Design for Murder (26 page)

“I think I’ll pop over to the Old Rectory at Dodford later
on,” I said, “to put Cynthia’s mind at rest. She must still be
worried sick.”

Neil’s eyes registered alarm. “What I’ve just told you is for
your private ear alone, Tracy.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell her anything she shouldn’t know. Only that her affair with Oliver can be buried and forgotten now.” I thought for a moment, then surprised myself by say
ing, “Do you really have to take action against Diana Med
way over that anonymous letter?”

“What a truly forgiving nature you have, Tracy Yorke.”

“It’s not so much her I’m thinking of,” I explained. “But Sir Robert will suffer as well, if she’s prosecuted. Surely it can be quietly overlooked?”

“That’s not up to me, Tracy. My Chief Superintend
ent...”

“Your Chief Superintendent,” I interrupted, “can be influenced. Yes?”

His grin was a long-suffering one. “I suppose so.”

“Good. That’s settled, then. Did you find out from Sir Rob
ert why he suddenly changed his mind and tried to persuade me to go away?”

“This is guesswork, mostly. I reckon the poor old boy felt
certain you must know about his wife’s affair with Oliver, and
he was afraid that you would expose the fact. So his immediate thought was to placate you in the most obvious way by offering you the Design Studio. Then he panicked at the idea
of your remaining in the neighbourhood, and tried a new
tack. But it wasn’t only fear, I’m sure. He did feel quite a
sense of obligation to you for keeping his son going in a suc
cessful business venture—more than you can have guessed,
Tracy. In London, so our enquiries have revealed, Oliver
Medway sailed very near the wind, and it was only a matter
of time before he was nabbed on some kind of fraud charge.”

I sighed. “Will Sir Robert and Lady Medway be staying together, d’you suppose?”

“Oh yes, I should think so. The old boy needs her now. He’s
looking quite incredibly frail. It’s my belief that the running
of the estate will very shortly be passed over lock, stock, and
barrel to young Sebastian, and Sir Robert and Lady Medway
will live a quiet life—somewhere on the Mediterranean—
that’s where I’d go if I had their sort of money. Mind you,
she’ll be little more than his nurse, which will serve her right.”

“She’ll find other amusements,” I observed.

“No doubt she will.”

“Sebastian will probably make a first-class job of running
Haslop Hall,” I said, striving to be fair. “He’s got all the abili
ties that Oliver lacked. There’s one thing, though—he’ll have
trouble finding an agent as good as Ralph.”

“Does a good agent dip his hand in the till?”

“Oh, Sebastian will see that it doesn’t happen again,” I said
confidently.

Neil settled himself more comfortably beside me on the vel
vet sofa. “And what will you be doing now, Tracy?”

It was odd, but I already had things worked out neatly in
my mind.

“I shan’t stay at the Coach House,” I said, “even if Sebastian would let me. Instead, I shall convert the workshop here
for the Design Studio. And I’m going to offer to let Honey
suckle Cottage to Grace. She’s always liked the cottage and she wouldn’t want to stay in this house—neither could she
afford to without Ralph’s salary. I reckon it will work out
quite nicely.”

“You’re a real little Miss Fix-It, aren’t you?” said Neil.
“But I really meant, what about you and ... Tim?”

“Oh, I’m going to marry Tim.”

“You mean that he’s already got around to proposing?”

I laughed. “Well, he’s not exactly asked me to name the
day. But he will, very soon.”

Neil scuffed the dove-grey carpet with the toe of his shoe.

Maybe we could ask him to be best man.

* * * *

Two days later Tim and I stood together on the rounded
top of the hillock above his vineyard. To the west, a huge
crimson sun was sinking behind the distant hills.

“It’ll be a good vintage this year, I reckon,” he said. Then,
“I shouldn’t have any trouble with Sebastian.”

Dear Tim, thinking there was a need to sell himself to me
with promises of the good life.

I had one question for him. It didn’t bother me, of course,
but I was still curious.

“Monday evening,” I said, “when you were supposed to be
home doing your VAT return, I rang you, but you didn’t an
swer.”

He turned me a puzzled look. “But I was there, Tracy.”

“I rang and rang,” I pointed out, “for five minutes, at
least.”

“What time was this?”

“I don’t know. Ten-ish.”

“I remember now,” he said slowly. “I went out for a breather, a few minutes stroll round the vineyard.”

“But the external bell?”

“I wouldn’t have bothered to switch it on.”

“I wish you
had
done, Tim,” I said with a shudder. “When Neil and I worked out that Ursula’s death was no accident,
and I remembered that you hadn’t answered the phone ...”

“Forget it, darling,” he said. “Forget the whole thing.”

But I never would, ever.

The sun edged lower, and the entire western sky glowed
crimson. Below us, Steeple Haslop was bathed in the tran
quility of a lovely summer’s evening.

Tim drew me closer to him. “All those things going on,” he
mused. “Oliver and Ursula and Ralph ... and none of us
had a clue about it. You have to wonder what else is going on under the surface in our peaceful village.”

“It’s probably a seething cauldron of intrigue,” I answered.
“But I don’t want to think about that, Tim.”

Still we stood there, and the silence was alive with sounds.
Gentle country sounds of summer. I waited, quietly confident, for the question that Tim was about to put to me.

Copyright © 1981 by Erica Quest/Nancy Buckingham

Originally published by Doubleday/Crime Club

Electronically published in 2014 by Belgrave House/Regency

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