Design for Murder (19 page)

Tim laughed. “I’ve no idea, but I was assured it was a po
tent good-luck charm. I bought it at a street market in a small
village in the Loire valley, when I was grape-picking in
France. The silversmith made it for me on the spot—it’s a
unique piece.”

I had a feeling that I’d seen one very like it before, and not
long ago. Still, if Tim thought it was unique, there was no
need to disillusion him.

We drove on to the foot of Painswick Beacon, and then
started to walk. On this lofty vantage point with its
magnificent views across the Severn valley, the farthest
reaches lost now in the lilac haze of the balmy July evening, I
should have felt happy. I should have felt happy just to be walking anywhere with Tim because I knew how important
he was to me. But too many shadows were lurking in my
mind.

“What shall we do about food?” Tim asked, as we stood on
a small knoll looking westwards towards the sunset.

“I’m not really hungry,” I said.

“Well, I am! And you ought to eat, whether you feel like it
or not. So how about volunteering to cook us a meal at
home?”

“I haven’t anything in.”

“Not even bacon and eggs?”

“I suppose so.”

“Great. There’s nothing I’d enjoy more.”

It was dusk when we reached Honeysuckle Cottage. After we had eaten we sat over coffee with the lovely, languid fra
grance of jessamine and night-scented stock drifting in
through the open windows. Tim put an arm around my shoulders and gently caressed the nape of my neck. Presently he drew me into a close embrace and I let him kiss me. I longed for the magic to work again as it had the other night. I longed for all my suspicions to be washed away in a wave of emotion.

But this evening the magic was lacking. After a while Tim
drew back.

“What’s wrong, Tracy?”

“Nothing. Oh, I don’t know ...”

“There is something,” he insisted, an edge to his voice. “But you refuse to say what it is. Right?”

I shook my head silently, noncommittally. Tim looked at
me long and hard, and I dreaded that he was going to nail me
down into telling him. If I were forced to admit that—my
mind at war with my heart—I thought he might possibly be
the writer of a poisonous letter about me, that he might be re
sponsible for something infinitely more dreadful ... what
then?

I shuddered, and made myself speak in a calm, reasonable
tone.

“Tim ... I’m just rather tired. I suppose all this business
over Oliver, and ... and Ursula being killed, too ... it’s
just upset me more than I imagined.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?” he asked doubtfully.

“Yes, of course. What else could it be? Perhaps you’d better go now.”

Tim needed a lot of persuading. He argued that it was better for me to have his company than to work myself into an even moodier state on my own. But he left in the end, saying that he’d ring me in the morning, first thing, to see how I was feeling by then.

I went to bed at once, deeply depressed. How was it possi
ble to love a man if you could ten per-cent—even a half of
one per-cent—believe him capable of committing the most unspeakable crime?

I had no answer to that. I only knew, as I lay wide-eyed
and sleepless in the big Victorian brass-knobbed bed which had been my aunt’s, that I wished I hadn’t sent Tim home.

* * * *

In the end I slept heavily. The phone woke me from an un
pleasant dream of shapeless fears. Squinting at the pendulum
clock on the landing as I ran past it down to the hall, I saw
that it was not yet seven-thirty. The sound of Tim’s voice im
mediately banished sleepiness.

“Sorry if I woke you, Tracy. You see, it struck me in the
middle of the night that I’d left you stranded without your
car. It’s still at the studio.”

“Oh yes. I hadn’t given that a thought.”

“I’ll come and pick you up. Just tell me what time.”

“There’s no need,” I protested. “I can easily walk.”

“No, I’ll come. Nine o’clock? A quarter to, or a quarter past? Just say.”

“Well, nine o’clock, then. Thanks for thinking of it.”

It was absurd, this confusion about Tim. I felt resentful to
wards Neil, as if the possibility of Tim’s guilt had come about through his suspicions, and not the other way round.

When Tim arrived I was ready and waiting at the front
door, to allow him no excuse for coming in. On the way to
the studio he asked me how I was feeling, and I gave him an
evasive answer. There was tension between us and I was thankful that it was only a short drive.

“Do I see you this evening, Tracy?” he asked, as I went to
get out.

I improvised hastily, “I’ll be hellishly busy, I’ve got so far
behind. I was thinking of putting in some extra time here.”

“But you can’t go on working all evening,” Tim protested.

“You did the other night,” I pointed out. “Until after midnight, you said.”

He gave me an odd look. “That was different, my VAT re
turn had to be done at once.”

“So must my work. If I’m going to make any sort of name for myself, I can’t afford to let my clients feel neglected.”

His look changed to one of anger. “Why not come straight
out and just say you don’t want to see me?”

“Is that what you’d prefer me to say?” I retorted.

It was almost frightening, the way we could so quickly
plunge towards a quarrel. But whatever Tim might have answered, he was prevented by the sound of approaching foot
steps. We both swung round and saw Sir Robert Medway
coming through the archway. Using his arrival as an excuse
to break it up with Tim, I jumped out of the car.

“Good morning, Sir Robert.”

“Ah, Miss Yorke, good morning. I’m glad to have caught
you, I wanted a word. If you are free, that is ...”

Tim, half out of the car too, put in hastily, “It’s all right, Sir Robert, I was just leaving.” To me, he said, “See you,
Tracy.”

I unlocked the door and led the way upstairs, Sir Robert
pausing halfway to regain his breath. In the studio he ac
cepted the chair I pulled forward for him and sank down into it gratefully. For a while he sat getting a grip on himself, his two hands resting on the bone handle of the cane he held be
tween his knees. He looked no better than at Oliver’s funeral
yesterday, his bloodless skin stretched tight, his eyes tor
mented.

“Do you see much of that young man, Miss Yorke?” he asked in a thin, cracked sort of voice.

“I’ve seen a fair bit of him lately,” I admitted.

“I didn’t realise that there was anything between you two.”

“There isn’t really,” I said quickly, then added in a less de
fensive tone, “Tim and I have known each other since we
were quite young. He kindly called for me this morning be
cause he happened to know that I’d left my car here last
night.”

“I see,” said Sir Robert, nodding his head. “An ac
quaintance of long standing. I expect there are a number of people in and around Steeple Haslop with whom you are on
such terms?”

“Well yes, I do know quite a number of people.”

The bony jaw worked as if he were chewing over some in
visible problem.

“You must miss my son, Miss Yorke,” he said, after a mo
ment.

“I do, Sir Robert. I looked upon Oliver as a very good friend.”

“You and he talked a great deal, I expect?”

“Yes, we did.”

“And not just about business matters?”

“We chatted about all sorts of things,” I said, wondering
where this was leading. “Oliver liked to talk, as you well
know, and I always found what he had to say very interest
ing.” This was putting it as kindly as I could. There had been
times when I’d longed to tell Oliver to shut up and let me get on with my work.

Sir Robert had laid aside his walking stick and now sat
with his hands in his lap. Both fists were clenched into tight
balls, I noticed. There was a very long pause, while he made
a business of clearing his throat.

“I have been giving much thought to this matter,” he said
at last. “As long as you remain here
...
in Steeple Haslop, I
mean, but particularly in this studio, there is so much to
remind you ...”

“That’s true, of course. At first I wondered if I’d ever be
able to face working in this room, but I knew that I’d have to
clear up the current work, and gradually I’ve come to terms
with it.”

“But it cannot be easy. Now hear what I have to say, Miss Yorke. You are young, my dear. Would it not be better to cut
loose and make a new beginning elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere?”

“In London, perhaps. The opportunities there must be considerably greater than in a small village.”

I felt a spurt of anger. Sir Robert’s approach had been a
roundabout one, but his objective was now suddenly obvious.
It occurred to me to wonder if Sebastian was behind the
manoeuvre.

“Does this mean that you are withdrawing the offer you
made the other day?” I asked frostily.

“Not at all, Miss Yorke.” He looked distressed at the sug
gestion. “You mustn’t think anything of the kind. My only
concern is whether I have been sufficiently generous.”

“Then I don’t understand what you are getting at, Sir Rob
ert.”

“Simply this, my dear child—that our little ... arrange
ment need not be contingent upon you carrying on at the stu
dio here. If you prefer the wider scope that London offers, why not go there?”

I almost gaped at him in astonishment. “You mean that if I choose to set up business in London, I could still look to you for financial help?”

“Indeed, yes. Do you like the idea, Miss Yorke?”

I didn’t like it one bit. The thought of leaving Steeple Haslop now was so
unattractive as to be out of the question. Which indicated, though I didn’t work it out at that moment, what little credence I put in the theory that
Tim might be guilty of murder.

“I would prefer to leave matters as we have already agreed,
Sir Robert,” I said decisively.

He looked nonplussed. “But surely ... you told me yourself that you might find it difficult to run a successful business
here without Oliver’s contacts.”

“That would apply with even greater force in London,” I pointed out. “At least, around here, I have gained a certain
reputation through my association with Oliver. In London I’d
have to start from scratch.”

Sir Robert fixed his gaze on the ceramic mural of abstract
leaf patterns, as if seeking inspiration from it.

“Doubtless,” he said, “I could give you a few introductions
to possible clients from among my acquaintances. And you wouldn’t need to concern yourself too much about making a
profit, Miss Yorke. I could see to it that you were able to
draw at least the same salary that you have been receiving
here.”

I looked at him squarely. “Sir Robert, I was—and am—
grateful to you for your offer to let me take over the Design
Studio, and give me financial backing. I intend to work hard
at it. I intend to be able to repay you eventually and, I hope,
even show you a small profit. But no way is that likely in
London, not in the foreseeable future.”

Sir Robert Medway looked bewildered—more than that, a
little desperate.

“Is it because of your cottage that you are hesitating? I
could make you a good offer for that. Considerably above the
market value. And as for an income ... well, I recognise
that it is more expensive living in London, and I wouldn’t
want to stint you.”

“Sir Robert, I just don’t want to leave Steeple Haslop.”

“If it is still a question of money, then ...”

“It has nothing to do with money,” I declared. “If you were
to withdraw your offer completely, I would still stay on in
Steeple Haslop. I’ve decided that now. Somehow or other I’d find a way to manage.”

Sir Robert leant forward in his chair, clutching at the stainless-steel edge of my table to support himself. He stared at me wildly.

“Why are you so insistent about staying here, Miss Yorke?
What precisely is your motive?”

“Motive? It’s more a matter of inclination. I like it here. I
feel that I belong here. I have friends here ...”

“You must have made friends when you were in London.”

“I did, but that was different. They were mostly the sort of
people who will have moved on to other places by now.
Whereas most of the people around here I’ve known since I
was a child. It’s a feeling of having roots, I suppose.” I was
waffling, wrapping up the real reason why I wanted to stay on
here—Tim Baxter. Not that I had any need to justify myself
to Sir Robert, I thought angrily, so why did I feel my cheeks
burning with colour?

“I see.” He looked really at a loss now. I had a feeling that I’
d only have to drop the tiniest hint to have him offer me yet more money. To forestall that, I asked, “Why are you so anxious for me to leave, Sir Robert?”