down onto the nearest armchair with thoughtless disregard for her clothes, person or the bulbous glass of brandy. Hillary was amused, but not surprised, to see that she never spilt a drop of the precious liquid. ‘Yes. That bloody party. If only I’d known … Well, of course, we never do know what fate holds in store for us, do we, I’m glad to say. Cheers!’ She took a good slug of the brandy. ‘Oh yeah, that really hits the spot,’ she said with an almost feral grin. Her teeth, Hillary noted, were still all her own, and not particularly even or white, but somehow that imperfection only added to her overall glamour.

  With her eye-watering jewellery and her cut-glass accent, added to her over-the-top personality, it was easy to see why the likes of Rebecca Morton had been so impressed with her. She was a lady, the real deal, the kind who wouldn’t have dreamed of making any apology for themselves, or the way they lived their lives. Now she sipped her brandy, and stared up at her crystal chandelier with a brooding, fading, decadent loveliness about her that would no doubt have had Zoe Turnbull worshipping at her feet.

  Hillary eyed the older woman thoughtfully. She was obviously bra-less, for the old silk kaftan clung to her revealingly, but she would have bet her next month’s salary that Querida Phelps was genuinely unaware of the figure she created, and wouldn’t have cared less if she had been.

  She glanced across at Jake Barnes, who was watching the performance with a man’s typical approval, and Hillary bit back a smile. Time to get down to work.

  ‘What can you tell me about that night, Mrs Phelps?’

  ‘Oh, call me Querida, darlin’, everyone does. And that night? That night was wonderful and hellish in about equal measure. It was wonderful in that it was the last day of an old millennium and everyone was in an almost feverish party spirit. I had ordered so much champagne that we were awash in it. I had gone overboard, as usual, in deciding to make it fancy dress. So retro but there you go. Although in my defence, it hadn’t been my own original idea, but when my pal suggested it I leapt on it like a panther. I mean, what else could you do for the millennium but go over the top? Everyone turned up looking a scream – we had grizzly bears, spacemen, tarts and vicars, tramps, and of course milkmaids and women who would insist on coming dressed like something from the bloody French Revolution!’ She laughed dismissively, and Hillary couldn’t help but wince for poor Becky Banks, who’d been so proud of her Marie Antoinette outfit. ‘I was dressed as Lady Godiva, of course,’ she said, and eyed Jake hopefully. ‘I was younger then, let me say in my own defence. And the long blonde wig I wore was very long, and very bushy. Oh, all right, I had a flesh-coloured body stocking too. I admit it.’

  Jake grinned at her. ‘I wish I’d been there.’

  ‘Me too. And of course, Felix came as a romantic poet. Well, he would, wouldn’t he, he had just the looks for it. That sort of too-good-for-this-world, delicate male beauty that you see when you look at those engravings of Keats and the rest of that crowd. He looked good enough to eat, let me tell you.’

  ‘But you and he weren’t lovers?’ Hillary pressed.

  ‘No, worse luck.’

  ‘Do you think he was gay?’ Hillary asked. ‘Only we keep getting mixed views on that.’

  ‘Gay? Well, I suppose he could have been,’ Querida said vaguely, taking another sip of her brandy. ‘Mind you, I’m not so vain as to think that any man who didn’t want to shag me had to be bent, mind. But no, I don’t think so. He came with a girlfriend. Some vapid blonde, I seem to remember.’

  Again Hillary had to fight back a small wince on Becky’s behalf.

  ‘Did you see him getting drunk?’

  ‘No. I was surprised, to tell you the truth, when that came out at the inquest.’ Querida shifted her position slightly on the Chesterfield. ‘He’d had ample opportunity during the months he worked here to make full use of the wine cellar, or the good old globe over there—’ She wafted her exquisite, balloon-shaped brandy glass towards the liquor cabinet ‘—but he never indulged. And I never saw him with a proper drink in his hand during that night, either.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ Hillary said. ‘Neither DI Varney, the original investigator, nor myself, can seem to find anyone at that party who admits to
seeing Felix drinking heavily. The DI made a point of asking your bartender for that evening, the very good-looking …’ For a second, Hillary couldn’t remember the man’s name, and Jake smoothly provided it.

  ‘Peter Goodman.’

  ‘Right, Peter Goodman. And he said in his original interview that the few times that he remembers serving Felix drinks, it was either a fruit juice or some sort of shandy. Which ties in with what his girlfriend said he was drinking,’ Hillary carried on.

  ‘Peter, very good-looking?’ Querida Phelps snorted inelegantly. ‘Whoever told you that needs glasses,’ she laughed, making Hillary wonder just how potent the brandy was that she was drinking, and whether or not their wild-child of a hostess might have a surprising inability to hold her liquor. ‘Peter’s a lovely boy, and the nephew of a great friend of mine. She helped me set the party up, as it happens. But he’s hardly what you’d call an Adonis!’ She laughed, then yawned hugely. ‘Sorry. Pardon me. Manners of a navvy, my old nanny always said. And Peter bunked off right after midnight in order to go to a party of his own. Not that I minded; by then everyone was more or less as pissed as the proverbial newt and helping themselves anyway. Much less conventional that way, I always think.’

  ‘Mrs Phelps …’

  ‘Querida.’

  ‘Sorry, Querida. Did Felix ever talk about himself much? While he was doing all this for you.’ Hillary indicated the huge living area. ‘Did he tell you about losing a friend, for instance, Harry Fletcher?’

  ‘Oh, I knew he was sad about that. He came here after going to the funeral, and I could tell he was down. He even flirted with the idea of fern-patterned wallpaper so I knew something was drastically wrong with him.’ She opened her eyes dramatically wide. ‘I mean, ferns! Of course, he ditched the idea and apologized, and that’s when he told me that he’d just been to a friend’s funeral and obviously wasn’t thinking straight. I offered him whisky, vermouth, gin, you name it, but he would only drink tea. But then, that was Felix,’ Querida said, with a sleepy sigh. ‘You know, I think I’ll take a nap now.’