Murder at Maddingley Grange (15 page)

Sheila forced a smile. “I think so.”

“Don't let her upset you. She gets a bit carried away sometimes.”

“What…was it she saw? Over there?”

“Nothing, dear. Nothing at all.”

It was as if the departure of the Gibbses affirmed the evening had come to an end. People left the library and moved across the hall and up the wide staircase, talking more loudly than was strictly necessary and keeping close together. Fred, pausing only to lift the visor on a suit of armor and call, “Beam me up, Scotty,” led the way. Good nights echoed back and forth on the landing, followed by the very firm closing of doors and the turning of more than one key in the lock.

“Well,” said Simon, popping a maraschino and almond morsel into his mouth and relaxing on the chesterfield, “we can't complain about lack of ambience.”

“Positively not,” agreed Laurie. “I think if I'd had one more shred of ambience I'd have run screaming up the wall. And leave those petits fours alone. I didn't make them for you.”

“I must say,” said Simon, after he had finished chewing, “I never realized how tiring long-term insincerity could be. I shall never envy politicians again.” He stretched and yawned. “Right. Shall we turn in, then?”

“No, Simon, we will not ‘turn in.' We need to talk.”

“What about?”

“First, what did you think you were doing telling people you've employed a paid prowler?”

“I didn't tell them.” Simon sounded quite indignant. “They assumed.”

“You didn't disabuse them.”

“Look, Laurie.” Simon got up and took his sister's arm. She shook him off. “Be reasonable. You have to think on your feet in a situation like that. Turn the incident—in this case, a silly woman thinking she saw a face at the window—to your advantage.”

“You think she didn't, then?”

“Of course she didn't. There was no one out there.”

“But her husband said—”

“Oh, come on—you know what he's like. He wants a corpse in every cupboard and a body in all the baths. You're surely not going to take any notice of him.”

Laurie hesitated. “I suppose not.”

“The punters loved it all. Especially that old grampus saying her sooth.”

“You don't think…she really saw something…?”

“Don't you start.”

“Fred said she was psychic.”

“She's no more psychic than this marzipan Brazil. I'm surprised at you, giving credence to such codswallop. She certainly adds a certain spookiness to the atmosphere though. In fact, it's all going swimmingly. And the food was scrumptious. Thank you.”

“Is that grisly grimace supposed to represent gratitude?”

“It's all you're going to get. Now can we go to bed?”

“I discovered something very alarming before dinner, Simon. I wanted to tell you on the terrace but you wouldn't listen.”

“Shoot, then.”

“Funny you should say that. Mr. Gillette's got a gun.”

“What—old tickety-boo?”

“I saw him putting it into his jacket when I went to call him for dinner.”

“I expect it's a prop. Like Derek's magnifying glass. They've probably all brought something. I'll bet it's an absolute Black Museum up there.”

“It was a
real
gun.”

“Well, given that it was—and I'm not saying you're right— people are allowed to own guns, you know. As long as they have a license.”

“But why on earth would any respectable person bring it to a country house party?”

“Probably going on somewhere.”

“Going on somewhere?
With
a
gun?
Where, for heaven's sake?”

“How should I know? Poachers' Convention. Godfathers' Get-Together. Conservative Party Dinner Dance.”

“I don't believe this.” Laurie sank into an armchair. “You're not taking it seriously at all.”

“
I am, love—honestly.” Simon perched on the arm of the chesterfield. “I just don't quite see what you expect me to do.”

“You could tackle him.”

“Oh, come on. You know what I'm like on the playing field. I couldn't tackle a rubber duck.”

“I meant talk to him. Find out why he's”—Laurie almost choked on the word—“armed.”

“I expect he's a hit man. Got a contract out on one of the guests.”

“Please, Simon…”

“All right, all right. Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'll have a discreet word with him tomorrow.” He linked arms, giving Laurie's an affectionate squeeze, and they ascended the stairs in silence, stopping outside the Renoir room.

“D'you think Gaunt really is…” Laurie frowned, trying to recall Fred's descriptive gem. “On the sauce?”

“I wouldn't be surprised. Night-night then. Sleep well. We've got a busy day tomorrow. Dastardly doings all round.”

“That reminds me. I'm going to offer to take Derek's place as the victim.”

Simon shrugged. “If you like.”

“Well, you're not going to, are you?”

“What—and miss all the fun?”

“Simon—you are responsible for all this.”

“There's no mileage in altruism. Where were the five thousand when the crunch came? And after all those sardine sandwiches too.” Simon kissed her on the cheek and walked briskly away.

M
ost of the house was settling down but in the Vuillard room (Lunch at Villeneuve-sur-Yonne) Derek was giving his wife the third degree. Enveloped in a stinking fug of Bulwark, he puffed and strode, puffed and strode. His glance was keen and he felt his gait, activated by the unspoken but powerfully potent rubric “Hurry Watson! There is not a moment to lose” to be definitely Holmesian. And it would have been a hard heart that could have brought itself to point out that a slight flexibility around Derek's knee joints might more reasonably bring the adjective Marxian to mind.

“But what was the face
like?
”

“Derek—if you ask me that once more I shall explode! Go mad! Hit you! I've said over and over again—it was just a white blur pressed up against the glass. As soon as I screamed it vanished.”

“Would you recognize him again?”

“Of course not. I'm not even sure it was a him.”

“I see.” Derek sucked at his cherrywood, loped over to the window and stared at it punishingly. “That fiend is out there somewhere, Sheila. Roaming the countryside. Terrorizing innocent people.” He looked across at the bed in which his wife sat, supported by a cumulus of frilly pillows. “What I can't understand is why Hannaford didn't go after him. Bring him down.”

“Because it was just an actor. You heard what he said.”

“He didn't actually say anything. And if he did he was lying. Subterfuge doesn't fool a trained observer.” Derek turned away from his vision of a beleaguered hinterland and picked up his violin.

“Derek—it's past midnight.” A strained squealing ensued.

“I shall go out,” called Derek, his voice vying with Dvořàk's
Humoresque
, “first thing in the morning, and look for clues. The earth will be damp so there are bound to be footprints. Maybe a cigar butt…”

“Or even,” suggested Sheila, watching the sharp angle of her husband's elbow as it disappeared and reappeared through a dense cloud of smoke, “a book of matches from a sleazy club in Limehouse?”

“Exactly!” Oblivious to irony, Derek laid aside his instrument, knocked his pipe out on a Meissen shepherdess and started to prepare for bed. Sheila, thinking it unlikely the dramatic end to their evening would leave her an easy prey to Morpheus, unscrewed a dark brown bottle and shook out a sleeping pill.

“What's that?”

“It's a cyanide tablet, Derek. Part of my secret agent's kit.” She swallowed it with some water. “Special offer from
Cosmo.”

Derek gave her a stern look as he climbed into his nightshirt. He was opposed to drugs on principle and had still not come to terms with his hero's addiction. “The capture of a person engaged in espionage is nothing to joke about, Sheila.” He got into bed, picked up the Penguin Conan Doyle and prepared to grapple with “The Red Headed League.” “Sometimes I think you know nothing about real life at all.”

“Derek…”

“Mm?” Derek was annoyed at the interruption, for Jabez Wilson had just started up in his chair. An augury of better things to come.

“It's about tomorrow…the murder…”

“You already know my feelings—”

“But I've had an idea…Derek?” Her husband sucked his teeth with irritation.
“
I don't know why you're so cross. You've already read that thing a dozen times.”

“One can never study closely enough the greatest detective that ever lived.”

Sheila could not have asked for a better lead-in. “I absolutely agree. It's disappointing, isn't it, that the others don't seem to take things seriously.” She had got him.

“It certainly is,' Derek snapped the book to and prepared to reair his grievance.
“
I was so looking forward to a meeting of true minds. I saw us going over famous cases, comparing notes and theories. Instead of which…” he trailed off in disgust.

“It's just some sort of joke to them.” Derek nodded, tight-lipped. “I think—” Sheila slipped her arm through his— “they need to be taught a lesson.”

Derek cheered up. “What do you mean exactly?”

“They don't appreciate your quality, Derek. What sort of man they're up against.”

“That's true.”

“So…perhaps we ought to show them?”

“I think I'll give Consuela a ring.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort.” Fred was gargling and gurgling in the bathroom. “You're on holiday.”

“We've got that party of Japanese businessmen flying in.”

“There'll be a nip in the air tonight then, Violet.”

“I'm not sure she can handle it.”

“If she could handle the Everton team when they lost seven nil on a home day, she can handle anything.”

“That's different—I was there.”

“
I don't want to hear no more about it. You concentrate on this weekend.” Pause. “All right?” Longer pause. “Who d'you think's got the murderer's ticket then?”

“Don't know.” Reluctantly Violet removed her hand from the phone. “Not me. I was wondering about Gilly. He's that quiet. Hardly says a word.”

“Sees plenty though.” Fred appeared in the doorway, toothbrush in hand and foaming at the mouth like Father Christmas. “I was watching him. He don't miss much.”

“He's got a funny—”

“Hang on. Got to catch up with the paperwork.” Fred completed his toilet, pulled the chain and returned to the mound of emerald nylon in the four-poster.

“—a funny way of talking. Like in an old film.”

“Top-hole!” Fred opened the Chinese ginger jar and started on the few remaining cookies. “I say, old girl—these are quite spiffing.”

“You've just cleaned your teeth—”

“It's a front. All that thirties rubbish.”

Violet stopped massaging Dew of Youth into her neck. “A front for what?”

“He's a professional. Didn't you spot his shooter? That bulge on the left-hand side of his dinner jacket? We got a minder there.”

“A what?”

“You know what a minder is. Like Arthur's Terry.”

“But…what's he minding? That stuck-up woman's jewelry?”

“She is stuck up an' all. They don't impress me—folks like that. All swank and no knickers. I could buy her up tomorrow, Mrs. Poncy Saville, and never feel the pinch. No…” Fred drew confidingly close and gave the four walls a quick glance. Violet, infected by the apparent need for secrecy, bent her head to his. “It's my belief he's employed by the family. There's a load of smashing stuff here just asking to be taken for a walk. Now these Hannafords—they got class. They're not going to employ some great hairy tattooed lump walking on all fours and whistling through his teeth—”