Design for Murder (10 page)

Oliver had become much too daring and flamboyant. Sud
denly I understood why every now and then the final result had been greeted with less than the whoops of delight that
Oliver expected from his clients.

I felt a sneak of disloyalty for doubting Oliver’s judgment
now, but I also realised that responsibility for work carried out by the Design Studio would be mine alone in future. So
it must reflect
my
ideas.

Cynthia Fairford was, I realised, in a severe state of shock. I trod warily, half afraid that I would precipitate an outburst of grief, half wondering if I should encourage just that to release some of her pent-up tension. She murmured a few conventional expressions of horror, clearly walking a tight
rope win her emotions. After a few minutes she offered me
tea, and was away for twice too long getting it
...
dragging
herself together, no doubt.

Though I could see that she didn’t care one way or the
other what happened to her drawing room now, she readily agreed to my suggestion of a colour scheme of greens and golds. I had a feeling that it would be therapeutic for her to be forced to take an interest, so I elaborated at some length.

I was about to leave, and we were in the rather splendidly
ornate entrance hall with its high lantern dome, before
Cynthia’s tight self-control showed signs of cracking.

“The police have been here, asking questions,” she said, darting a nervous glance at me.

I said blandly, “I gather that they’re interviewing every
body who had any connection with Oliver.”

Her gaze as it met mine was shadowed with fear. “He and I
...
we quarrelled.”

“Oh?” I said slowly. “Oliver didn’t mention it to me. When
was this?”

A blackbird singing just outside the window nearly
drowned Cynthia’s breathy whisper. “The same morning he
was killed, early on. He ...he was here, you see.”

Now it was out in the open. But still not to be put into
bald, unequivocal words.

“Did you tell the police?” I asked cautiously.

“They knew that he’d been here with me,” she muttered in
distinctly. “That’s why they came. I
...
I didn’t tell them that we’d quarrelled, though.”

I thought for a moment, then came to a decision.

“Best to leave it that way,” I said. “It would do no good for them to know. It would only ... complicate things.” Shaking
hands, I pressed her fingers. “I’m sure you’ll hear no more
from the police, Mrs. Fairford.”

I meant, and she knew I meant, that her husband
wouldn’t need to hear of the affair. As I drove away, I won
dered how Neil had found out that Oliver had spent the night at the Old Rectory. Fred Sparrow ... did his milk round ex
tend to Dodford? Had he spotted the red Alfa-Romeo tucked
away under the copper beeches early that morning? And had
he, taking the pious advice I’d given to his wife, finally volun
teered the information to the police?

And here was I, now, daring to advise Cynthia Fairford to conceal relevant information. But I’d be ready to bet my last
penny that Cynthia hadn’t been the one to kill Oliver.

What could their quarrel have been about? Not the ending
of the love affair, it was too new for that. Another woman,
most probably. There was always another woman in Oliver’s
life for his current flame to be jealous of.

* * * *

When Tim called for me at seven I invited him in for a
quick drink. Like Neil, not having seen the inside of Honeysuckle Cottage for years, he made some nice comments on my
work. We finished our drinks and I suggested that we get
going. But then Tim couldn’t find his car keys. He patted his pockets and glanced around in a lost sort of way.

“I’m always doing this,” he acknowledged.

“Is that them on the mantelpiece?”

“Oh yes, good.”

In  his car, as we headed for Gilchester, he said, “It was great to hear that you’ll be staying on in Steeple Haslop, Tracy. You said it was Sir Robert who made the suggestion?”

“Yes, it came as a big surprise. He sent for me, and asked
if I’d like to stay on and run the Design Studio. He said I
could have the premises virtually rent free, and he’s going to provide capital for me to keep going until I’m on my feet. It’s
very generous of him.”

“Or very shrewd.”

“I suppose I’m meant to take that as a compliment?”

“What else? Sir Robert approves of enterprise, and he can
be quite a farsighted old boy, as I have reason to know. He
listened to me when I went to him with a crazy idea about
starting a vineyard.”

“And now you’ve proved how right you were?”

“To some extent. But there are still problems.”

“Such as?”

“The dear old British climate, chiefly. Wine grapes
can
be
grown successfully in this country. But the quantity and qual
ity is entirely at the mercy of the weather—as wine growers
have learnt from bitter experience these past few years. A bad
July can ruin not only the current year’s vintage, but the fol
lowing one as well because the new growth suffers. I’ve been
damn lucky myself, and I’m still convinced that wine growing
is commercially viable here. But I realise now that a run of
bad seasons could bankrupt me. What I’d like to have is a definite understanding that in such an event the Haslop Hall estate would help me ride out the storm. In the long term, it
would be a very worthwhile investment for the Medways. I’m
absolutely convinced of that.”

“Have you discussed this with Sir Robert?” I asked.

Tim didn’t reply at once, seizing the chance to pass a farm
tractor that was towing a loaded hay wagon. Then he said, “It
would hardly be fair to expect the old boy to give his atten
tion to business matters right now.”

“No, I suppose not,” I agreed, aware that he hadn’t really
answered my question.

Tim drove another mile or so before he spoke again. “Have the police got any theories about the murder yet?”

“I’m not likely to be told if they have.”

“Not even by Neil Grant?”

“Not even by Neil Grant.”

Perhaps it was the result of a conscious effort on both our
parts, but as Tim and I entered the Lamb Inn we were in a
mood to enjoy a pleasant evening. The food was super, as
English as it possibly could be. Steak and mushroom pie, with spinach, strawberries and thick yellow cream, then a ripe Stil
ton cheese. The surroundings were unostentatiously comfort
able. Oliver would have scathingly denounced the Lamb Inn as lacking the faintest spark of originality—food and decor
both. But for us, this evening, it was exactly right.

After dinner we sat with our coffee on a balcony overlook
ing the old coachyard, garlanded with fairy lights and hanging baskets of flowers. From somewhere inside came a soft drift of piano music.

Tim linked his fingers into mine. “This is good, isn’t it? I’ve
been such a workaholic since I started the vineyard that I’ve
managed to forget what it’s all about.”

“That’s easy to do, I suppose.”

“You won’t let it happen to you, Tracy?”

I smiled back at him. “I’d be a fool to, wouldn’t I?”

When we finally reached Honeysuckle Cottage Tim didn’t
attempt to come in, but kissed me good night at the gate.
Then he lingered, wanting to make plans for the weekend.
Unfortunately, he and the two men who helped him had
scheduled a full working day tomorrow, even though it was
Saturday.

“Alas, summer pruning and spraying waits for no one,” he
said ruefully.

“If you like,” I offered on an impulse, “I’ll come and lend you a hand.”

“I do like. But I warn you, working among the vines is a
bit of a mucky job. Your hands ...”

“My hands,” I said, “are not exactly lily-white. And I’ll
wear some old jeans.”

He kissed me again, and lingered still longer. We might
have been a pair of romantic teenagers. When Tim finally
left, my glow lasted while I prepared for bed and drifted off
into a happy, untroubled sleep.

I was straightening up the cottage after breakfast when the
doorbell rang. My caller was a man I vaguely recognised, but couldn’t place ... middle height, middle build, middle age.

“Miss Yorke?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Detective Sergeant Willis. Inspector Grant sent me.”

“Oh yes. Come in, won’t you?”

Even a man of his modest height had to stoop slightly
through my low doorway. I led him into the living room, and
gestured to him to sit down. He chose an upright chair.

“What can I do for you, sergeant?”

“I’ve brought something to show you, Miss Yorke. An anonymous letter. Inspector Grant thought you should see it.”

Something in his tone made me acutely uneasy. I waited for
him either to produce the mysterious letter or say something more. He did neither, but just sat there observing me.

In the end, I said, “Well, hadn’t you better show me?”

Unhurriedly, the sergeant reached into his inside pocket
and produced an envelope which was unstamped and had just
a name on the front. He withdrew the sheet of folded paper it
contained and handed it across.

The letter was formed from a paste-up of words and individual letters clipped from a newspaper or magazine, a jumble of different sizes. Wondering, my heart thumping painfully, I read it through.

Whatever she says, Tracy Yorke drove through the village
just after half past eleven that day. I ought to know, because I
saw her with my own eyes. And if she makes out there was
nothing between her and Oliver Medway, that’s a laugh. What
do you think they got up to when they were alone together in
that Coach House place?

The sheet of paper rattled in my shaky fingers, and I could feel sweat on my palms. Glancing up, I found the detective
sergeant’s gaze fixed on me.

“This ... this isn’t true,” I stammered. “It’s somebody
who ...”

He waited in silence, still watching me.

“Who could have sent it?” I asked foolishly. Then, “How did it come into your hands?”

“Someone dropped it through the letterbox at police HQ during the night. It’s addressed to Chief Superintendent Black
ley, who is in charge of this enquiry.”

“But surely no one could believe that... ?”

“Inspector Grant wanted to have your comments on it,
miss.”

My eyes flooded with sudden angry tears. “Why couldn’t he
bring it himself, instead of sending you?”

“The inspector is a very busy man.” It was said in a reproachful tone.

“I realise that, but something like this
...”
I faltered to a
stop. Was I asking for, expecting, special treatment from Neil
Grant because of a long-past friendship when we had been
very young?

“It’s not a matter of our believing it or not believing it,”
said the sergeant, sounding indifferent. “I’m sure you understand that we have to check on everything, even information given in an anonymous letter. So will you please tell me, Miss
Yorke if there is any truth in what it says. Any truth at all.”

“I’ve told you already. It
isn’t
true, not a single word.”

“What was the exact nature of your relationship with the deceased?”

“There was nothing between us,” I blazed. “I was his assist
ant, that’s all.”

“What sort of terms were you on with Mr. Medway?”

“I’ve been through all this before, with Inspector Grant.”

“Yes, miss. But I’d like you to answer my questions, if
you’d be so kind.”

I bit my lip. “We were on perfectly normal, friendly terms.”

“Not quite what might be called employer/employee terms?” suggested Sergeant Willis.

“If so, it was because Oliver wasn’t that type of man. He was easy-going, casual ...”

“Yes, miss?”

“It’s in the nature of our sort of work to need a harmonious
partnership,” I said. “We spent a lot of time together, discuss
ing the various projects and sharing ideas. We visited clients’
homes together, and ...”

The detective sergeant was very good at waiting expect
antly. I said, as if I were making a confession, “All right
then, Oliver and I were closer than that usually implies. He
took me out in the evening now and again—to have dinner,
or maybe go to the theatre in Cheltenham. Quite often we
went riding together for the odd hour, and once or twice this summer we swam in the pool up at the Hall.”

“Mr. Medway was a man with ... let’s say, a considerable reputation where women were concerned. You didn’t mind
people associating you with him in their minds?”

“Why should I?” I demanded. “People will think what they want to think. I can’t stop them. But there was never anything between Oliver and me. Whoever wrote that anonymous let
ter is just being spiteful—God knows why. And that person
couldn’t possibly have seen me drive through the village that morning at eleven-thirty, because I didn’t.”

“What was the actual time you came through Steeple Haslop in your car?” he asked.