Fox Evil (26 page)

"None of your business," she spat. "You can't tell me who I can talk to. I've got rights."

He slapped her hard across the face.
"Where is he?"
he snarled.

She hunched away from him, hate and malice blazing in her eyes. "He'll get you first. You see if he doesn't. You're an old man. He's not afraid of you. He's not afraid of anyone."

Bob reached for his jacket on a hook beside the sink. "More fool him," was all he said, before going out and slamming the door behind him.

They were fine words, but the reality of the night made a mockery of them. The westerly wind had covered the moon with cloud, and without a torch Bob was virtually blind. He turned toward the Manor, intending to use the drawing-room lights as a guide, and he had time to be surprised that the Manor was in darkness before a hammer hit his skull and the black night engulfed him.

DS Monroe was tired of middle-aged women pleading ignorance. He crossed his legs and stared around the room, listening to Eleanor Bartlett huff and puff her outrage at his suggestion that she knew anything about an intruder at Prue's. The village was full of travelers, and everyone knew that travelers were thieves. As for a hate campaign, that was a gross misrepresentation of one or two phone calls advising the Colonel that his secrets were out. Presumably the police knew the nature of the accusations?

It was a rhetorical question. She didn't wait for an answer but listed James's crimes against his daughter in salacious detail, as much for Julian's benefit, Monroe decided, as for his own. She was seeking to justify herself by creating a monster out of the Colonel, and it seemed to be working if Julian's thoughtful expression was anything to go by. "Also, Henry wasn't James's dog," she finished heatedly, "he was
Ailsa's
dog… and if anyone killed him, it was probably James himself. He's a very cruel man."

Monroe brought his attention back to her. "Can you prove any of these allegations?"

"Of course I can. They were told to me by Elizabeth. Are you suggesting she'd lie about a thing like that?"

"Someone seems to be lying. According to Mrs. Weldon, Colonel Lockyer-Fox was abroad when the baby was conceived."

More huffing and puffing. It was a piece of gossip that Prue had picked up-half heard and certainly wrongly reported. If the sergeant knew Prue as well as Eleanor did, he'd know that she never got anything right, and, in any case, Prue had changed her mind as soon as Eleanor relayed the details of what Elizabeth had said. "You should be questioning James about murder and child abuse," she snapped, "not intimidating me because I've been doing your job for you." She drew breath. "Of course we all know why you're
not
… you're hand in glove with him."

The sergeant stared her down. "I won't dignify that with a response, Mrs. Bartlett."

Her mouth curled disdainfully. "But it's true. You never investigated Ailsa's death properly. It was swept under the carpet to avoid scandal for James."

He shrugged. "If you believe that, you'll believe anything, and I shall have to assume that nothing you say can be relied on… including these allegations against the Colonel."

She launched into further justification. Of course they could be relied on. If not, why had James allowed them to continue? It wasn't as if Eleanor had hidden her identity, unlike Prue, who was a coward. If James had bothered to come around and explain his side of the story, Eleanor would have listened. The truth was the only thing she was interested in. Ailsa was her friend, and there was no doubt that both James's children believed him guilty of murdering her. It had traumatized Eleanor to think of Ailsa suffering at the hands of a violent husband… particularly after hearing what Elizabeth claimed had happened to
her
as a child. If the police had asked the right questions, they would have discovered all this for themselves.

Monroe let her run on, more interested in comparing her "sitting room" with the dilapidated "drawing room" at the Manor. Everything in Eleanor's room was new and spotless. Cream furniture on a luscious shag-pile carpet. Chocolate walls to add vibrancy. Pastel curtains, draped in Austrian style, to lend a "romantic" feel to the high-ceilinged Victorian room.

It was very "designer" and very expensive, and it said nothing at all about the people who lived there. Except that they were flashy and wealthy. There were no paintings on the walls, no heirlooms, no homely litter that spoke of the inhabitants feeling comfortable in their surroundings. Give him the Manor drawing room any day, he thought, where the tastes of different centuries vied for attention, and a hundred personalities, and generations of dogs, had left their marks on the scuffed leather sofas and threadbare Persian rugs.

Every so often his eyes came to rest on the woman's sharp face. She made him think of an aging American film star who showed too many teeth because the last facelift was a facelift too far in the desperate attempt to cling to youth. He wondered who Eleanor's competition was-certainly not Mrs. Weldon-and he suspected it was the husband, with his dyed hair and tight-fitting jeans. What sort of relationship did they have where image was more important than comfort? Or was each afraid of losing the other?

He let a silence develop when she came to a halt, refusing to give her a moral victory by defending police actions in the matter of Ailsa's death. "When did you move here?" he asked Julian.

The man was staring at his wife as if she'd grown horns. "Four years ago from London."

"Before the housing boom, then?"

Eleanor looked irritated as if missing the boom by a whisker still rankled. "It didn't really affect us," she said grandly. "We lived in Chelsea. Property there has always been expensive."

Monroe nodded. "I was in the Met until a year and a half ago," he said in a conversational tone. "The value of our house went up by twenty percent in twelve months."

Julian shrugged. "It's the only time inflation will work in your favor. The London economy is booming, the West Country's isn't. Simple as that. You won't be able to afford to go back to London if Dorset starts to pall."

Monroe smiled slightly. "You neither, I suppose?"

Julian steepled his fingers under his chin and continued to stare at Eleanor. "Not unless we're prepared to trade down. We certainly wouldn't get a Shenstead House in Chelsea… probably not even a 1970s box on the outskirts anymore. Unfortunately, my wife doesn't seem to have considered the financial implications of one-way inflation."

The "anymore" wasn't lost on Monroe. "What brought you down here?"

"Redun-"

Eleanor broke in sharply. "My husband was a director in a construction company," she said. "He was offered a generous retirement package, and we decided to take it. It's always been our ambition to live in the country."

"Which company?" asked Monroe, taking out his notebook.

There was a silence.

"Lacey's," said Julian with a small laugh, "and I wasn't a director, I was a senior manager. London inflation also extends to impressing the new neighbors, I'm afraid. And, for the record, we lived at 12 Croydon Road, which had a Chelsea postcode by virtue of the boundary running past the back of our garden." He smiled unpleasantly. "I think your chickens are coming home to roost, Ellie."

She looked rather more alarmed than the exposure of a few white lies appeared to warrant. "You're being silly," she snapped.

He gave a contemptuous snort. "My God, that's rich! What's sillier than fouling your own nest? How are we are supposed to go on living here now that you've managed to alienate every damn neighbor we have? Who are you going to go shopping with? Who are you going to play golf with? You'll be stuck in the house again, whining and moaning about how lonely you are. Have you any idea what that's like for me? How do you suppose your ridiculous behavior is going to impact on my friendships? You're so bloody selfish, Ellie… always have been."

Eleanor made a clumsy attempt to divert attention back to Monroe. "The sergeant didn't come here to listen to a row. I'm sure he realizes it's a stressful situation for both of us… but there's no need to lose our tempers."

Angry color flared in Julian's face. "If I want to lose my temper, I bloody well will," he said furiously. "Why the hell can't you tell the truth for once? This afternoon you swore you weren't involved in this nonsense, now you hit me with a load of crap about James being a child abuser. And who's this man with a voice distorter? What's all that about?"

"Please don't swear," she said primly. "It's rude and unnecessary."

She wasn't very bright, thought Monroe, watching her husband's cheeks turn purple. "Well, Mrs. Bartlett?" he prompted. "It's a fair question. Who is this man?"

She turned to him gratefully as Julian's fury threatened to explode. "I've no idea," she said. "Prue's obviously been filling your head with nonsense. It's true that I spoke to some of the travelers to try to find out what was going on up there-at
Prue's
request as a matter of fact-but I can't imagine why she thinks I
know
any of them." She gave a shudder of distaste. "As if I would. They were
horrible
people."

It sounded convincing, but Monroe reminded himself that she'd had a good twenty minutes since his arrival to manufacture excuses. "The man I'm interested in is the one who speaks through a voice distorter."

She looked genuinely puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I'm asking for a name, Mrs. Bartlett. You've already committed a criminal offense by making nuisance calls. I'm sure you don't want to make your situation worse by withholding information."

She shook her head nervously. "But I don't know what you're talking about, Sergeant. I've never heard anyone speak through a distorter."

Perhaps she was cleverer than he thought. "He may not use the distorter when talking to you, so let me put it another way. Who's been telling you what to say? Who wrote your script for you?"

"No one," she protested. "I've just been repeating the things Elizabeth told me." She seemed to gather strength from somewhere. "It's all very well to have a go at me, but I
believed
her… and so would you if you'd heard her. She's sure her father murdered her mother… and she described the most terrible things… it was awful listening to her. She's a very damaged woman… a very
sad
woman… the rest of us can only imagine what it's like to have a child born in such dreadful circumstances… and then removed."

Monroe was watching her closely as she spoke. "Who contacted who?" he asked bluntly.

She looked worried. "You mean, did I phone Elizabeth?"

"Yes."

"No. Leo wrote and invited me to meet him in London." She raised uneasy eyes to Julian's, as if she knew he wouldn't approve. "It was completely innocent," she said. "The letter came out of the blue. I'd never spoken to him before. He introduced me to Elizabeth. We met in Hyde Park. There were thousands of witnesses."

Julian's disapproval had nothing to do with the "innocence" or otherwise of the meeting. "Good God!" he groaned. "Why would you want to meet Leo Lockyer-Fox? He and his father loathe each other." He watched her lips thin to a stubborn line. "That's
why
, I suppose," he said sarcastically. "It was a little bit of stirring to pay James and Ailsa back for their snubs? Or maybe you thought you'd get a hoist up the social ladder when Leo came into the Manor?" He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "Perhaps you hoped he'd be grateful if you dragged his father through the mire?"

One or all were true, thought Monroe, as spots of telltale color blotched Eleanor's face. "Don't be so vulgar," she snapped.

Julian's eyes glittered angrily. "Why didn't you ask me about him? I could have told you what Leo Lockyer-Fox's gratitude was worth." He turned the thumb and finger in a circle and jabbed it at her. "Zero. Zilch. He's a loser… so is his sister. They're a couple of parasites, living on their father's charity. She's a dipso and he's a gambler, and if James is stupid enough to leave the Manor to them, they'll sell it before he's even in his grave."

Monroe, who had interviewed both of Ailsa's children, thought it an accurate description. "You seem to be better acquainted with them than your wife is," he remarked. "How is that?"

Julian turned to look at him. "Only through what I've heard. James's tenant farmers have known them for years, and they haven't a good word to say for either of them. Spoiled rotten as children and gone to the bad as adults seems to be the consensus view. According to Paul Squires, they were due to inherit Ailsa's money when she died… but she changed her will last year after James sacked his previous solicitor and took on Mark Ankerton. It's why there was so much ill feeling at the funeral. They'd been expecting half a million each… and got nothing."

Monroe knew that to be untrue. The children had been left fifty thousand each, but perhaps in comparison with half a million it did rank as "nothing." "Were you at the funeral?"

Julian nodded. "At the back. We couldn't see much except rows of heads… but it didn't make any difference. Everyone could feel the animosity. James and Mark sat on one side and Leo and Elizabeth on the other. They stormed out at the end without even saying goodbye to poor old James… blamed him for persuading Ailsa to change her will, presumably." He flicked an accusing glance at his wife. "It set the women's tongues wagging, of course. Fathers are guilty… children are innocent… all that crap." He gave a sour laugh. "Most of the men just felt glad they weren't in James's shoes. Poor bugger. He should have taken a rod to his kids years ago."

Monroe could feel an accumulating frustration boil unpleasantly below the surface of this relationship. Too many cards were being placed on the table at one sitting, he thought. Now Eleanor was staring at her husband as if he'd grown horns.

"I suppose Paul Squires is one of your drinking buddies," she said acidly. "How's his daughter? The blonde who rides horses."

Julian shrugged. "Search me."

"Gemma… Gemma Squires. She's in your hunt. I think she has a horse called Monkey Business."

Her husband looked amused. "It's a big hunt, Ellie. Off the top of my head I can think of twenty blondes who belong to it. You should come as a follower one day. I'll even blood you, if you like. You could do with some color in your cheeks." He laughed at her expression. "My wife doesn't approve of hunting," he told the sergeant. "She thinks it's cruel."

Monroe was wondering about the blonde and her aptly named horse. "I agree with Mrs. Bartlett," he said mildly. "It's hardly an equal contest… one frightened little animal, driven to exhaustion by the cavalry, then chewed to death by dog bites. It's neither brave nor honorable-and anyone who takes pleasure from it is a sadist." He smiled again. "It's a personal opinion, of course. I don't know what the official view is, except that the taxpayer would be horrified if they knew what it cost to keep hunters and saboteurs apart."