Murder at Maddingley Grange, page 14
“Listen…down there…”
Violet listened. At first she could hear nothing but the sluggish shifting of her heart. Then the faintest sound, hardly more than a vibration on the air. Something clammy, like a cold damp membrane, wrapped itself around her face and neck. The vibration intensified, almost thrumming, then changed character. Became a fluid gurgle, like water going down a drain, then suddenly stopped.
After a moment’s silence there was a starveling cry of great deprivation followed by much weeping. Then, just as suddenly, nothing at all.
“E’s given up,” said Mother. “Gone off.”
“I should think he has,” said Violet, grateful and relieved. “This hour of the morning.” Her hands and feet were frozen.
The two ladies made for the stairs, leaving behind them a moping silence smelling richly of plums and black currants with just a trace of sandalwood.
Chapter Thirteen
Next morning in the middle of breakfast, to everyone’s complete astonishment, Derek announced that he was prepared to be the victim after all. The party (with the exception of Martin and Laurie) was sitting around the dining-room table. The posies and smilax had given way to a pretty flowered jug holding sweet peas and gypsophila. On the armoire four silver chafing dishes rested on heated trays. The dishes held kidneys and bacon, scrambled eggs, kedgeree and sausages. There was also cold boiled ham, a wisp of croissants for the lily-livered and iced fruit juice. Everyone had helped themselves to something with the exception of Fred who had helped himself to everything. Now he polished his plate with a bit of bread, swallowed the crust and burped.
“Better out than in, eh, Simon?” A cool smile. “I must say you certainly know the quickest way to a man’s heart.”
“Straight through the chest wall, I believe.”
“I said,” repeated Derek, spacing out his words, “that I have changed my mind about being the victim.”
“How do you want to be done then, Sherlock?” asked Fred.
“Not up to him, is it?” asked Mother, unrolling a croissant and tucking a kidney and a scrap of mustard inside. “Up to Dead-Eye Dick. Whoever he is.”
“Quite so,” agreed Derek. “But I warn him or her that I do not intend the task to be an easy one. It will be very much a case of first catchee monkey and I shall be extremely alert, I can assure you. Hide and seek’s the name of the game. Also I’m setting a time limit of one o’clock. If I’m still alive then, I shall regard myself as the victor rather than the vanquished, and someone else must become the murderee.”
“You better watch where you’re hiding,” cackled Mother, adding a dollop of quince jelly to the croissant and putting the whole contraption in her mouth. “There’s a ghost on the trot.”
“A ghost…” Derek put down his teacup. A ghost would make things absolutely perfect. And more than make up for the butler not having a hump. Eyes shining, he urged elaboration.
“It was behind that pointy door,” said Violet. “In the hall. Where does that lead, Simon?”
“The cellar.” Simon, who had felt briefly concerned for his guests’ peace of mind following Mother’s startling pronouncement, realized he need not have bothered. Intrigue and excitement were plentifully displayed but not the slightest trace of alarm. “What did it look like?”
“Can’t see through wood,” said Mother, flakes of pastry flying about. “I’ll go down for a shufty when I’ve finished me croyzant.”
“But,” demurred Sheila, “you won’t be able to see anything during the day, will you? I thought ghosts were nocturnal. Like bats and things.”
“Float up anytime,” said Mother. “As the spirit moves ’em.”
“Do you think”—Gilly sounded wistful—“we might see it too?” He blushed as he spoke, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Violet shook her head. “You might hear it, though. I did last night. It was crying.”
“Alas poor ghost,” murmured Simon. Then, feeling the real objective of the weekend to be rather slipping out of focus, he steered the conversation back to Derek’s new idea. “Actually my sister said last night she wouldn’t mind changing places with you.”
“Tell her excellent,” said Derek. “And that one P.M. is cutoff time.”
“What is your character?” asked Rosemary, daintily forking in some scrambled egg. She was wearing very wide trousers in floaty chiffon printed with pansies, and a pale-green silk blouse with a sailor collar. “I mean—which of us would have a reason for killing you?”
“I am the local bank manager.”
“Loathed by one and all then, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Simon. “Certainly I, as Kit Fanshawe, poverty-stricken tumbledown artist in love with your daughter Felicity, would be a front-runner.”
“I am Felicity,” cooed Rosemary, eyes shyly on her plate.
“I shall proposition you then in the bushes.” Simon winked across the table.
“P’raps we’d all better say who we are.” Violet reached out for the Georgian coffeepot. “So we know where we stand.”
Gilly was Herbert Pottle, the village solicitor, and Violet, Ada Bloggs, cleaning lady at the Vicarage. Sheila was Lorelei la Rue, a West End musical-comedy star staying at a local hostelry and in hot pursuit of Kit, Mrs. Saville was the rector’s wife and Fred (Mrs. Saville choked on her Earl Grey) was the rector. Mother would play Miss Featherstone-Gough, eccentric dog lover and hippophile.
“I thought,” said Mrs. Saville, when she had quite recovered, “that you were Mad Betty stroke Black Tom the soothsayer.”
“Well, I ain’t.”
“But you told us—”
“No, I never. ’E did.” Mother looked sharply at Simon. “Our proper rioter. Young Kit and caboodle there.”
Before Simon had a chance to reply—he was going to say an educated guess—Derek produced a Meerschaum and said:
“I intend to cross-question the butler after breakfast and get to the bottom of our nocturnal drama.” A leather pouch appeared. “I fear it may prove to be a three-pipe problem.” Then, packing in the tobacco with the calm assumption of permission that so infuriates the unaddicted, “If no one minds?”
“You go ahead, squire,” allowed Fred. “What I always say is—where there’s smoke there’s salmon.”
“Well, I mind,” said Mrs. Saville. “Most of us are still eating.”
“Ay up, Derek,” said Fred, “you’re on the tapis.” Then, waving a marmalade-coated knife at his fictional spouse, “You behave yourself, wife, or I’ll give you what for in the vestry.”
Mrs. Saville rose grandly to her feet. “The weather at least is proving clement…I intend to walk in the grounds.” She gave her host a freezing glance. “I will not be taking part in your childish charade, Simon, and assume you will adjust my payment for the weekend accordingly. Rosemary?”
“I’ll catch you up, Mummy.”
“I would like you to come now.”
“In a sec. Just finishing my coffee. It’s so delicious.” Rosemary’s glance at Simon was positively burning with congratulatory approval. He felt he had not only made the coffee but climbed barefoot up a stony mountain and harvested the beans.
Mrs. Saville stuck the waiting out until Violet said: “Would you rather change with me, dear? And be the cleaning lady?” whereupon she marched off to be seen several minutes later making a hippoesque progress across the greensward.
“Daft lummock,” said Fred. “No offense, Rosie, but she can’t take a joke, can she, your mam?”
Rosemary looked as though she didn’t know what a lummock was but if she did and had one handy Fred would rue the day. She turned her attention once more to Simon who smiled sympathetically. How attentive and assured he was. So unlike poor Martin, getting everything wrong at dinner last night and then falling down the stairs.
“You’ll have to convey my apologies,” Fred persisted. “I haven’t had your fine start in life. You see”—he assumed an expression of grotesque melancholy— “I come from a broken home.”
“Fancy.”
“Yes,” continued Fred, his face gathering into jovial creases of anticipation. “Me dad were terrible at do it yourself.”
Violet yelled that were a new one on her and no mistake, then asked Derek what he’d got in his pipe, moose droppings?
“Bulwark actually. Holmes got his from Bradley’s in Oxford Street. Not there now, of course.” He struck another match to revivify the noxious Meerschaum and dropped the match, still smoldering, on an embroidered place mat. “All the old places have gone. It’s almost impossible to get a really good black shag these days.”
“I think I can help you there, squire,” said Fred sotto voce, winking. “Bombazine Jones.”
“I haven’t heard of that. Is it good?”
“Unbelievable, mate.” Fred opened his wallet and passed over a small white card. “Talk to you later.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Mum’s the word.”
“Perhaps, as the victim,” said Gilly, “it might be rather fun for you to carry this.” He reached into the inside pocket of his orange, red and cream striped blazer and produced a gun.
Reactions varied. Gasps, hisses, and whistles (Mother). Fred ducked, then pretended he’d done it as a joke, and Rosemary gave an affected little hiccup and squeaked: “Is it real?”
“Oh, yes. It’s a—”
“A Major Fontaine, I think you’ll find.” Derek’s certainty had a supercilious tinge. He took the gun with a great show of nonchalance. “Nineteen thirty-six. Short range—about fifteen meters. Metal-jacketed bullets.”
“Really? I thought it was a Baby Browning.”
“A common error. I have published a pamphlet on the small arms of this period. You’ll find a copy in Brize Norton library.”
“Not published, Derek, printed,” clarified Sheila. “And please give that gun back. You’ll trip over something and set it off. No one’s going to murder you. It’s only a game.”
“That’s right, Sherlock,” said Fred. “You’ll be all right. Just don’t step out of the pentagon.”
“I think you can trust me to handle a simple firearm, Sheila,” said her husband, slipping the gun into his jacket pocket.
“Is it loaded?” asked Violet.
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
“Come off it, Gil.” Fred was incredulous.
“No, honestly. It’s just part of my memorabilia. The last thing I’d want to do is start poking around and opening the bally thing. Anyway, as I’ve had it nearly twenty years, even if it is loaded I should think the mechanism’s well and truly seized up by now.”
“That may be the case,” said Derek, “but it is still preferable where weaponry is concerned that things be handled by someone who really knows what they’re about.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. There was a crunching sound and a howl of distress from Gilly.
“My hat!” he cried, holding up the mangled remains of a boater with a striped band. ‘That was my father’s. He wore it at Henley in 1936.”
“I’m sorry.” Derek sounded more sniffy than sorry. “If it was of value, what on earth was it doing sitting on the floor waiting to be trodden on?”
“I do believe”—Simon got up too—“there’s something similar in our basket. We hired all sorts of stuff. Let’s go and look, shall we?”
“It won’t be the same.” A tear-filled voice.
“No, of course not. But that’s a great outfit. It does need some sort of chapeau.” Simon bit his lip as he took Gilly’s arm. It was hard not to smile at the contrast between the sad eyes and droopy, sad moustache and the aggressively cheerful jacket. As they left, Gilly said: “I was going to wear it on the punt.”
Derek followed them out, turning at the door and crying dramatically: “Don’t forget Black Cross—you have till one o’clock!”
“What I can’t fathom,” said Violet to Sheila, “was how you persuaded him to change his mind.”
That, it seemed, was what everyone wanted to know. Chairs were shoved closer together, elbows rested on the table edge. Only Mother stayed aloof, shaking Worcester Sauce over her cornflakes.
“What makes you think it was me?”
“A woman always knows, dear.”
“Actually you’re right.” Sheila seemed hesitant. “But I’m afraid you’re going to find the reason very tame.”
“No, no,” they all cried hopefully.
“All I did was to suggest that as he had been cast as the victim, rather than grumble and grouse he should regard it as a challenge. Throw down the gauntlet. Pit his wits against the murderer’s rather than just tamely collapse at the first tap on the head. Persuasion wasn’t difficult. He was upset because none of you took either him or the detective-fiction genre seriously.” Fred played on an invisible violin, humming “Hearts and Flowers.” “He thought it would be a good thing if you were taught a lesson.”
“But won’t that rather defeat the object?” said Rosemary. “I mean, without a body—”
“Of course, we’re both aware of our obligations to the rest of you,” continued Sheila. “That’s why I agreed that if he hadn’t been murdered by lunchtime I’d take his place.”
“The one o’clock deadline,” said Fred. “If you’ll excuse the fox’s paw.”
“But now Laurel’s offered, I won’t have to.”
“We shall still be minus a body all morning,” said Rosemary. “I think you’re both being rather selfish.”
“I couldn’t care less what you think, actually, Rosemary.”
“Now, now,” Violet, creamy and emollient. “Birds in their little nests agree.”
Rosemary’s eyes flashed and Sheila’s lips tightened, but before the feathers could really start to loosen up a bit, something happened to distract them all. Mother started laughing. Short, strangulated barks. She was peering into her teacup, rolling it between her palms.
“Heh, heh, heh,” she went, just like evil old ladies always have. Then she lifted her arm. Fred grabbed it just in time.
“I told you,” he said, wresting the cup from her hand.
“There’s a spaniel in the works.”
“You’ll get a spaniel.”
“If you’ve finished, Mother,” said Violet, brightly dragging harmony back by the scruff of its neck, “we could go and have a look at the cellar. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Mrs. Gibbs did not reply. Cheated of her opening throw, her face became hooded and peevish. She turned eyes glittering with anger on Sheila and hunched down in her chair, becoming both smaller and more powerful as if preparing to spring. Sheila stared coldly back.
“I’m not taking any notice of you, Mrs. Gibbs. I don’t believe in your silly ghost. And I think it was nothing short of wicked doing all that pointing and accusing last night when you weren’t Mad Betty the soothsayer at all.” She got up. “Frightening people half to death.”
Mother mumbled, almost inaudibly, “I know what I know.”
“You don’t know anything,” snapped Sheila. “You’re just a silly old woman.” And she stalked off into the sunshine.
Chapter Fourteen
Laurie was washing up in the annex. Gaunt, wounded, sat in a wheelback chair, his leg elevated onto a wooden box. Laurie had offered earlier to telephone for a doctor but the servants had both expressed alarm at this, saying they didn’t want to be any trouble and in any case were both alien to the medical profession. Laurie, rather shamedly, had not persisted. She could only have called out Lionel Murchison, Aunt Maude’s doctor, knowing no other, and he was an old family friend who would certainly not keep his juicy discovery of the shenanigans at the Grange to himself. Also he might well diagnose some serious injury necessitating the removal of Gaunt in an ambulance, no doubt accompanied by an anxiously attentive sibling. Then the running of the weekend would fall entirely on Laurie’s shoulders.
As it was she was having to tackle most of the chores. Admittedly Simon (after his sister had threatened to take the bus to Oxford and not come back till Sunday evening) had lent a hand preparing breakfast. He had made the coffee and grilled the sausages, glaring resentfully at his hired help the while.
“Quite honestly,” he had grumbled to Laurie, “given a certain amount of crude scientific equipment and all that lightning we had last night, I could have made something more efficient.”
He had been very blunt in the display of his feelings toward les domestiques, berating Gaunt soundly for wandering around in the middle of the night. Simon had declined a private view of the leg and had further explained that they would not be getting their full whack of cash for the weekend. Indeed, unless they pulled their socks up, not a penny piece would be changing hands. He concluded by suggesting that if either of them had the gall to ask him for a reference it would be couched in terms of such unforgiving clarity that any prospective employer would as soon engage two carriers of the Black Death. He had then returned to his sausages, stabbing the glossy links savagely before piling them up on a hot plate.
But the mood had not persisted, and when Laurie had taken the second batch of croissants and homemade quince jelly into the dining room, he had been full of smiles and pouring China tea for Sheila Gregory. Now—Laurie pulled the plug and rinsed soap from her hands—she could see him on the lawn teaching Rosemary the rudiments of croquet. This seemed to involve an awful lot of proximity. He was standing very close behind her, encircling her waist with his arms as they drew back the mallet. But there came no soft thock of wood on wood. Surprisingly, in spite of all that undivided attention, they missed and had to start all over again.
Laurie looked wistful as she dried her hands with a tea towel. Rosemary was so pretty. She was wearing a Leghorn hat against the sun, tied on with velvet ribbons, and her lounging pajamas rippled and floated as she moved. Her face, shadowed by the wide straw brim, looked pale and interesting.
