Design for Murder (5 page)

“It must have been quite horrible for you, dearie,” she
began in an awestruck voice. “Fancy walking up them stairs
and finding the body all smothered in blood like that.”

“Yes, it was a dreadful shock,” I admitted.

We returned to the cottage and I made coffee, resigned to having a chat with her. When I’d given all the details I intended to give and parried a number of artfully-angled ques
tions, Mrs. Sparrow kept the conversation going by remarking
darkly, “Mind you, I’m not a bit surprised that your Mr.
Medway came to a sticky end, the way he used to carry on.
My Fred says that many’s the time on his early milk round
he’s seen that red sports car of Mr. Medway’s parked where it
had no business to be parked. Fred could tell a tale or two, if he’d a mind, about the goings-on around here.”

“If Mr. Sparrow knows anything that could be relevant to Mr. Medway’s death,” I pointed out sternly, “then he should go to the police about it.”

The suggestion startled her.

“Let them find out for theirselves,” she said, and stood up to begin work. “That’s what they’re paid for. Nobody in their
right mind goes running to the coppers—you never know
what you might be letting yourself in for.”

On an impulse, partly to get away from Elsie Sparrow, I
decided to go to the Coach House, though I more than half
expected to be refused admittance. Still, they might at least allow me to collect any mail.

The thought of going back to the studio, of trying to work
in the room where Oliver had been killed, was something I
dreaded. But I couldn’t avoid it, there was so much I would have to clear up. So the sooner the better, I argued to myself.
It was like falling off a horse, and getting straight back on
again before you lost your nerve completely.

To my surprise the courtyard was empty of cars. I glimpsed old Billy Moon sweeping out the stable, but he drew back
quickly as if not wanting to be noticed.

As I let myself in I felt a curious sensation of reliving yes
terday. I felt almost convinced that I was going to be con
fronted with Oliver’s body stretched out on the floor, his head
battered and bloody, the grotesque fertility god lying beside him. It took every ounce of willpower to make myself climb
the stairs.

Astonishingly, the studio had been left tidy. Someone—
Neil, presumably—had even thought to have the bloodstains scrubbed off the carpet, only a damp patch remaining. All the
same, after the first glance I kept my eyes averted.

There had been several letters on the mat downstairs, and a
small package which contained the samples of gold tassels I’d
sent for a week ago. Everything seemed unreal—as if nothing to do with me—and I just wanted to turn tail and run. It had been a mad idea to come to the studio this morning. I realised for the first time that someone around here—probably someone whom I knew personally—was a murderer. The thought
made me feel sick with panic.

Yet I felt duty bound to stay and do my best to clear things
up. Commissioned jobs couldn’t be abandoned half done, and there were all kinds of loose ends to be tied off. I could hardly press Sir Robert for instructions, at least for the next day or two, so in the meantime it was up to me to do my best.

In cases where we were still at the early planning stage,
there was little problem. The clients could merely be in
formed that the Design Studio was regretfully unable to com
plete the job, and I could recommend another firm of interior designers to take over. I mentally put these aside for the mo
ment, as well as the jobs in which there were just a few bits
and pieces to be finished off.

I was left with three undertakings which presented a real headache. Oliver had planned a dramatic revamp for the con
sulting rooms of a fashionable chiropractor in Cheltenham,
and work was due to begin next week—the timing here had been an important factor in the contract. Then there was the
new grill-room extension of the Golden Peacock restaurant
over towards Stow-in-the-Wold, where the decorators were al
ready in—almost finished, in fact—but it looked as if there
was going to be a delay with delivery of the specially woven
peacock-motif carpet. And there was Myddleton Manor in
the nearby village of Haslop St. John where Lady Chorley
was having an expensive kitchen installed. At present the old
kitchen and dairy had been stripped to a bare shell awaiting
the laying of cork flooring and the arrival of cabinets and
cupboards, ovens and hobs, fridge and freezer and
dishwasher, and everything would need chasing up to be
fitted ready for use in time for Lord and Lady Chorley’s re
turn from their holiday.

I also made a note of Mrs. Cynthia Fairford at Dodford
Old Rectory. Her new drawing room was still only a prelimi
nary design on paper, but considering the lady’s special rela
tionship with Oliver it seemed to me that some tactful han
dling was called for.

I heard the sound of a car entering the courtyard, then
there were footsteps on the stairs. It was Neil Grant.

“Hallo, Tracy. I dropped in at Honeysuckle Cottage just
now and your cleaning woman told me that I’d find you
here.”

“Tracy?” I queried, “Whatever happened to Miss Yorke?”

“Police business has to be conducted with a certain formal
ity. You ought to appreciate that.”

“And isn’t this police business now?”

“Well, yes. But I wanted to have an off-the-record chat
with you about the general set-up here, to give me a better
all-round picture.”

I shrugged, and gestured him to one of the comfortable red leather chairs. “What is it you want to know?”

“You went straight to see Baxter after leaving here yester
day.”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” I said coldly.

“What I want to know, Tracy, is
why?”

“Is it a crime?” I demanded. “I just wanted to talk to Tim.”

“What about? Were you comparing notes?”

“Would that be so surprising, after all those questions you
threw at us?”

Neil looked exasperated. “Surely you can see that I’ve got
to ask questions. It’s the only way I can eliminate people from suspicion.”

“And are Tim and I now eliminated?”

He didn’t answer that. Instead he shot off in a new direc
tion. “Tracy, how the devil did you come to be associated
with a man like Oliver Medway?”

I didn’t care for what he’d said, and I particularly didn’t
like the implication behind it.

“You may be interested to know,” I told him frostily, “that
working alongside Oliver Medway was an enormously valuable experience. He was one of the most talented men I’ve ever
met... almost a genius.”

“He was lots of other, less admirable things, too,” Neil re
torted.

“Such as?”

“For a start, he was pathologically promiscuous. People say that he couldn’t keep his hands off any attractive woman who
happened to cross his path.”

“So?”

“So, it could be relevant to his murder.” Neil eased a finger round the leather strap of his wristwatch, and glowered at me.
“Don’t try and tell me that he never made a pass at you,
Tracy. I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Then I won’t.”

“Does that mean he did?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, ” I exploded. “As you said, Oliver
couldn’t keep his hands off women. The first day I joined him he was trying it on with me.”

“And?”

I held back an impulse to scream out confirmation of what
he obviously believed. Wasn’t his big luxurious bed handy,
only two rooms along from the studio?

I said in a furious voice, “It was always strictly business be
tween Oliver and me. I insisted on that. I couldn’t possibly
have worked with him otherwise.”

“I see.” It was as if the tempo suddenly changed, Neil once
again becoming the brisk police inspector. “I want you to
make a list of every contact of Oliver Medway’s you can
think of.”

“Business contacts, you mean?”

“And personal. I gather that the two were closely in
terlinked. Did he keep a diary? We didn’t find anything.”

“I can’t imagine Oliver keeping a diary,” I said. “Except
the one over there by the phone for appointments.”

“We’ve looked through that already. There seems nothing
much to interest us.” Neil glanced around as if for inspira
tion. “Well, I’ll leave you to get on with that list, while I have
another look round the flat.”

He disappeared through the communicating door and I set about noting down names and addresses. To aid my memory,
I looked up the correspondence files and account books. All
the while I could hear the sound of doors opening and closing
next door. When after a good half hour Neil came back, he started to give the studio a thorough inspection too, checking through the titles on the bookshelves, then sitting at Oliver’s
desk and going through the drawers.

“I thought all that would have been done yesterday,” I said, finding the silence between us a bit creepy.

“It was,” said Neil, “and very thoroughly. But whenever
possible I like to have a quiet, uninterrupted browse without
an audience.”

“Does that mean you’d like me to make myself scarce?”

“Oh, I wasn’t including you, Tracy.” He gave me a rueful
grin, which suddenly made him more human. “When you’ve
gained a certain reputation for being an astute detective, it’s
important to maintain the image—especially when your Chief
Superintendent has entrusted you with a murder investi
gation. In the presence of other policemen I have to be seen sizing up situations in an instant. Making shrewd assessments
and judgments. It wouldn’t do at all for anyone to see Neil Grant lost for a lead.”

“And you’re lost in this case?”

Neil let his glance rest on me until I felt uncomfortable.

“Put it this way, Tracy ... there are too many leads, too
many possibilities. Nothing stands out as obvious.”

“From your line of questioning yesterday,” I said dryly, “I
was under the impression that you thought it all very obvi
ous.”

He shook his head and sighed. “Like most people, you’ve
got altogether the wrong idea of police work. Too much tele
vision, I suppose. Brilliant leaps of deduction hardly ever
come into it. We have to rely on painstakingly collecting and sifting facts and opinions. Fitting them together and trying to
discern a pattern.”

“Like a jigsaw puzzle,” I suggested, unoriginally.

“Exactly. And up to now I’ve scarcely got more than two
or three pieces slotted together.”

“So you don’t really believe that it was Tim Baxter?” I
asked.

“Do you?” he shot back at me.

“Of course not.”

“You seem very positive.”

“I just know it wasn’t Tim,” I said stubbornly, trying to convince myself as much as him.

Neil settled himself more comfortably in Oliver’s chair,
stretching out his legs.

“Tell me about Baxter. He went off to horticultural college or whatever, I think, about the same time I joined the police.
I’d heard that he lost both his parents, but that he’d returned
to the neighbourhood. How did he come to start a vineyard
here?”

“The way I understand it, Tim first got hooked on the idea
while he was on holiday in France, as a student. Then when he came home after college, he spotted that piece of south-facing land on the slopes of the Pudding Basin, and realised
that it was an ideal spot for grape cultivation. It seems that
Sir Robert didn’t object when Tim approached him, but Tim
needed his help in financing the scheme, too. You see, there
would be no crops while the vines established themselves— three years, I think it takes. Anyhow, he managed to talk Sir
Robert into letting him have a go. Unluckily, though, Tim’s first vintage was a terrible flop because of bad weather, but
this past year things have picked up, and it now looks as if
the vineyard will pay off.”

“Where did you get all this information? From Baxter him
self?”

“No. I told you, I don’t know him all that well. It’s just common knowledge that I’ve picked up from various people
—including Oliver, I suppose.”

“I see. What was Medway’s attitude towards Baxter and
the vineyard?”

“He wasn’t very happy about it, actually,” I said, minimis
ing Oliver’s many scathing comments.

I might have guessed that Neil would jump in on that.

“Shouldn’t Medway have been pleased, once he saw that
the gamble was going to pay off? If the vineyard is doing well
and the Haslop Hall estate has a stake in the profits, he must
surely have benefitted?”

“Not really, because his father kept him on a very tight
rein.” I thought it necessary to add, “Oliver wasn’t very good
with money—it tended to run through his fingers.” This could
have competed for the understatement of the year.