Design for Murder (11 page)

I was about to protest once again that this was all a repetition of my interview with Neil, but I realised that it would cut
no ice with this man. He was waiting imperturbably for my an
swer, his notebook ready, his ball-point poised.

“Between ten-past and a quarter-past twelve,” I said
meekly.

After noting that down, the sergeant went on, “Now I’d
like you to recount all your movements that morning, right from the beginning.”

“Very well,” I said, with a sense of defeat. I tried to repeat verbatim what I had told Neil.

“There,” I said when I’d done. “I hope that satisfies you.”

“Thank you.” He closed his notebook, and stood up to
leave.

“But
...
but what about that letter?” I asked.

“We’ll be doing our best to track down the sender, Miss Yorke, you can be sure of that.”

“And if you do?”

“It’s a serious offence.” Detective Sergeant Willis took a
step towards the door. “I’ll pass on all you’ve told me to In
spector Grant. He’ll probably be in touch with you again.
Good morning.”

When he’d gone I returned to the living room and flopped
into a chair, heedless of the passing of time. Goodness knows how much later it was when Tim phoned.

“Tracy? You said you’d be coming over this morning.”

“Yes, I
...
I was just leaving. Sorry I’m so late.”

“That doesn’t matter. Only I was a bit concerned.”

I wouldn’t say a word about the letter, I vowed as I drove
to the vineyard. Yet when I arrived and Tim came striding between the rows of vines to greet me, I burst out before I could stop myself, “The police have received a beastly anony
mous letter about me, insinuating that I was sleeping with
Oliver.”

“I can’t understand the mentality of someone like that,” he
said slowly, after a moment’s silence. “As if you hadn’t
enough to put up with.”

“It isn’t true,” I insisted.

“Whose business is it, anyhow?” he said with a shrug.

“Bit don’t you understand, Tim, it just isn’t true.”

Fifty yards off, across the rows of wired vines, a head
popped up to see what all the noise was about. One of Tim’s two assistants.

“I’m sorry I got hysterical,” I mumbled, feeling foolish.

Tin brushed that aside. “Did the letter have anything else to say?”

“It virtually accused me of murdering Oliver. Whoever
wrote it claimed to have seen me driving through the village that morning a lot earlier than I actually did.”

“Oh?” He gave me a worried look. “Are the police taking it
seriously?”

“They take everything seriously. Neil Grant sent a sergeant
to interview me this morning, and I had to go through my
movements up to the time I found Oliver’s body all over
again—every last detail. They’re trying to catch me out in a
discrepancy, I suppose.”

“It’ll blow over, Tracy,” he said soothingly, and went to put
his arms round me. But I stepped away. I didn’t want to be
comforted by Tim at the moment. Despite my denial, I felt
sure that he still believed I had been one of Oliver’s many
bedmates.

At first it seemed light, easy work to move slowly along a row of vines and nip out all the soft sideshoots that were sapping the plants’ energy. But after a time, with the sun beating
down on my back, I began to feel enervated. I experienced
odd hallucinations about finding myself arrested and charged
with murder, and nobody to come to my rescue.

When at twelve forty-five I announced abruptly that I was
going home, Tim protested, “But I thought you’d be having lunch here with me.”

“No, I must get back. I
...
I have things to do.”

“Okay, if you say so. About this evening, though—what
time shall I... ?”

“I don’t think I can see you this evening, Tim.”

I went to turn away, but he caught my arm. There was
harshness in his grip, and harshness in his voice.

“Tracy, don’t take it out on
me.”

 
I stared back at him, blinking, cursing the stupid tears that made my eyes swim. Tim bent his head and dropped a light
kiss on my brow.

“If you must go, then go. I’ll be round for you at seven.” There was no question, just a simple statement. And I didn’t
argue.

From the vineyard to Honeysuckle Cottage, the short cut lay
through the grounds of Haslop Hall. Lady Medway was can
tering across the turf on her chestnut mare, elegantly turned
out in white breeches and black velvet jacket. To my surprise
she flagged me down with her riding crop. I braked and
slipped into neutral as she drew alongside.

“Hallo, Tracy. What are you doing here on a Saturday?”
Her friendly manner was astonishing. “You’ve been clearing up at the studio, I suppose. I don’t blame you for being in a
hurry.”

“I’m sorry, Lady Medway?”

“I honestly don’t know how you can set foot inside that
place at all,” she continued. “It would seem spooky to me. I
expect you can’t wait to turn your back on Steeple Haslop
once and for all.”

I stared at her, puzzled and a bit embarrassed. “But I’m
staying on, didn’t you know? Your husband suggested that I
should. He said that if I wanted to keep the studio going, he
would help me out financially.” Was I putting my foot in it, I
wondered? But in the name of goodness why didn’t Lady Medway know? “It’s extremely kind of Sir Robert,” I added.
“I really appreciate it.”

Diana Medway had paled, deeply mortified, it was clear, at
being made to look a fool. Unable to pretend that she’d
known all along about her husband’s offer, she said with an expression of understanding pity, “Poor dear Robert. All this
upset has made him dreadfully forgetful. But I’m so glad for
you, Tracy. Er ... what about the flat, you’re not having
that too, are you?”

“Oh no. I daresay some kind of alterations will be done,
and the flat let to someone. Unless Sebastian wants it, of
course.”

The very mention of Sebastian’s name brought forth a downcurving of Lady Medway’s lips. It wasn’t surprising that
Sir Robert’s third wife and the adopted son of his second mar
riage had small liking for one another. And having in mind Sebastian’s toadying character—as Oliver had described it to
me—I could well imagine that there would be quite a bit of
jockeying for position between the two of them.

The chestnut mare was getting restive, perhaps disliking
the sound of the car engine. But Diana Medway kept her
standing there with a tight grip on the reins.

“Since you’re staying on, Tracy, I hope that you’ll continue to ride sometimes. I’m concerned that the other horses won’t
be getting enough exercise now that Oliver isn’t here.”

“In that case,” I replied, an idea zooming into my mind, “perhaps I could bring a friend, Lady Medway?”

She looked far from overjoyed. “As long as it’s someone
who knows how to ride properly and won’t do a horse more harm than good.”

“I wouldn’t invite anyone who wasn’t perfectly competent,” I said in a cool voice.

“Oh well, in that case ...” She jerked the bridle impa
tiently to control her mare. “Are the police still bothering
you?”

I certainly wasn’t going to mention that anonymous letter
and give her the chance of gloating at my expense.

“I’m still not done with them yet,” I said, forcing a light, rueful smile. “But I imagine none of us are.”

Her lovely violet-blue eyes flickered. “Why do you say that?”

“I presume they’ll go on asking questions until they finally
get at the truth.” I slipped the car into gear, and said as I
started to move, “Thanks for the offer of some riding. I’ll take
you up on it.”

Driving on, I went via the stables to have a word with Billy
Moor. I found the old chap in the tack room, intent on the
job of cleaning leather saddlery. He was a small, wiry man,
and looked as if he might have been a jockey once upon a
time. A widower now, with a cottage down by the old estate laundry, he made his work with the horses his entire life.

“Good day to you, Miss Yorke.”

“Hallo, Billy. I see you’re busy as usual, even on a Satur
day. Don’t you ever take any time off?”

“I got far too much to do for skivin’, miss, if them horses
are to be looked after proper.”

Billy took great pride in his work and kept his charges im
maculately groomed, their stalls clean, their saddlery supple and polished. I realised how it must have cut him to the quick to be the victim of Oliver’s heavy sarcasm. A thought darted
into my mind—but it was crazy and I thrust the idea away.
Still, I was left with a silly niggle of doubt about whether it
was my conscientious duty to inform Neil Grant that the old man had a reason for hating Oliver Medway.

“I came to ask if I could use a couple of the horses this eve
ning,” I said. “It’s with Lady Medway’s permission. She told
me she wanted them ridden, you see.”

Billy nodded, and asked, “Who else will it be for, Miss
Yorke? I mean, you’ll be riding Ella same as usual, and if it’s
another lady she’d better have Silver Socks. But a gent would
find Prince more to his liking.”

“Well, I haven’t actually asked him yet, but it was Tim
Baxter I had in mind.”

The weathered old face darkened. “That there vineyard
chap? You want to be careful of getting yourself mixed up
with the likes of him.”

“Whyever should you say that, Billy?” I was genuinely as
tonished. I couldn’t imagine any way in which Tim could
have upset him. Their paths hardly ever crossed.

The old man’s expression became stubborn, and I knew
that I’d get no answer. So instead of pressing the matter, I
said, “By the way, you’ll still be seeing me around here. I’m
going to stay and run the Design Studio on my own.”

Billy made no comment on that beyond a grunt. “What
time shall I have them horses saddled and ready for you?”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” I said. “I was just
checking that it would be okay to take them out this evening.
Tim and I can saddle them up for ourselves, and see to them afterwards.”

“No, miss. You just tell me what time.”

“Well ... seven o’clock, then,” I said helplessly, resolved
to buy him some tobacco as a small present.

I slipped upstairs to the studio to phone Tim. He’d still be working among the vines, I knew, but there was an external
bell fitted. I listened to a dozen rings before he answered.

“Tim, this is Tracy. About this evening ...”

“I thought I’d made it clear,” he interrupted, “that I’m coming round for you at seven.”

“How would you fancy a ride?” I explained about meeting up with Lady Medway. “You used to be quite keen, I seem to
remember.”

“Sounds like a good idea. It would be nice to get back in the saddle again after so long.”

“So I’ll see you in the stableyard at seven. Suitably attired.”

“Right.”

Mood is a peculiar thing. Nothing had really changed, yet
suddenly I felt happy again. I slipped down the stairs into the
afternoon sunshine, called goodbye to Billy, and drove off home for a lunch of bread and cheese.

Only there wasn’t any cheese left, I found. I’d neglected my shopping these past few days and would need to replenish the larder before the village store shut for the weekend.

The beech trees in the park cast long shadows as Tim and I
set off towards the home farm gates. My mount, the pretty
roan mare Ella, and Prince, the grey stallion, were well accustomed to being ridden together. But to me it seemed strange
that my companion was not Oliver. His death was driven
home to me in a new way.

Tim and I knew one another’s early backgrounds  and we
discussed mutual friends. Then the conversation turned to the
vineyard.

“It sounds to me like unremitting hard work,” I observed.

“You’re not far wrong. It’s backbreaking a lot of the time, and heartbreaking the rest. You must wonder why the hell I
do it.”

“No, I think I understand. The great thing is that you’re
your own boss. Actually, if I weren’t caught up in the design
business, I can imagine working on the land, in one form or another.”

He gave a dry laugh. “You ought to try pruning a few hun
dred vines on an icy January day, crouched down on your
haunches with the east wind freezing your fingers. You feel like criticising the bloody Romans for ever introducing the vine to Britain.”

“There must be good times, though, to compensate.”

He glanced at me, and I saw that his eyes were alight.

“Come the vintage, Tracy, that’s really great. When you’ve
had a good year, I mean, which isn’t all that often. There’s nothing like it on a soft October day with the smell of ripe fruit in the air. I get a dozen chaps and girls from around here to help with the picking ... the way I find it works best is to put one of each sex on either side of a row. It increases the
output no end. And at lunch-time we all repair to one of the
winery sheds where Mavis Price and Joan Easton have laid
up a terrific spread, and big jugs of last year’s wine. Everyone
gets a bit tipsy, and the afternoon is rather less productive
than the morning.”