An Invisible Murder (12 page)

‘Not hungry,’ Bishop said, with a grin. ‘They took one look at me and decided to skip breakfast. Can’t think why.’

Jenny quickly set about making porridge. It would stall their nibs until she had the main breakfast ready. She was relieved to see Bishop had a panful already on the go. Bacon and eggs would only take a few more minutes.

Meecham came and transferred the bubbling porridge to a silver dish, gave the policeman a reproachful glance as he did so, and left without speaking a word.

‘I hear you had them going through their paces yesterday,’ Jenny said conversationally, taking over the cooking and watching the bacon crisp up.

‘And much good it did me,’ Bishop grumbled, leaning against the side of the sink and looking almost human. ‘As far as I can see, Lady Roberta and the art tutor are out. I can’t see Lady Roberta lying for him, and she insists they were in the music room together all the time.’

Jenny nodded in agreement. ‘No, I can’t see Lady Roberta providing anyone with a false alibi. Not even for the love of her life.’ But she was frowning.

Bishop didn’t seem to notice. ‘The Meechams now, either
one could have done it. Father wouldn’t snitch on daughter, or vice versa. But they have no motive.’

Jenny bit her lip. Her frown deepened.

‘The parlour maid is out of it. Several people saw her in town on the afternoon of the murder, and again she had no motive.’

By now, Jenny’s frown was making her face ache.

‘And Elsie; you’re sure she never left the kitchen except for that one time?’

Jenny nodded. ‘I’m sure,’ she said firmly.

Bishop sighed. ‘We went over the timing again. The fruit cellar is just along the corridor from the conservatory. She could have done it – at a pinch,’ he added honestly. ‘But we’re no further forward,’ he continued gloomily. ‘This afternoon I’ve asked his lordship, his wife, and the colonel and his wife to replay their own actions. I don’t suppose that will help either, but you never know.’

‘So you’re no further forward than yesterday?’ she
commiserated
, cracking in some eggs and standing back as the frying pan spat at her in spite. She sighed deeply. It had to be done. Even if it made her feel like a prize tell-tale. Murder was murder. And withholding evidence was a criminal offence.

‘I think you’d better sit down, Inspector,’ she said quietly and, as he gave her a quick glance, full of suspicion, she said softly, ‘About those motives….’

Quickly and concisely, she told him what she’d learnt. Bishop listened, first in growing anger, then in growing respect. When she’d finished he was silent for a long while and then nodded.

‘I’ll have to get all this confirmed, of course,’ he said. ‘And I suppose I’d better call in and have a word with Mr Basil Simmons. One way or another, his sins seem to be wrapped up in all this.’

Jenny couldn’t agree more. ‘So, that’s all I have,’ she said glumly. ‘And you have nothing? All these possible motives are interesting, but hardly helpful. We have no real clues,’ she said in frustration.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ Bishop said smugly, and the cook glanced at him quickly.

‘Oh?’ She hated being kept in the dark.

‘The Lady Beade School,’ Inspector Bishop said, enjoying his momentary sense of power ‘have never even heard of Ava Simmons. Let alone offered her a job.’

Jenny stared at him. ‘I don’t get it,’ she said blankly.

The inspector’s sense of power vanished. His face collapsed. ‘Well, neither do I,’ he admitted. ‘It seems like a stupid practical joke. I mean….’ He went on to curse all practical jokers, but Jenny wasn’t listening. Because the cook had suddenly ‘got it’ after all. And the inspector was wrong: it wasn’t a practical joke at all, but a serious attempt to get Ava Simmons dismissed.

Suppose Ava had taken the letter at face value? She’d have handed in her notice, and by the time she’d learned that The Lady Beade had no intention of offering her such a prestigious post, it would be too late. She could hardly go back to their nibs and ask for her job back. It would be too embarrassing.

And who wanted Ava out?

Elsie, of course, but Elsie didn’t have the sophistication to write such a letter. Whoever had planned it must have had some special headed notepaper printed up. One with The Lady Beade address embossed at the top. And the letter must have been typewritten.

No, this was the work of a cold, clear, clever head. It was the work, Jenny was convinced, of Gayle Meecham.

Jenny jumped as Meecham himself appeared by her
side, and she felt absurdly guilty. After all,
they’d
been the ones pulling such a dirty trick. She had nothing to reproach herself with. Then she saw Bishop looking at him
speculatively
, no doubt thinking about the painting he’d sold to Simmons, and felt guilty all over again.

She pulled herself together, dished out the family’s
breakfast
, thanked Meecham stiffly as he relayed Lady Vee’s appreciation of some fine porridge, and watched him go.

So that was what all that whispering between father and daughter over in the corner had been about, she thought grimly. Meecham and Gayle had probably posted the letter that first day Jenny had arrived, it would arrive stamped and authentic-looking, all ready to give Ava Simmons such a pleasant surprise the next morning.

But after the murder, Jenny thought, with a little bit of justified satisfaction, they must have been in a real flap. If the letter fell into the hands of the police, they’d find out that it was a hoax. And if it could be traced back to them, it would put them right in the spotlight.

Janice had her brooch.

The Meechams had their letter.

‘Fools!’ Jenny said angrily, and then smiled at Bishop who gaped at her questioningly.

‘Practical jokers,’ she said faintly. ‘Would you like some fried bread with that, Inspector?’

Colonel Attling walked steadfastly past the Munjib dagger without so much as glancing its way. Behind him, Lord Avonsleigh understood his feelings precisely. In fact, the whole group, consisting of the Avonsleighs, the colonel and his lady, Bishop and Myers, studiously avoided looking at the dagger that was now back from the labs, cleaned, and hung back in its original place, for the purposes of this trial run.
Of course, it would have to be kept as evidence, for when the time came for a trial.

If the time came for a trial.

Avonsleigh wondered if he ought to sell it. It gave a person the creeps, walking past it like this.

‘So, this is where you paused, and admired the, er, dagger,’ Bishop was saying. ‘What then?’

‘The clock struck three,’ his lordship said, wondering if all this was necessary, but willing to go along with anything at all that might help. He would have to call in on Mr Basil Simmons soon. Offer his condolences and all that. A chap had to do the right thing. But he was not looking forward to it. Meeting a man whose daughter had been murdered whilst under your roof was not something easily done.

‘Right, the clock,’ Bishop said, and they all turned to look at the large, rather splendid, eighteenth-century British timepiece. ‘Then…?’

‘We all went onto the terrace,’ Lady Vee said, standing close to her friend, who was beginning to look a little green around the gills. Mrs Attling smiled at her gamely and
stiffened
her British upper lip.

They all trooped obediently onto the terrace, where they took their original places. Bishop raised the sunshade, as it had been raised on that day (though it was cloudy now) and made sure everyone was sitting in exactly the same places.

The inspector himself drew up another chair and sat just slightly behind Lady Vee.

The conservatory was in plain view only a few yards away. In fact, its lush foliage and spectacular orchids made it a natural focal point of attention.

‘And you talked about general things. Mrs Attling, you admired an orchid, I believe?’ Bishop said, trying to relax the atmosphere, which had grown suddenly tense.

‘Yes. Er, that one there. Of course, it wasn’t quite as far out in bloom as it was a few days ago,’ Mrs Attling said, pointing out the flower in question. Everybody looked at the
conservatory
. Bishop nodded to Myers. Myers smartly nipped across the terrace and went through the sunroom, ignoring Meecham who was hovering, waiting to play his part in the drama. In the butler’s hand was a tray, but no food. Even Bishop hadn’t demanded that much authenticity.

In the hall Myers nodded to a young woman police constable who walked into the conservatory, standing on the very spot marked on the floor where Ava Simmons had met her death. Next, he walked up to her and touched her. The policewoman obediently lay down on the floor, careful to keep her skirt modestly covering her knees.

Myers looked up. And gaped. He had a clear view across the lawn. In fact, he could pick out in every detail of the scene on the terrace, right down to the colour of the jug on the table, for less than twenty feet separated them. On the terrace, Myer’s own dismay was echoed on the faces of everyone at the table.

‘But that’s…I mean, we could see everything,’ his lordship spluttered.

‘I don’t understand,’ Lady Vee said faintly.

Bishop could feel a cold fist of panic strike his gut, but he cleared his throat, swallowing it down. ‘Perhaps it is because we were looking at it too obviously. Er, talk between
yourselves
. Let your eyes roam around the garden a bit. Er, Lord Avonsleigh, turn your head to talk to Mrs Attling,’ Bishop recommended, and gestured to Myers to start again.

Obediently, the policewoman rose and the two departed. The scene was played out again. But again, it was obvious to everyone on the terrace just what was going on in the greenhouse. Even his lordship, who was sitting at the most
disadvantageous angle, being almost at a right-angle to the conservatory, caught the movement out of his peripheral vision and turned to look.

Lady Vee, Mrs Attling, and the colonel, who were all, in varying degrees, practically facing the greenhouse, couldn’t help but look up when Myers and the policewoman re-entered the conservatory. The movement was naturally eye-catching.

And hadn’t Miss Simmons been wearing a white blouse, Lady Vee thought in some consternation? That would have been even more obvious than the navy-blue uniform of the policewoman and Myers’s own dark suit.

‘I just don’t see how we could have missed it.’ She was the first to speak, after Bishop had had them all go through it a third time.

‘And all your chap did just now was touch her on the shoulder,’ the colonel pointed out. ‘On the day, the murderer must have actually stabbed the poor woman. Wouldn’t it have been even more…well…obvious? How could we have sat here and not seen it?’ he asked, his voice wavering in disbelief.

Avonsleigh stared at him. Then at his wife, who, for the first time since their marriage, looked totally bewildered. And the fact that Vivienne Margaret was all at sea made him break out in a cold sweat. He looked at Bishop.

Bishop looked at him.

They all looked at the conservatory.

But no matter how many times Myers went through it, and no matter how they arranged the chairs, it always came out the same.

They must have seen the murder.

But they hadn’t.

They hadn’t!

J
enny sat back in the heavily brocaded chair and stared at Lady Vee.

She stared back. At her feet, the dog snuffled in his sleep, his paws twitching. He had treed a particularly smelly squirrel and was having a high old time. Her ladyship ignored his odd wuffle and continued to stare at her cook, who was developing a far away look in her eye. She’d just finished bringing Jenny up to date on their afternoon’s extraordinary discovery on the terrace.

‘And Inspector Bishop tried every angle?’ Jenny asked at last, and Vee nodded vigorously.

‘We did everything but actually sit with our backs to the conservatory. I just don’t understand it.’

‘Damned odd,’ Lord Avonsleigh said. For once he was book and newspaper-free, and he looked faintly undressed, just sitting there.

‘On the day of the murder,’ Jenny said cautiously ‘had the gardener put anything in the conservatory? Some large plants? Big ferns. Boxes, anything of that kind?’

Lady Vee shook her head. ‘A clever idea,’ she said
thoughtfully
, ‘but no. I would have remembered. The conservatory was just the same today as I remembered it that awful day. And believe me, I’ve gone over that afternoon many times in my mind. I’ll ask Seth, mind, just to make sure but….’ she
shook her head firmly, her jowls wobbling. ‘No, I’m sure there was a clear view when Miss Simmons was killed.’

‘And you definitely saw nothing?’ Jenny probed delicately.

‘Nothing.’

‘Not a sausage,’ his lordship confirmed mournfully. The dog, responding to the word ‘sausage’ even in his sleep, gave a yearning sigh.

Baffled, Jenny shook her head. ‘Nothing caught your eye I suppose? Elsewhere in the garden, I mean. You didn’t look away at anything at any time while you were out there? A passing kingfisher, perhaps, or a squirrel, a stray cat – anything that might have caught your undivided attention and take it away from the conservatory for a few seconds?’

Lady Vee thought long and hard before replying. ‘Again, Miss Starling, it’s a good idea, but I can’t remember anything of that kind. George?’

He shook his head and sighed. ‘No. I’m sure there was nothing. We just sat and chatted. There’s no getting away from it, I’m afraid,’ he said grimly. ‘That poor girl was killed right under our noses and we didn’t see a thing.’

Jenny shook her head firmly. ‘No, my lord. That’s simply not possible.’ Her voice was hard and flat, and both glanced at her in surprise.

Jenny noticed and smiled faintly, but her backbone was stiffening. ‘If something’s impossible, it’s impossible,’ she said flatly, ‘and that’s that. Ava Simmons couldn’t have been killed without your seeing her, so she wasn’t. That’s the only way to think of it. To do otherwise is playing right into the killer’s hands. You can’t give him or her that advantage.’

Lady Vee felt a not unpleasant chill flash across her skin. Although she’d asked her cook to be her eyes and ears, she hadn’t truly, in spite of her ‘experience’, expected Miss Starling to be able to actually
do
anything. Suddenly,
listening to the determination in the cook’s voice, she knew she’d been mistaken: Jenny Starling
had
caught murderers before, and now she could see why. And how. She glanced at her husband, who met her eye, and nodded.

He had felt it too.

For the first time since the awful incident, Lady Vee began to see light at the end of the tunnel. ‘But Miss Simmons
was
killed in the conservatory,’ she said, frustration and
puzzlement
making her voice even louder than usual.

‘She was
found
in the conservatory, yes,’ Jenny corrected. ‘But if none of you saw her killed there….’

‘You think her body was moved?’ Avonsleigh said flatly. ‘But the police found no evidence of it.’

‘No. But we already know that our killer is a very clever killer indeed, don’t we?’ the cook said softly. ‘Our killer has been, perhaps, too clever for his or her own good. At least, that’s what we must hope for.’

‘But the blood on the floor,’ his lordship said. ‘I had a word with one of those lab boys before they left. They explained that after death, bleeding stops slowly. And they found a lot of blood on the conservatory floor. Even if the killer
had
killed her somewhere else, then carried her to the conservatory, he must have done it fairly quickly after killing her. And then we’d have seen him do it. Back to square one again. Not to mention the fact that he’d have got blood all over him, and probably left a trail on the floor, leading right back to where the deed was actually done. But Meecham located everyone fairly quickly – too quickly for the killer to have bathed or change, one would have thought. Or wipe up his mess.’

Jenny sighed. ‘It
is
a puzzler all right,’ she agreed mildly.

Lady Vee, surprised by the quietness of the observation, looked at her quickly.

‘You don’t sound very angry, Miss Starling,’ she observed, a trifle timidly, lest she upset her.

But she needn’t have been so wary. Jenny merely smiled at her. ‘Oh, I don’t get angry, my lady. Or at least, I don’t
stay
angry for long. It clouds the thinking, you see. And this case is going to need a lot of thought. Which reminds me, would you mind giving me the address of that gentleman who called who was expecting to see Ava?’

‘Of course,’ Lady Vee said at once. ‘Mr Anthony Grover. I know I asked him for it. I was going to call in one day and see how he’s getting along. It was a bit of a shock for the poor old chap, I’m afraid, to come expecting to see a friend, and learning instead…. Quite. But I don’t think he’ll be able to help you much. Inspector Bishop asked him all sorts of
questions
at the time, and nothing seemed to come of it.’

Jenny hid a smile. ‘Yes, I’m sure Inspector Bishop was very thorough. But I can’t help but think that Mr Grover might know more than he thinks he does. Besides, Inspector Bishop’s style of questioning and mine are very different. You just never know. And,’ she added wryly, ‘it’s not as though we are swimming in clues, is it? Anything at all might be helpful at this point.’

‘True. Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Lady Vee concurred, rooting in her bag and coming up with the address. Anthony Grover lived in small village not far from Weston-on-
the-Green.
The cook copied it onto her notepad with a smile.

‘Thank you. Believe me, if Mr Grover does have some useful knowledge, albeit unknowingly, I’ll find it out.’

Lady Avonsleigh again felt that shiver of coldness cross her skin, and wished the killer of Ava Simmons had been there. If he or she could have heard the cook speak, and seen the glint in her eye – well, the killer would not be feeling so very smug now, of that she was sure.

‘I just hate the thought of someone in the castle gloating,’ she confided, her voice very angry indeed. ‘And with this dinner party tonight, I really don’t know how I’ll manage.’

‘You’ll manage, m’dear,’ his lordship said placidly. ‘You always do.’

‘Humph. Speaking of which, how is it all going, Miss Starling?’

The cook smiled, relieved to be back on familiar ground. ‘I’m starting with asparagus soup – full of iron and vitamins for your hypochondriac, but a melon boat for the one who’s allergic to greens; followed by eels in potato cases – that’s with mushroom catsup and lemon juice, of course. Then whole baked trout. Good for both the hypochondriac, as fish is good brain food, and the man who can’t eat fat. I have small individual venison pies, again good for the man who can’t eat fat as venison has the least fat of all the meats. For the poor unfortunate who doesn’t like greens I’ve done a special vegetable dish adapted from an Italian recipe of
non-green
varieties – a stew of carrots, black-skinned aubergines, marrows, tomatoes, swede, some horesradish for a bit of bite, potatoes, the white part of leeks and turnips. It’s all seasoned lightly with garlic (good for the blood – again you might mention that to the hypochondriac) and simmered to be not too mushy, not too hard.’

She paused for breath, and Vee clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful. Fish for brain food, venison for low fat, garlic for the blood, and no greens. I hope I shall remember all that. Oh, Miss Starling, you are a treasure.’

‘What’s for pudding?’ asked his lordship promptly, who could always be relied upon to get his priorities right.

That evening, Roberta joined them in the kitchen, her face alive with curiosity. She watched the new cook attentively,
hovering over her as the final countdown to the dinner began. She loved the atmosphere in the castle when her grandparents entertained, and she’d always liked to watch the previous cook at work. The old dear had always seemed to work on the point of nervous breakdown, and without fail, afterwards, had always complained that she was getting too old for this sort of thing.

Eventually, of course, she really
had
become too old, because she’d retired. But Miss Starling, Roberta soon realized, was a whole different kettle of fish. Oh, the
excitement
was the same, there was the same sense of bustle; Elsie was rushed off her feet, and the stove seemed to be over full with bubbling pots of sauce, simmering vegetables and mouth-watering aromas. But Miss Starling had everything under control. There were no last minute panics. She didn’t wail, like the old cook had, that she’d forgotten this or burnt that.

Now, watching her sprinkle almonds over the rows of sizzling trout before putting them back for a final baking, she said forlornly, ‘I wish the police would tell me what’s going on,’ and pouted.

Her petulance was a little spoiled by the eager sniff she made as Jenny lifted the lid off the vegetable dish and the enticing smell of garlic and herbs wafted past her nose.

‘I daresay they think you have enough to cope with,’ Jenny said mildly. ‘What with your studies and your painting and now this dinner.’

Roberta laughed. ‘Huh!’ she agreed disgustedly. ‘And I’d rather eat here tonight anyway. Gramps invites the
dullest
old farts to his dinner parties.’

The kitchen was mostly empty. The others, in deference to the cook’s need for space and peace in which to work, wouldn’t file in until it was time to actually eat. All the staff
loved it when the castle entertained, of course, because it meant that they too enjoyed the feast, albeit downstairs. And they had all, at various times and displaying various skills, pumped her for information on the menu.

Meecham was particularly fond of eels, she’d learned, and Janice had a liking for venison. It was, she’d said, posh food. The sort she never got to eat anywhere else. No doubt they were all scattered about, just counting down the minutes. Meecham would show up soon, since he, Janice and Gayle were all going to help transport and serve the food. But at the moment, only Roberta and Elsie were there, Elsie helping, Roberta actively hindering.

The young lady sat on the side of one of the work units, her long legs swinging, heels tapping on the cupboard doors in a most annoying way. She had, at least, discarded her filthy paint-smeared smock and was wearing a dress that was becoming just a little too small for her. She licked a spoon that she’d filched from the table and her face wrinkled in disgust. ‘Ugh, asparagus,’ she shuddered and threw the spoon into the sink.

Jenny sighed. ‘Don’t you have anything better to do, Lady Roberta?’ she asked, without much hope.

Although she might appear the epitome of control, she, like all great cooks, suffered from nerves. Were the eels done enough? There was nothing worse than badly cooked eels. Did the soup need more flavouring? Asparagus could be bland, and Lady Roberta’s ‘ugh’ didn’t bode well. Underneath, of course, she knew everything was perfect, but still….

‘No, as a matter of fact, I don’t,’ Roberta said unhelpfully. ‘I was trapped by that Inspector Bishop again today. Really, it’s becoming so boring. He keeps asking the same old
questions
, over and over again. Was I sure at what time I got to
the music room, and I was. Was I sure that Malc never left, and I am. Could I be mistaken about this, that or the other. Today, it was “was Malc acting strangely?”’

Jenny, staring at the vegetable dish, wondered if the marrow had taken on a slightly greenish hue, or was it just her imagination. ‘Hum? And was he?’ she asked, wondering if she oughtn’t to put in just a dash of lemon juice, just in case. Lemon juice would whiten it up, but what about the acidity?

‘No, of course he wasn’t,’ Roberta said scornfully, unaware of the cook’s dilemma. ‘He was the same as always. He wandered around, like always. He never can keep still. He was fingering a pot of red paint, just like he always plays with his paint pots. He’s always fiddling with brushes and things too. I swear he keeps a whole shopload of stuff in that smock of his. I really don’t think, you know,’ she added
seriously
, ‘that Inspector Bishop has a clue as to what’s going on,’ Roberta said, youthful scorn and disappointment rife in her young voice.

And that makes two of us, unfortunately, Jenny thought morosely.

Perhaps just a dash of lemon juice.

Upstairs the guests began to arrive. Lady Vee, her back to the wall, figuratively speaking, had brought out the big guns. She was wearing a full velvet evening gown and dripped diamonds so huge they made the chandelier cringe. By her side, his husband stood in stalwart support.

‘Vee,
darling
, how brave of you to carry on like this,’ her first guest said, setting the tone.

The rest of the evening was spent, as she had predicted, going over the details in minute, gory detail, satisfying even the most avidly curious. She smiled until her teeth ached, whilst his husband put on such a brave face his jaw felt like
it was going to fall off. The food, of course, was superb, and they rounded it all off with a tour of the conservatory.

The evening was, by all accounts, a roaring success.

When it was all over, Vee retired to her bed muttering about ghouls, and Jenny, sat in her now deserted kitchen, muttered about dinner parties. Long into the night, both women lay awake, thinking about the invisible murder of Ava Simmons.