Design for Murder (9 page)

“It’s a bit cottagy,” I said, in the way we all have of
disparaging our own creations.

“But this
is
a cottage, a genuine old Cotswold cottage. It’s not precious, though, that’s the important thing.”

“What a surprise,” I laughed, as I poured boiling water on
the coffee. “A detective with an appreciative eye.”

“A very appreciative eye,” he rejoined, and gave me a slow
look.

“D’you take sugar and cream?” I asked, turning away.

“Dark brown, please, and two spoonfuls.”

I took mine black, and leant back against the sink unit
while I drank it.

Neil spoilt the easier atmosphere between us by asking suddenly, “Have you seen anything more of Tim Baxter?”

“I have.”

He gave his coffee an extra stir. “When was that?”

“Yesterday afternoon, when I arrived back at the Coach House after lunching with you. He had just called in to see me.”

“Anxious to find out what had transpired, was he?”

“If you mean did Tim know that I’d had lunch with you,
the answer is yes. But then so did every single living soul in
Steeple Haslop, I imagine, not to mention every cat and dog and budgerigar.”

He grinned. “But about Baxter ...”

“What about him?”

“You were going to tell me what he had to say.”

“Was I? Well, Tim asked me to dinner, but I was already
engaged.”

“So you made it another day instead.”

“No, we didn’t, actually.” I put my mug down on the draining board with a bang. “If you’re looking for a link between Tim and me, you’re wasting your time.”

“He rushed to cover up for you concerning those fingerprints,” Neil reminded me. “Which was a stupid thing to do. Why did he, I wonder?”

“It was just an instinctive response.”

Neil drained the last of his coffee, and held out the mug.

“Any more in the pot?”

“You’ve got a nerve,” I exploded. “Coming here expecting
me to fill you up with coffee, and all the while making nasty
insinuations ...”

“People with nothing to hide,” he remarked sententiously, “have nothing to fear in answering police questions.”

“You think I’ve got something to hide?”

“Have you?”

He was still holding the mug out, and I took it from him ungraciously, refilling it and adding cream and sugar.

“You’d better hurry up and drink it. I’ve got to get to work.”

“Have you decided yet what you’re going to do?” he asked
me. “Any chance of you staying in this part of the world?”

“I will be, as a matter of fact.” I gave him a brief run-
through of my conversation with Sir Robert.

“It’s a generous offer,” said Neil. “Mind you, he’ll recover
any money he puts up to back you, I’ve no doubt of that.
Still, I wonder why he did it?”

“He feels he owes me something, I suppose.”

“I’m sure he does owe you something—a hell of a lot, I should say. But did the Medways get rich by remembering
their obligations?”

“Do I detect a sour note?”

“Probably. My Chief Superintendent has told me in no un
certain terms that I’m to treat the Medway family with kid
gloves.”

“Well, they are influential people in this neck of the
woods,” I said.

“In my book the landed gentry are governed by the same
laws as everyone else. As it happens my ten o’clock appoint
ment is up at the Hall... with Master Sebastian.”

Damn him, why did he have to bring that name up now?
Trying to
sound casual, I said, “Are you seeing him for any
special reason?”

“To get some answers. We’ve made enquiries in Oxford, and he has some explaining to do about his whereabouts on
the morning his stepbrother was killed.”

I felt a chasm yawning open. I stammered, “But ... but
why were you checking up on Sebastian? What reason do you
have for suspecting him?”

“You seem fond of using that word. The young man in question has, by the death of Oliver Medway, instantly be
come the heir to a large fortune. Don’t you think that’s
sufficient reason for us to make a few enquiries about his
whereabouts at the relevant time?”

“I suppose so.”

He gave me a long, thoughtful look. “You’ve already made
it clear that you don’t much care for Sebastian Medway.
Would you consider him capable of murder?”

“Why ask me?” I parried.

“Could be that I respect your judgment, Tracy.”

I realised that I had no option but to tell Neil what I knew
about Sebastian. Not to do so would be almost as bad as out
right lying to the police, and I wasn’t prepared to do that—
certainly not in order to shield Sebastian Medway. If, as
Ralph seemed to expect, he had a perfectly good explanation
for his presence so close to the scene of his stepbrother’s murder ... well, he could give it to the police himself. At
least I knew that Neil would be circumspect in the way he set
about asking questions. He wasn’t going to barge into the
drawing room at Haslop Hall and fling out accusations.

So, hesitantly and very unhappily, I told him about Grace
having seen Sebastian on Wednesday morning. Neil’s expres
sion became grim. As I faltered to a stop he demanded
roughly, “What the devil did you think you were playing at,
Tracy, keeping quiet about all this?”

“Well, you see, Ralph wanted to speak to Sebastian first
... ask him for an explanation. He said that if he
didn’t
get one, then that was the time to inform the police. It
...
it seemed
to make sense.”

“It doesn’t make any sense at all. Ralph Ebborn can’t take it upon himself to judge whether or not this is important.
What’s his game, I wonder? Trying to protect his lord and
master’s family?”

“Neil, you can’t think that Ralph would deliberately con
ceal important evidence?”

“He won’t get a chance to now, anyway. Before I do any
thing else, I’m going to have a few words with Ralph Ebborn.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was now half
past nine. “Young Sebastian will have to cool his heels until I’ve finished with Ebborn.”

“Ralph will find it hard to forgive me for telling you,” I said miserably.

“What you ought to be worrying about,” said Neil, “is
whether
I’ll
forgive you. You did a damn fool thing, Tracy, and I hope you realise it. I know that it was primarily Mrs. Ebborn’s responsibility, as the actual witness. But you can’t dodge your own responsibility so easily. It was your duty to
pass on to the police any knowledge you had which was
relevant to the case. And you know it.”

I was reduced to silence. Rising from his perch on the
table, Neil reached out his hand and flicked my cheek with
his fingertip.

“You make a marvellous cup of coffee.”

To allow time for Neil to get clear, I stayed to rinse out our
coffee mugs. While I was drying them, the phone rang.

“Hallo, Tracy,” said Ralph. “I dropped round to the studio
to see you just now. You’re late this morning.”

“Yes, I can’t seem to get started.”

“I wanted to tell you that I ran into Sebastian first thing
this morning. He was out riding, so I took the chance of hav
ing a quiet chat.”

“What did he have to say?” I asked, my pulse rate suddenly
speeding up.

“He was pretty cagey at first. But I pointed out that al
though I was very reluctant to do so, I would feel compelled
to inform the police that my wife had seen him on Wednesday
morning—unless he could give me an explanation. So in the
end he did.”

“And what
was
his explanation?”

“I’d better not tell you over the phone,” said Ralph. “Any
way, it doesn’t really matter now, does it, as long as we know
that Sebastian is in the clear. And I can assure you that he is,
Tracy, so we can just forget the whole thing.”

“It’s not going to be quite as easy as that, Ralph,” I mut
tered wretchedly.

“Oh?” he demanded. “Why not?”

“Because ...” But it was no use hesitating; I couldn’t
avoid admitting what I’d done. So I plunged straight in. “I’ve already told Neil Grant about Grace seeing Sebastian.”

“You did
what?”

“Neil dropped round here just now ... that’s why I’m late
this morning. He was asking me about Sebastian, my opinion of him. Because, you see, they’ve checked on him in Oxford,
and he didn’t have a satisfactory alibi for that morning. So
... well, in the circumstances I could hardly conceal what I
knew, could I?”

There was a pause. Then, “How did Grant react?”

“He really laid into me for not passing the information to
the police immediately. And ... and I’m afraid that he’s
going to do the same with you, Ralph. In fact, he’s on his way
over right now.”

“God Almighty.” There was another pause, then Ralph
muttered, “I suppose I can always make out that I was plan
ning to phone him about it this morning, and ...”

“No that’s no good. Neil knows that you intended to talk
to Sebastian, and say nothing if he could give you a satis
factory explanation for being near here on Wednesday morn
ing.”

“You seem to have gone out of your way to put me on the spot,” Ralph said furiously. “What the hell did you think you were up to?”

“I had to tell him everything, surely you can see that. Not
to have admitted it straight out would be tantamount to lying,
and that would have made matters a lot worse. I’m sorry, Ralph.”

He started to say something else, but broke off for a moment to speak to someone in the office. “I gather that Grant has arrived. I’ll have to go now.”

Now I was thoroughly in Ralph’s bad books, and Grace wouldn’t be any too pleased with me, either. Work, I told myself, was the best remedy for depression, and there was plenty
to be done. So I took off for the Coach House.

First, I called the carpet firm in Kidderminster and found
to my relief that the specially woven broadloom for the
Golden Peacock job was being put on rail this morning. A
letter had arrived in the morning’s mail which promised deliv
ery of the equipment for the Myddleton Manor kitchen next
Monday, and I fixed with the contractor about installing it.
So far, so good.

Then I turned to something new. Oliver had rough-
sketched some ideas for converting an old thatched barn into
a pool-side bar and games room, and I tried to concentrate on
making a series of coloured visuals for the client’s approval. I
was getting absorbed at my drawing board, with photos
spread out all around me, when the phone rang. As I scooped it up my worries came rushing back in a flood. It would be Ralph to report how he’d got on with Neil.

“Hallo, Tracy, it’s Tim. Look, about having a meal with me,” he said, “how about tonight?”

His call had come at just the right moment. I was begin
ning to feel like a social outcast.
“Yes, I’d like that, Tim.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up
...
at seven. I thought we might go to the Lamb Inn in Gilchester.” He suddenly sounded diffident. “Er ... how’re things going with you?”

“So-so. By the way, I’ll be staying on here and running the
Design Studio on my own. Sir Robert suggested it.”

“That’s wonderful news, Tracy.” His obvious pleasure further boosted my morale.

“I’ll tell you all about it this evening,” I said happily, and
rang off.

I drove home at lunchtime, collected together a tray-snack
of cheese, a chunk of cucumber, crisp bread, an apple,
plus a glass of milk, and took it into the garden to relax in the
shade of the weeping ash tree. The job I’d lined up to do this
afternoon I didn’t fancy at all, but it had to be faced.

Dodford was a village three miles to the south of Steeple
Haslop, enfolded in a specially lovely little valley. The Old
Rectory, a largish early-Victorian house, stood adjoining the Norman church opposite the village green.

Cynthia Fairford opened the door to my ring and gave me
a startled look. She was one of those women who, though still
attractive, lived in dread of looming middle-age. Two sons
away at boarding school and a prosperous civil-engineer hus
band who spent half his life dashing off to far-flung regions of
the word, left her with too much time on her hands. In a
word, she had to be categorised as the perfect target for
Oliver’s attention.

“Hallo, Mrs. Fairford. I thought I ought to come along and
see you.”

“Yes,” she said vaguely, pushing back her ash-blond hair.
“Come in, Miss Yorke.”

She led the way across the hall to her drawing room, for
which the Design Studio was planning a face-lift. As I stepped across the threshold it struck me suddenly that
Oliver’s proposed treatment was quite wrong in here, alto
gether too gimmicky. This graciously-proportioned room,
with long windows that opened out onto a canopied verandah
and looked across sweeping lawns to a vista of the church
tower framed between giant copper beeches, needed some
thing more in keeping with tradition.