Design for Murder (15 page)

Her story about mislaying the magazine could well be true,
of course, but equally, if she were guilty, she might have
thought it prudent to try to get another copy of the June issue
after Neil’s enquiries. Perhaps this morning she had done the rounds of the newsagents in Gilchester until she found one that still had a copy of last month’s number on sale. Perhaps, in fact, her attendance at the inquest had merely been a blind to cover her trip to town.

My thoughts tumbled on wildly. Neil considered it unlikely
that it was Ursula who had been blackmailed by Oliver. But
just suppose it
had
been her, wouldn’t that constitute a mo
tive for murder? Would Ursula have been physically capable
of it? She was quite a strong woman, I’d guess, and in good
health, and being well-known to Oliver she could easily have
taken him by surprise. But that would mean that Ursula had
left her shop in the middle of a weekday morning when it
should have been open. Why not, though? The What-Not
Shop wasn’t like the village general store, with locals popping in and out all the time. Her trade was confined almost entirely
to people passing through Steeple Haslop, tourists and
trippers. Who would be likely to have noticed that for an
hour or so on a wet and windswept morning Ursula Kemp’s
shop was in fact shut? She’d hardly have drawn attention to
the fact by hanging the
CLOSED
sign on the door, as now.

Getting to and from the Coach House at Haslop Hall with
out being seen would have been difficult for her—but possible. Madly risky, of course, but perhaps a chance worth tak
ing for a woman driven beyond endurance.

Always supposing, I reminded myself, that Oliver was in
deed a blackmailer. I realised with a jolt that I was coming to believe this, to accept it as though it were a proven fact.

“Er ... sorry, Ursula, what was that?” I asked, aware
that she had spoken. She was looking at me oddly, and I was
afraid that my preoccupation must have been very apparent.

“I said that Inspector Grant had me searching all over the
place for that magazine. Goodness knows why he should have
been so keen to see it.” Her gaze was intent. Was she
watching to see how I reacted, gauging whether I had been
told about the anonymous letter?

I made an effort to sound casual, unconcerned. “Neil Grant
just likes to be mysterious. I expect he wanted to look up an
advertisement or something.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Ursula, not sounding as if she believed it, though.

“Have you heard that I’m going to be able to stay on at Steeple Haslop?” I babbled. “Sir Robert invited me to take
over the Design Studio.”

“I see.” Was she really listening? “You must be pleased, Tracy.”

“I’m delighted. Or rather, you know what I mean
...
I
wouldn’t have wanted it to happen like this, of course, but
naturally I’m glad to have the chance of running my own
business. I believe that I can make a go of things financially,”
I added. “I learnt a lot from Oliver, and I can put all that
knowledge to good use now.”

I saw Ursula’s eyes narrow in a swift, calculating glance. It
had been a stupid thing for me to say, which could easily
have sounded to her like a veiled threat of continuing blackmail. I felt suddenly nervous, and the cup I was holding jiggled in its saucer.

“I shall settle up your bill,” I promised, “as soon as the bank account is freed. It shouldn’t be too long now.”

Ursula made a dismissive gesture, not commenting. As her
silence lengthened and she continued to watch me closely, I began to feel distinctly rattled.

“I intend to go on buying things from you whenever possible, Ursula. And you must remember to let me know if you ever come across anything you think might interest me.”

Her nod was barely discernible. Not being able to think of anything else to say to improve the atmosphere, I drank down
my coffee quickly, and murmured, “I mustn’t keep you.
You’ll be wanting to open the shop again soon, and I’ve got work to do myself.”

As I turned towards the door, she said abruptly, “Tracy,
I...”

“Yes?”

I paused and glanced back at her. Ursula just stared at me,
her eyes dark with pain or fear, I couldn’t decide which, then
slowly she shook her head.

“Nothing
...
it was nothing.”

“You’re sure?”

She smiled faintly. “Yes, I was just being silly. Goodbye,
Tracy.”

I knew it was no use pressing her, so I said brightly, “Thanks for the coffee.”

After a quick snack lunch at Honeysuckle Cottage, I drove
to the studio. Billy Moon was out in the courtyard, hosing
down the cobblestones in front of the stables.

“That was a super ride Tim Baxter and I had on Saturday evening,” I said. “Perhaps the two of us could go out again
soon?”

Billy made no reply, nor did he return my smile. He just
looked at me with a dour expression.

“By the way,” I went on, “there’s something I meant to
ask you. That morning Mr. Medway was killed, did you happen to be around?”

He glared at me. “What you getting at, miss?”

“Just... well, I wondered if perhaps you spotted anyone coming or going to the studio.”

“I were busy doing me work and minding me own business,” he said fiercely. “That’s the same as I told the coppers. I said to ‘em straight out, I’m not a man to poke his nose in
where it’s no right to be.’”

He raised the nozzle of the hose as a sign for me to clear off. But I lingered and tried again.

“It just struck me, Billy, if someone had come along whom
you knew quite well, you might hardly have taken any notice
of them. But perhaps ...”

“If you don’t mind, miss, I’ve got me work to do,” he inter
rupted, and began to spray water around, almost splashing
me. Though Billy was often taciturn, I’d never before known
him to be outright rude. There was nothing for it but a
dignified withdrawal. Reaching the door at the foot of the
stairs, I glanced back as I fumbled with the latchkey. The old
man was staring across at me, a troubled look on his weather-beaten face.

I carried the mail upstairs and glanced through it. But
there was nothing that urgently needed attention. I went to
my drawing board, and had another go at preparing the vis
uals of the thatched-barn conversion. But I felt utterly devoid
of inspiration. Half of my mind was wondering when Tim
would contact me. On an impulse I reached for the phone
and dialled his number. Having been so moody and off-putting when he’d mentioned plans for this evening, I reasoned,
it was only friendly for me to take the initiative now.

“Cotswold Vintage,” he answered, after the usual long
wait.

The mere sound of his voice gave me a little leap of excitement. “Tim, this is Tracy.”

“Oh, hallo.” He sounded slightly guarded, I thought. “I
tried to get you a couple of times ... both at the studio and
at home. Where’ve you been?”

Not wanting to tell him about having a drink with Neil, I said, “I had various things to do. I slipped home for a few
minutes just now though, and snatched a bite to eat. About
this evening
...
we didn’t really settle anything, did we?”

“That’s what I wanted to explain, Tracy. I just remembered
my VAT return. It’s a curse, but it’s already a few days over
due and it must be done ... they won’t give you the
slightest leeway. So I’m afraid this evening is out.”

It was absurd for me to feel so slapped down. But I did, and I bitterly regretted that I’d phoned him.

“Oh, that’s okay,” I lied. “Don’t give it another thought.”

“About tomorrow ...” Tim began, but I chopped him off
short. “I’m not sure about tomorrow. Give me a ring sometime, if you like, and I’ll see.”

“Right then,” he said briskly, and rang off.

I knew that I was being unfair in blaming him, but I
couldn’t help it. I tried to look at the facts plainly ... Tim
was a hard-working wine grower whose life during the sum
mer amounted to a running battle against everything nature
could throw at him. So it was perfectly understandable that
he should have thrust aside boring and inessential paperwork
until the very last moment, and then nearly have forgotten
about it altogether in all this business of Oliver’s death and having to go to court this morning. If the Design Studio’s VAT return had been due this month, I might well have been
in the same boat myself. But such reasonable arguments did nothing to sweeten my acid mood.

Bleakness really hit me during the evening. Before, I’d al
ways enjoyed my cottage, never being averse to spending a
quiet, relaxed evening at home. But now I couldn’t settle
down to anything. I was a fool to take this petulant attitude,
and Tim must think me impossibly touchy. Should I phone
him and apologise?

I switched off the radio in the middle of a book programme
and went out to the phone in the hall hesitated, picked it up, hesitated again, and dialled his number. Tim didn’t answer at
once, though, and I let it go on ringing. But still there was no
answer—very odd. I let it ring for a long while before I finally
gave up and put the phone down.

* * * *

It was Mrs. Sparrow who brought the news next morning.
Arriving earlier than usual—while I was still having breakfast —she was full of breathless excitement.

“Have you heard about the accident, Miss Yorke?”

“What accident?”

Gratified that she’d not been forestalled, she spun out her pleasure by keeping me waiting while she removed her coat and donned a flowered apron.

“It’s that there Mrs. Kemp at the What-Not Shop. Last
night she went and ran off the road in her car.”

“Oh dear!” I exclaimed. “Is she badly hurt?”

Elsie Sparrow tied the tapes of her apron with a dramatic
flourish.

“She’s not
hurt,
dear, she’s dead. Her car was all smashed
to pieces, so they say, and she was a proper ghastly sight to
see.”

Horror surged over me, and with it came a dozen darting
images. Ursula’s face in the coroner’s court, and again when
I’d called on her afterwards, drawn and tense and ... yes,
frightened. Then, the brandy she’d taken to steady her nerves.
Neil’s questioning had obviously shaken her badly
...
be
cause she was guilty? Guilty of sending a slanderous letter?
Guilty of murder? Or both? I recalled her last words to me,
just as I was leaving. She had seemed on the brink of saying
something important, but she hadn’t been quite able to bring
it out. Would it have been a sort of confession?

“How did it happen?” I asked Mrs. Sparrow on a catch of breath. “Where was Mrs. Kemp going?”

“There’s no one to tell us that now, dear, is there?”

“Weren’t there any witnesses?”

“Seems not. It happened on the little road along the top of
Soulter’s Ridge, you see. That stretch of road is very quiet
... Mrs. Kemp couldn’t have chosen a lonelier spot round hereabouts if she’d been trying. Young Steve Gardner it was
who found her, on his way to work this morning ... you
know the lad I mean, Harry Gardner’s boy, the cowman over
at Bailey’s Farm. He spotted the tyre marks going off the
road, and the fence at the side was all smashed, so he got off
his motor bike and looked down over the edge. He could just
see the car lying upside down with its wheels in the air, right at the very bottom. Almost buried in the trees, it was.”

“What... what do the police have to say?” I asked, feel
ing a bit faint.

“Well, I mean ... what can they say, ‘cepting it was a
shocking accident? Mrs. Kemp weren’t what you could call a drinker, was she? Not to my knowledge, anyways, and you usually gets to know these things in a village. If you ask me, she had a burst tyre or something just at the wrong moment, and over she went to her death, poor soul.”

Suicide? The word was battering at my mind. Had Ursula Kemp, believing that the police were closing in on her, killed
herself as the only way of escape? Every second that passed, I
became more and more convinced of it.

So what did I do? Leave well alone and let her death be recorded, decently, as an accident? Let the sordid truth be buried with her?

Perhaps there was no need for me to intervene, I reflected. Perhaps the police knew more than I thought they knew, or they would find evidence at the spot that the crash had been deliberate. Be that as it may, I knew that I had a duty to pass
on my suspicions ... Neil had drummed this into me, and
I’d already been in enough trouble with him without risking
more.

Elsie Sparrow was chattering on. “I heard that Mrs. Kemp was at the inquest yesterday morning. They say she looked
proper poorly
...
all white and upset.” A knowingness crept
into her voice. “She had a very soft spot for young Mr. Med
way, I reckon
...
a bit over fond of him, like. Aren’t I
right?”