by HANNA, H. Y.
And Caitlyn was also aware that there were still other suspects: Amelia, for instance, and the mystery of the anonymous note asking her to steal the bloodstone ring… The maid herself could have killed Mrs Brixton… or the writer of the note, if such a person really existed… After all, it was true that the ring was still missing and if Matt wasn’t involved in its theft, then who was?
Caitlyn sighed. “All right, I… I won’t say anything for now,” she said, emphasising the last word. “But after the Garden Party is over tomorrow… well, I suppose I’ll decide then.”
Pomona looked as if she wanted to protest some more, but she could see that Caitlyn wasn’t going to be persuaded further. She bit her lip, then nodded and said, “Thanks. Okay, that’s fair, I guess.”
“In the meantime—” Caitlyn broke off as she heard her name being called.
Both girls stood up from the bench and walked out of the secluded corner. They were surprised to see a uniformed constable standing on the other side of the garden.
“Miss Le Fey? Caitlyn Le Fey? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” Caitlyn called, walking over to meet him, with Pomona at her heels.
“Please come with me, miss. The inspector would like to speak to you,” he said formally.
Wondering what this was all about, Caitlyn followed the young constable around the side of the house and back out to the gravel driveway which swept around the front of the Manor. She saw Inspector Walsh standing at the edge of the front lawns, on the other side of the driveway. He had a companion—a short man in his sixties, wearing a brown tweed three-piece suit and old-fashioned spectacles perched on the end of his nose. They looked up as the girls approached, then the bespectacled man jumped forwards and jabbed a finger in Caitlyn’s direction.
“That’s her!” he cried excitedly. “That’s the girl who brought me the stolen ring!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Caitlyn stared at the strange man, then looked at Inspector Walsh in confusion. The CID detective cleared his throat and beckoned the girls over to join them.
“We circulated the description of the stolen ring yesterday afternoon,” he explained. “Mr Digweed here contacted us this morning. He says that a young lady brought a ring, which matched the description of the stolen bloodstone ring, into his antique jewellery store yesterday morning.”
“Yes!” said the man, fairly dancing around in his excitement. “Yes, and I tell you—it’s her! It’s this girl here!” He pointed frantically at Caitlyn.
“Now, are you quite sure, sir?” asked Inspector Walsh. “It may be possible that—”
“Of course I’m sure!” cried Digweed indignantly. “You can’t miss that red hair.” He thrust his nose in Caitlyn’s face and scowled at her. “Thought you could fob off stolen property on me, did you? Thought you could trick me, eh?”
“I…” Caitlyn stared at him, dumbfounded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve never met you before in my life.”
“Don’t try to wriggle out of it!” cried Digweed. “You came into my shop yesterday morning and showed me the stolen ring. You asked me to clean it—”
“Are you sure it couldn’t have been another girl, sir?” asked Inspector Walsh again. “Perhaps you didn’t see her clearly and she merely resembled Miss Le Fey superficially.”
“Yeah, maybe you forgot what she looked like and are just jumping on Caitlyn ’cos she’s got red hair,” said Pomona.
Digweed glared at her. “My memory is crystal clear, thank you very much! I can even tell you what she was wearing: she had sunglasses and high heels and a one piece what-do-you-call-them things… a jumpsuit, like Jane Fonda in Charlie’s Angels.”
“Hang on, hang on!” cried Pomona. “Jane Fonda wasn’t in Charlie’s Angels.”
Digweed jutted his chin out. “Of course she was! She was the blonde one.”
Pomona rolled her eyes. “That was Farrah Fawcett!”
“No, no, it was Jane Fonda,” insisted Digweed. “She had big bouffant blonde hair.”
“I’m telling you it wasn’t Jane Fonda in Charlie’s Angels!” Pomona’s voice was getting shrill with exasperation. “Boy, if you’re mixing up Jane Fonda and Farrah Fawcett just ’cos they had the same hair, I don’t think we can trust your identification of Caitlyn as the girl with the stolen ring either!”
Inspector Walsh was obviously coming to the same conclusion. Clearing his throat, he turned to Digweed and said: “We are grateful for your assistance, sir, but perhaps you would like to revise your statement—”
“What do you mean, revise my statement? I stand by what I saw,” Digweed blustered. “Just because this girl here…” he shot a baleful look at Pomona, “…is trying to cast aspersions on me—”
“What’s going on?” James Fitzroy came suddenly out of the front entrance of the Manor, followed by his English mastiff.
“Lord Fitzroy.” Inspector Walsh inclined his head. “Allegedly, Miss Le Fey was seen at an antique jewellery store in Gloucester yesterday morning. According to Mr Digweed, who owns the store, she showed him the stolen ring and asked him to clean it.”
“But that’s impossible,” said James. “Miss Le Fey was here having breakfast with me for most of yesterday morning. In fact, you saw her yourself, Inspector, and I can personally vouch for the fact that she did not leave Huntingdon Manor until nearly eleven o’clock.” He looked at Digweed. “What time did you see your young lady?”
“Around ten o’clock,” Digweed admitted reluctantly.
“Well, that could not possibly have been Miss Le Fey. You must have made a mistake.”
“But—!” Digweed’s face went red and he looked for a moment as if he would burst into another tirade. But James’s cool authority obviously made him think twice. He gave Caitlyn a resentful look and said sullenly, “Well, she looks a lot like her.”
“I don’t suppose you have any CCTV cameras installed in the shop?” asked James.
“Of course not!” said Digweed, outraged. “I run a respectable, old-fashioned establishment, sir. I certainly don’t have cameras spying on people!”
“You said the girl asked you to clean the ring,” said Inspector Walsh. “Do you know why she did that?”
The little man drew himself up proudly. “Ah, that is because I specialise in cleaning and restoring antique rings. There is no other jeweller quite as experienced as me in the whole county—perhaps in the whole of England! Even the Queen herself once asked me to Buckingham Palace to seek my opinion on the cleaning of a ring in Her Majesty’s collection.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure your skills are exemplary, Mr Digweed, but what I meant was, did she want the stolen ring cleaned for a particular reason?”
Digweed frowned. “In a way. It was slightly bizarre, to tell you the truth. She showed me the ring and told me that it was very old and needed a thorough clean. In particular, she said, the stone needed polishing.”
“Why was that strange?” asked Inspector Walsh.
“Well, on first inspection, sir, it all looked fine to me. There didn’t seem to be that much grime on the ring and the stone itself looked very clean. I even suggested to the girl that it probably didn’t need cleaning and that additional polishing wouldn’t increase the stone’s lustre either. But she insisted and was prepared to pay for my time, so I agreed to do the job.”
“When did she come back to collect the ring?”
“She asked me to have it ready by yesterday evening and said she would pay extra for the express service. She came to pick it up just as the shop was closing. She paid cash,” he added, as if sensing the inspector’s next question. “So I don’t have any credit card records or similar.”
“Did the ring need cleaning after all?” asked James.
Digweed turned back to him. “Yes, that is what was so strange. When I started to work on it, I found that, in fact, there was grime and dirt on the ring—at least, it was coming off on the cleaning cloths! But it didn’t appear dirty when you
just looked at it. And the bloodstone… ah, now that was the strangest part of all. As I polished it, an engraving on the surface of the stone seemed to appear.”
“An enchanted ring!” Pomona whispered excitedly in Caitlyn’s ear.
“Are you sure?” James looked disbelieving. “Engravings are cut into the surface of a stone. They can’t just appear like that.”
“This one did,” Digweed insisted. “I was quite flabbergasted when I noticed it.”
“What was the engraving?” Pomona asked eagerly
Digweed screwed his eyes up. “I couldn’t say with certainty. It looked like a pair of wings—”
“Butterfly wings?”
“No.”
“Angel wings?”
“No, no… more like… bat wings.”
“I don’t suppose you took a photograph of the engraving?” asked the inspector hopefully.
“No, of course not,” said the jeweller, affronted again. “I respect people’s privacy and I would never make a visual record of their jewellery without their permission!” He calmed down slightly. “In any case, I had no idea that it was a stolen item. I didn’t see the police circular until this morning—and I called the station as soon as I realised!”
“Yes, yes, very indebted to you, sir,” muttered Inspector Walsh. “Thank you, Mr Digweed—you have been more than helpful. One of the constables will go over your statement and drive you back to your store.”
The little man bustled off with a uniformed constable, leaving the rest of them standing on the front lawns.
“It wasn’t me,” Caitlyn spoke. “I really don’t know who he saw but I can promise you, Inspector, that it wasn’t me. I never saw that man before today!”
Inspector Walsh gave her a thoughtful look. “Hmm… yes, well…”
“Inspector, surely you have to accept that Caitlyn—I mean, Miss Le Fey, has a rock-solid alibi this time?” asked James impatiently.
The inspector held his hand up placatingly. “Yes, yes, I am not questioning her alibi, especially since I saw her myself yesterday morning. I was thinking something else: red hair isn’t that common but it is a very recognisable trait. Either we have to believe that by a very great coincidence, the thief who murdered Mrs Brixton and stole the ring also had red hair or…”
“Or they wore a red wig on purpose!” said Pomona.
The inspector nodded approvingly. “Yes, that is the other possibility that crossed my mind.”
“But why?” asked Caitlyn. “Why would anybody want to impersonate me?”
“To throw suspicion your way and distract the police,” said James. “Someone who knew that you were one of the suspects and thought that a red wig would be an easy way to muddy the waters.”
Caitlyn didn’t know what to say. To her relief, the inspector seemed to be fed-up with the whole thing and keen to return to his other investigations. After promising to keep James updated on any further developments, he took his leave.
It was only as his car drove down the driveway and out of sight that Caitlyn remembered the dilemma with Matt O’Brien. She sighed. Well, it was too late now. And she had promised Pomona not to say anything for the time being, she reminded herself. She would simply have to wait until after the Garden Party and make up her mind then.
James excused himself to return to his study, leaving the two girls alone on the front lawns.
“Are you going back to the village now?” Pomona asked her.
“Yeah, I was planning to—why?”
“Have you decided what you’re wearing to the Garden Party?”
“What I’m wearing?” Caitlyn looked at her cousin blankly.
“Yes, your outfit for the party. Omigod, Caitlyn—don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it?”
“No,” Caitlyn confessed. “There’s been too much going on. Why—have you decided what to wear?”
“Of course! I thought about it the first time James mentioned the party to me. Luckily, I have a couple of little numbers in my overnight case that I keep in the car,” said Pomona with a wink.
Caitlyn hid a smile. She was sure that Pomona’s “overnight case” probably had a bigger range of fashion items than most people’s entire summer wardrobes.
“Well, I didn’t really bring anything smart with me to the Cotswolds,” said Caitlyn. “It’s mostly just jeans and T-shirts. Hey, it was supposed to be a vacation in the country—I wasn’t expecting to have to dress up,” she said defensively as she saw Pomona’s look of derision.
“Well, you’ll just have to borrow one of my dresses,” said Pomona. “You can’t turn up at the Manor tomorrow dressed in jeans and a T-shirt! This is, like, an English summer garden party, Caitlyn, and you know how proper British events always are. Everyone will be looking their best. It would be rude and disrespectful to James if you didn’t follow the etiquette.”
“Okay,” said Caitlyn hesitantly. “But we’re not really the same size, Pomie—”
“We’re similar enough,” said Pomona. “C’mon! Come up to my room and try on some of the things I’ve got.”
Caitlyn followed her cousin back into the Manor. Pomona’s room was similar to the elegant suite that she had stayed in two nights before and Caitlyn felt a slight pang of envy towards her cousin for getting to stay in such luxurious splendour. The place was a mess, though, with shoes kicked off everywhere and colourful clothes strewn all over the bed.
“Here… these should fit you…” said Pomona, dragging a couple of dresses out of the open case next to the bed. “I think the yellow would go fantastic with your red hair!”
Caitlyn surveyed the offerings doubtfully. She and Pomona had very different tastes. Her cousin was like a bird of paradise, loving anything bright and colourful—and the more sequins, the better! Caitlyn preferred her wardrobe in more muted tones of aubergine, olive, pale mauve, dove grey… and usually in soft natural fabrics like cotton and cashmere. She held up one of Pomona’s dresses and regarded it warily. It was made of clinging Lycra and was covered in a geometric pattern of red and green.
“Try it on!” Pomona urged.
Caitlyn did as she was bid, then stared in horror at her reflection in the mirror. “I look like a sausage in Christmas gift wrap!” she cried.
“Oh, pul-lease!” said Pomona, grinning. “It looks great on you! Look how it shows off your curves.”
“It’s not showing off my curves—it’s making me look fat! I want to hide my hips, not shine a spotlight on them!”
“Okay, okay—try this one then,” said Pomona, handing her another dress, this time in an alarming shade of fuchsia.
Caitlyn tried on dress after dress and cringed a little bit more every time she looked in the mirror. Finally, she stood exhausted in the last dress that Pomona had handed her.
“You’re so fussy!” Pomona said irritably. She mimicked Caitlyn’s voice: “‘Not too tight! Not too colourful! Not too short! Not too skimpy!’ Seriously, Caitlyn, you’ve gotta loosen up a bit when it comes to your wardrobe. This is fashion, honey—it’s supposed to be attention-grabbing. Anyway, you can’t say no to this one—it ticks every box you were complaining about.”
Caitlyn looked at her reflection. Well, at least the dress wasn’t stretched tight across her thighs and hips… and the colour was okay: a sort of turquoise—still on the bright side but at least it was plain, with no patterns. And it was made of silk, which skimmed more than it clung. The neckline still plunged far lower than Caitlyn was comfortable with—she adjusted it again, trying to hitch it up a bit higher so as not to show so much of her cleavage—but compared to some of the other dresses, it was practically prudish.
In any case, Pomona was right. She didn’t have anything else suitable of her own and she had to wear a decent dress to the party tomorrow.
“All right,” she said with a resigned sigh, hoping that she wouldn’t regret it. “I’ll wear this one.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Caitlyn drove slowly back to Tillyhenge, her thoug
hts divided between the murder investigation and the dress she would have to wear to the Garden Party tomorrow. Both subjects made her uneasy and she kept wondering if she had made the right decision in both cases.
As she was locking her car, she heard her name being called and looked up in surprise to see Angela Skinner approaching her across the village green. She hadn’t seen the other woman since the day they’d met at the stone circle—the day Mrs Brixton was murdered, Caitlyn reminded herself. Angela was walking towards her now with a friendly smile. It was so unexpected that Caitlyn almost did a double take.
“Hello, Caitlyn! How are you?”
“I… I’m fine,” stammered Caitlyn.
“I came to apologise,” said Angela, to Caitlyn’s even greater astonishment. “About your alibi,” she added. “When Inspector Walsh questioned me, it completely slipped my mind that we’d met by the stone circle… how silly of me!” She gave a tinkle of laughter. “It didn’t cause too much trouble for you, did it? I hope you’ll forgive me?”
Caitlyn shifted uncomfortably as the other woman looked at her with wide, innocent eyes. “Er… yeah, sure. It’s no big deal.”
Angela beamed. “I’m so glad! You know, I’ve been thinking—we got off on the wrong foot, as they say, and I’d really like to wipe the slate clean and start again. So as a gesture of goodwill, I wanted to tell you that I’d be happy to give you a discount at my boutique.”
“Your boutique?”
“Oh, didn’t you know? I own a little dress boutique.” Angela gave a coy smile. “It’s one of the top fashion destinations in this area of the Cotswolds; I pride myself on stocking key pieces from the latest catwalk shows. In fact, I’ve got some fabulous summer dresses at the moment—have you got a dress to wear to the Fitzroy Summer Garden Party?”
“Er… sort of,” mumbled Caitlyn.