Design for Murder (7 page)

“What sort of questions?”

“About you, actually,” she admitted. “I suppose I shouldn’t
really be telling you this, but it seems only fair to warn you.

They wanted to know if I happened to have seen you drive
past here yesterday morning before you found Oliver’s body.”

So much for Neil’s palliness over lunch, I thought furiously.

“What did you tell them, Ursula?”

“I told them the truth—that I
hadn’t
seen you. But I don’t
understand why it should matter so much, Tracy.”

“It’s a question of timing,” I said grimly. “In their minds, it’s possible that I might have arrived at the Coach House
earlier than I said, quarrelled with Oliver, and ... and
struck him over the head.”

“I see.” Ursula looked at me wide-eyed. “If only I’d re
alised! I could have said ... well, that I
had
seen you at the time you told them.”

“But you didn’t.” Thinking of Tim and the fingerprints, I
said, “It’s no good lying to the police, Ursula. They always
find out in the end, and it only makes matters worse.”

“Yes ... yes, I suppose you’re right.” She touched my
arm, giving me a comforting little squeeze. “Don’t worry,
Tracy, they can’t possibly go on suspecting you.” After a brief hesitation, she asked, “What’s going to happen now? Will you try to carry on at the Design Studio without him?”

“I don’t see how I can.” A look I couldn’t decipher fleeted
across Ursula’s face, then I understood. We had recently
bought from her a set of cushion covers in hand-blocked linen for a weekend cottage we’d just refurbished for a Bristol wine merchant, and there had also been a pair of carriage lamps.
About two hundred pounds’ worth altogether. I hastened to
add, “Naturally, I’ll be staying on long enough to see that all the accounts are settled.”

“My dear, I wasn’t thinking of that,” she protested, flush
ing.

There was a babble of voices outside. A motor-coach had
drawn up by the village hall opposite, and a bevy of women
were descending purposefully on the What-Not Shop.

“You’ve got customers,” I said with the ghost of a smile,
and thankfully escaped.

Escape from Ursula, escape from Neil...
.
I walked with a brisk pace through the rest of the village, looking straight
ahead of me, determined not to catch another eye. Then on
up the hill, with beechwoods on the left and the high stone
wall of Haslop Hall on the right. I turned in at the gates and
was a hundred yards along the drive when I heard a vehicle
coming from behind. I stepped aside to let it go past, but it
pulled up alongside me.

“Hallo, Tracy. Want a lift?”

It was Ralph Ebborn, no doubt just returning from lunch
at home. It seemed less trouble to let him drive me the short
distance to the Coach House, than to decline his offer and have him linger here for a chat. So I jumped up in the Range
Rover beside him.

“I was going to drop in and see you anyway this after
noon,” he said, as he moved off. “I heard that you were
lunching with the detective inspector at the Trout.”

“My God, does
everybody
know that?”

Ralph gave me a sympathetic smile. He was a large man, in
his mid-fifties, with a pleasant squarish face. His hair and
thick eyebrows were gingery, and he had a rather florid com
plexion. As usual for work, he wore khaki slacks and a safari
jacket and he carried about his person a vague and not
unpleasing aroma of cigar smoke.

“I know how you must be feeling, Tracy.”

“Do you?” I said sarcastically. Then, quickly, “I’m sorry, Ralph I didn’t mean to take my bad temper out on you.”

He reached across and patted my hand in an avuncular
way. “What did he have to say?”

“Neil Grant, you mean?”

Ralph pulled a face. “It sounds as if you two made rapid
progress over lunch.”

“Oh, that accounts for his being so friendly now.”

“I’m not so sure how friendly he is,” I said. “He has me
down on his list of suspects.”

Ralph didn’t look shocked as Ursula had done. He just grunted. “I imagine that it must be a helluva long list. Who
else is on it, did he say?”

Tim Baxter, I could have told him. But something checked
me. Then, as we swung through the arch into the courtyard, I
saw Tim himself getting out of his green estate car.

“Hallo, Baxter,” Ralph called. “Is it Tracy you want?”

“That’s right.”

I jumped down from the Range Rover and gave Ralph a thank-you salute. But as I went to walk away, he said, “Hang
on a tick. I haven’t got around to mentioning what I wanted
to see you about. Grace said to invite you for dinner this eve
ning. We’d hate to
think
of you moping at home all on your
own.”

“Thanks, Ralph, I’d like that.” I meant it, too. Grace and
Ralph were the two people I’d feel most at ease with just now.

Ralph swung round in a tight circle and drove off. As I
turned to unlock the door to the studio, Tim said moodily, “I needn’t have bothered to come.”

I looked at him. “How d’you mean?”

“I was going to ask if you’d like to eat with
me
this evening.”

“I’m sorry, Tim, but I can’t now, can I?”

“There’s no need to sound so relieved about it,” he remarked bitterly.

“Don’t be stupid.”

I stifled back the uneasy knowledge that I
was
relieved to
be provided with a good excuse for refusing Tim. It was crazy
...
I knew that he wasn’t responsible for Oliver’s death—he
couldn’t be—yet the niggle of suspicion refused to go away.
Neither of us suggested making it another time. Standing like
this at the foot of the stairs, a question darted into my mind. I
wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before.

“Tim, you never told me why it was you came to the studio yesterday morning.”

He stared at me before answering. “Does it matter now?”

“It could. I’m surprised that Neil Grant hasn’t asked you
yet. Or has he?”

“Neil Grant. He’s asked me too many bloody ques
tions...
.
He was up at the vineyard this morning, nosing
round. Why he wants to nail this murder on me, God knows. But he seems bent on it.”

“Oh Tim, now you really are being stupid,” I protested.
“Neil’s just doing his job.”

“Which includes taking you out to lunch? You’re very thick
with him all of a sudden, aren’t you?”

I’d had enough of this. I gave him a furious glare. “Look,
I’ve got work to do.”

Tim returned my glare for a moment, then, “Okay, I’ll
leave you to get on with it.”

Before he’d driven out of the courtyard I realised that he’d
not given me an answer about his reason for coming to the
studio yesterday. I could still have called him back, but I
didn’t.

By the time I got upstairs the sound of his car had receded
to nothing and everything was quiet. From somewhere far-off on the estate I heard the clatter of a harvester, which only accentuated my feeling of isolation. The sick panic I had experi
enced this morning came back to me with renewed force.
Against my will, my eyes went to the damp patch on the carpet and I looked away hastily. How was I ever going to make myself work in this room?

The sound of the phone crashed through the silence. It was several moments before I could bring myself to pick it up.

“Hallo,” I said huskily.

“Miss Yorke, is that you?” I recognised the voice, hoarse
and strained though it was.

“Yes, Sir Robert.”

“Ah, good. I tried to reach you at your home.”

“I thought I had better come along to the studio and make
a start on sorting things out,” I explained.

“Yes ... good ... actually, that was what I wished to
speak to you about. Er ... could you come up to the Hall now, do you think?”

I welcomed any excuse for leaving the studio. And it was a relief, too, to find that sooner than I had expected, Sir Robert
was ready to discuss winding up the business. I’d now be able
to think about plans for the future.

“Yes, I’ll come at once,” I agreed.

Thrusting a notepad and pen into my shoulderbag, I ran
downstairs and within two or three minutes I was ringing the bell at Haslop Hall. Grainger let me in and loped ahead of me
to Sir Robert’s study.

It was a room I had only seen once before when I was first
sounded out about joining Oliver. Dark oak panelling rose to head height on all four walls, swallowing the afternoon sun
shine. Oliver had not been allowed to change the decor of this sanctum.

Sir Robert was not, as I had anticipated, alone. His
adopted son, Sebastian, was seated with him behind the massive leather-topped desk, giving it the appearance of a magistrates’ bench. Sir Robert rose politely as I entered, and Sebastian followed suit.

“Please sit down, Miss Yorke,” he invited me, after a little cough to clear his throat. “Er ... you know Sebastian, I be
lieve?”

“Yes, of course.”

Oddly, though there was no blood connection, Sebastian
bore a superficial resemblance to Oliver. It struck me that Sir Robert’s taste in women had remained consistent as the years advanced ... both his previous wives, like the present Lady Medway, had been tall and elegant and raven-haired. But Sebastian lacked his stepbrother’s charm. His eyes, dark and long-lashed, were a shade too close together, and there was a tightness to his mouth.

“Sebastian came home from Oxford yesterday to be with us at this dreadful time,” Sir Robert explained, at which Sebastian looked smugly virtuous. The university long vacation had
already begun, of course, but I seemed to recall that Oliver
had mentioned something about Sebastian staying on for a
symposium on international law.

Sir Robert himself looked ghastly, even worse than in those
first minutes of shock yesterday. His cheeks and lips were tinged with blue, and I noticed that the hand resting on his
desk vas trembling.

He cleared his throat again, with some difficulty. “Oliver’s
death has, er ... placed you in an unfortunate situation,
Miss Yorke. I feel to some degree responsible, having per
suaded you to abandon your plans to return to London after
your aunt’s death.”

Sir Robert paused, as if expecting me to comment. But I could think of no comment to make. His next words took me
utterly by surprise.

“Would it be possible for you to carry on the Design Studio
alone?”

“You mean,” I stammered foolishly, “run it myself?”

“I would be very ready,” he went on, “to lend my financial
support. As you know, I charged Oliver a purely nominal
rent for the premises, merely for bookkeeping purposes, and
this arrangement could continue. I could also provide you
with the necessary working capital.”

Sebastian’s expression was far from approving, but he kept
quiet. After some rapid thinking, I said cautiously, “It’s only fair to point out, Sir Robert, that anything I undertook would need to be on a much smaller scale. For one thing, I haven’t
got Oliver’s talent—that was something very special. And for
another thing, I lack his contacts. Even if I were able to suc
ceed alone, there wouldn’t be much of a return on your in
vestment, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not looking for a profit,” he said tetchily. “It was your assistance, Miss Yorke, that made it possible for my son to
practise a profession which seemed to suit him. I am very
much aware of that fact, and this is a way of showing my ap
preciation.”

It was a marvellous opportunity. So why did I hesitate?

Was it the curious mood that had gripped me earlier this afternoon at the studio, the sense of unease amounting almost to panic? Was it because the horror of Oliver’s death was too fresh in my mind? But this would surely pass, as everything has to pass in time.

“You’re very generous, Sir Robert,” I made myself say. “I should be glad to accept your offer.”

“Good.” He gave a satisfied nod. “Then we shall have a proper agreement drawn up. My solicitor will see to it, Miss
Yorke, and be in touch with you.”

That was that, there was nothing more to be said. The matter was settled and Sir Robert wanted the interview over. But
the surprising thing was that he had screwed himself up to
talk to me at all on this subject, so soon after Oliver’s death.

I rose to my feet, and both men stood up too.

“How is Lady Medway today?” I said. The question was
asked merely from politeness, but Sir Robert stared at me as
if I must have had some other, hidden motive. It was Sebas
tian who answered.

“My stepmother is indisposed, Miss Yorke, as one might
expect after such a shock.” The shock, his tone seemed to
imply, resulting from Oliver’s lack of consideration in getting
himself murdered.

“Yes, of course,” I muttered. “Naturally. I hope she feels better soon.”

Sebastian did not show me out himself, as courtesy might
have demanded. Instead, he rang for Grainger, and from the speed with which the butler answered the summons, I suspected that he had been lurking outside the door.