Design for Murder (22 page)

“But Neil ...”

“Leave it, Tracy. I’m up to my eyes, and I’ve spent far too
much time talking to you already. I’ll be in touch again just
as soon as I can. Bye for now.”

There was a click, and I was left with the dialling tone. Putting down the phone seemed like cutting the lifeline to
safety. Here in the studio I was a long way from any kind of
help. The nearest people were at the Hall, far beyond shout
ing distance. The Medways ... they were in the clear now,
of course, all three of them.

Certainty of Tim’s guilt came crashing down, paralysing
me with misery and fear. Everything fitted so neatly. I had
been correct in my first instinctive thought that the retreating footsteps I’d heard that morning were Tim’s, and that he had returned to the studio a few minutes later to finish what my arrival had interrupted ... the removal of tell-tale evidence, like his fingerprints on the murder weapon.

And there was something else, too, a little scrap of knowledge that had been lying dormant in my mind. I groped for it now, but couldn’t bring it to the surface, though awareness of
something deeply significant prodded at me.

Tim was standing watching me, impatiently twirling his key
ring on his little finger, the key ring which carried the chased-
silver medallion.

An image suddenly zoomed into focus, the scene in the stu
dio when I’d come in to find Oliver’s body. On the hexagonal
desk, the morning’s mail had been opened and strewn across
it in Oliver’s usual careless manner; there was the white tele
phone, an auction catalogue he’d been studying ... and a
bunch of keys. Things so normal that they’d hardly registered
—except that at the time I hadn’t recognised that bunch of
keys.

I felt sick in my stomach. The keys I’d seen on Oliver’s
desk had been the same bunch Tim was holding now. No
wonder the good-luck charm had struck me as familiar when
I’d been looking at it in the pub yesterday. He must have had them in his hand the way he so often did, as he had now, and
dropped them on the desk as he’d reached for the statuette.
An absolutely damning piece of evidence if the police had
found those keys at the scene of the crime.

Tim had been forced to take the risk of returning to the
studio, not only to remove his fingerprints from the statuette, but to stealthily pocket his key ring.

When Tim spoke there seemed to be menace in his voice.

“That was a peculiar conversation you just had with Neil
Grant. What was he phoning you about?”

Feeling desperate, I wondered how to keep Tim off the
scent. What could I say that would satisfy his curiosity?

“You said something about Billy Moon,” he prompted.

“Did I? Oh yes, that was just ... just about what a stub
born old cuss Billy can be. They wanted a statement from
him, and he wouldn’t co-operate.”

“Why should they want a statement from Billy Moon?”

“Why? Well, I suppose ... because he happens to work in
the stables they thought that he might
...”
I trailed off.
Every syllable seemed to be heading me closer to a dangerous
admission.

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “They think he might have seen
something, you mean?”

“It... it’s possible, I suppose.”

“And why the devil should Neil Grant phone to tell you
about that?” he demanded. “Just what’s going on between
you two?”

“Nothing. Neil just happened to mention it, that’s all.”

Without warning Tim’s hand shot out and his fingers
clamped tightly on my wrist.

“That damn chap is always hanging round you—popping
in to see you here and at home, taking you out to lunch. I want to know what the hell you’re playing at.”

Stupid with fear, I tried to make myself
think. I
had to find an explanation that Tim would find plausible. The best way
was to make out that Neil’s interest in me was purely per
sonal, nothing to do with the police investigation at all.

“It’s just that Neil fancies me a bit,” I said with a shrug,
forcing myself not to pull my hand away from Tim. “I’ve
realised it for several days now—not that I’ve given him the
least encouragement.”

“Haven’t you?”

“No, I haven’t. I suppose that’s why he keeps telling me
bits and pieces about the murder enquiry, to try and get me interested in him.”

“It seems to me that Grant tells you every bloody little de
tail of his working day. All that chatting away on the phone just now.”

I threw in a flat lie to add conviction to my story. “Well
... Neil was trying to make a date with me.”

“It didn’t sound like that. And if it was, you didn’t exactly slap him down, Tracy.”

“I ... I don’t need to slap him down,” I stammered. “He’ll
get the message in the end, don’t worry about that.” Before
Tim could say anything more, I rushed on, “Look, I’m abso
lutely starving. Let’s go back to Honeysuckle Cottage and I’ll
knock up a meal for us.”

He hesitated. “All right, then.”

“Okay, I won’t be a minute. I must just slip along to the bathroom.”

Gathering up my handbag, I went through the communicating door to the flat. In case Tim was listening, I
popped in the bathroom first and turned on the basin taps, leaving them running. Then, very quietly, in a fever of caution, I crept down the flat’s staircase, letting myself out into
the courtyard. I didn’t close the front door behind me, in case
Tim might hear the click.

He would hear the car’s engine, of course, but by then I’d have a good start. Once he realised that I was running out on
him, he’d soon guess why. I had to get to people ... anyone
would do.

My first thought as I started the engine was to make for the Hall. But once through the archway, I turned left along the
main drive out of the grounds. The Hall was too near and
Tim might have caught up with me in the time it took
Grainger to don his black butler’s jacket and make his stately progress to the door.

I glanced in the rear view mirror. There were no headlights as yet. If I could only reach the village, there’d be somebody
around. I could pull up at the Trout Inn and dive into the
bar. There, among people, I’d be safe. And all I’d have to do was get in touch with Neil.

Turning out of the entrance gates, I drove fast down the
hill and into the village. There were lights on behind cur
tained windows, but the street itself seemed deserted. Then ahead of me I saw a man’s figure. It was Ralph Ebborn, just emerging from the front gate of The Larches. I screeched to a
stop beside him.

Ralph looked surprised, and not in the least pleased to see
me. But our disagreement would have to be forgotten now.

“What in heaven’s name is the matter, Tracy?” he asked, as I leapt out of the car. “You must have been doing sixty.”

“Ralph, I
...”
At first, spotting him, I’d known only relief. Now it came through to me that I had a lot of explaining
to do, and it wasn’t going to be easy. “I must talk to you,” I
finished.

“I was just going along to the Trout for a drink,” he said,
with an indifferent shrug. “What is it?”

“Can’t we go into the house, Ralph? I’d feel happier there.”

“Grace isn’t home. She’s gone to Stratford with a Women’s
Institute party to see
Othello”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He regarded me doubtfully, then nodded. “Okay, come in and tell me what’s on your mind.”

Inside the hallway, I said, “Can I use the phone first?”

“Who do you want to ring?”

“The police. Or rather, Neil Grant.”

Ralph turned his head and looked at me. “What d’you want
to talk to him for? There’s not been an accident or anything
like that, has there?”

“Oh no. But I have some information I must pass on to
him.” I gave a shudder. “I don’t like having to do it,” I admitted with a sigh. “But I suppose I’ve got to.”

Ralph threw open the door of the sitting room. Switching
on the lights, he gestured me inside.

“Why not come on in and tell me about it first,” he said, in
a more friendly tone. “Then we can decide what’s best to be
done.”

“But Ralph
...”

“You look in a real dither, Tracy. Sit down and I’ll get you
a drink. You obviously need one.”

“Yes, I do rather.”

A few sips of brandy helped to dull the pain a little and, shakily, I began to put Ralph in the picture. He listened in
sheer astonishment.

“You mean to tell me,” he broke in, “that old Billy Moon actually saw Baxter go up to the studio that morning, and
overheard him having a row with Oliver?” He scratched his
chin thoughtfully. “Why has Billy only just got around to tell
ing the police about it?”

“You know what Billy can be like, stubborn as a mule. But
then he suddenly realised that it was wrong to conceal such a vital piece of information.”

“That’s all the police have managed to get out of him,
though?”

“Isn’t it enough?” I said wretchedly. “Especially now it’s
emerged that Tim was seen visiting Ursula Kemp the other
night, after dark.”

“Ursula Kemp?” echoed Ralph, looking very puzzled.
“How does she come into it?”

“I’ll explain in a minute,” I said, realising what a mess I
was making of my story. I went on, deeply unhappy, “To be
honest, Ralph, I was suspicious of Tim right at the start ...
I mean, the way he appeared on the scene immediately after I arrived at the studio and found Oliver’s body. And then when
he wiped the fingerprints off the statuette ...”

“He did what?”

“I was holding it, you see, when I heard someone coming
...
I’d picked the thing up instinctively. So Tim wiped it clean, saying that it would complicate things if the police
found my prints on the murder weapon. But I thought at the
time that he could easily be wiping off his own fingerprints as
well.”

“Good God! Do the police know about that little episode?”

“Yes, they do. Neil gave us both a real dressing down. But
there was nothing else to implicate Tim Baxter—not at the
time. If only the business of the keys had struck me then.”

“Keys? What keys, Tracy?”

“Tim’s key ring was on Oliver’s desk when I got to the studio that morning. It just didn’t strike me at the time, and of course at that stage I wouldn’t have known whose they were
anyway. Tim has a curious little medallion attached to the
ring, you see, and when I happened to notice it yesterday, he
explained to me that it had been hand made at a street
market in France. Somehow it seemed familiar, but I didn’t realise
why
until just now, back at the studio, when Tim had his keys dangling from his finger. It suddenly brought back a
vivid recollection of Oliver’s desk that day, with the bunch of
keys lying on it. That’s what Tim must have come back for—
that and to wipe his fingerprints off the statuette—and, of
course, he had plenty of opportunity to pocket the keys while I was away fetching Sir Robert.”

Ralph frowned. “Does Baxter realise that you know all this, Tracy?”

“Well, I didn’t actually say anything. I was careful not to.
But Tim must have guessed, from the way I ran out on him. I
fully expected him to come chasing after me, but he doesn’t seem to have done.”

“No,” said Ralph, looking thoughtful, “he doesn’t.”

“I suppose I ought to phone Neil Grant now and tell him
what’s happened,” I said reluctantly.

“That can wait,” said Ralph, with a shake of his head.
“Finish telling me about it, first. What made the police concentrate on Billy Moon?”

“Neil always had a feeling that Billy knew more than he’d admit to. And then there was the matter of his finding the
magazine.”

“Magazine?” Ralph looked mystified. “You haven’t mentioned that before.”

“Oh, haven’t I? I’m afraid I’m not thinking very clearly.
You see, Billy found a copy of
Cotswold Illustrated
stuffed
down behind a manger in the stables, and it was obviously the
one used to make up that anonymous letter about me ...” I
saw a fresh query flash in Ralph’s eyes, and hurried on, “But
you don’t know about that, either, do you?”

“There seems to have been a lot going on that I knew noth
ing about,” he remarked bitterly. “So tell me, Tracy
...
tell
me everything.”

I briefly explained about the letter.

“And you think,” interrupted Ralph, “that it was Baxter
who sent it?”

“I’m coming to that. The police got a list of all the people
who took the magazine, and they checked up on everybody
who was in the least connected with this case, to discover if
any copies were missing. I was able to produce mine, and
Grace showed them yours ...”

“Yes, she mentioned something about being asked for it.
We couldn’t understand why.”

“Nothing could be solved until the missing copy was
tracked down, because there were
several
not accounted for
... not just Tim Baxter’s. Tim had told the police that he al
ways throws his away after glancing through it and cutting
out the Cotswold Vintage advertisement. But the Haslop Hall
copy had vanished, too, and Ursula Kemp’s.”