Murder at Maddingley Grange (27 page)

“Sheila? What on earth's happened to your husband?”

“You're the third person to ask me that.” Sheila looked down the table, bored and a little vexed. “I expect he's hot on some trail or other.”

“You missed breakfast, Martin, so you wouldn't know,” explained Fred. “But the idea was that he'd give us till one o'clock to murder him and if we hadn't managed it by then, he'd won on points.”

“You'd think,” said Mrs. Saville, “that someone would have done it by now. There are nine of us after all.”

“But only one would be looking,” Gilly pointed out.

“The murderer…” Fred's voice throbbed. He rose, hunched his shoulders, spread his arms and made his horror noise. Violet said: “Stop acting so daft,” and pulled him back into his seat.

“It's now half past…” Gilly's Adam's apple bobbed excitedly. “You'd think, given his temperament—no offense, Sheila—he'd have been here on the stroke, thrilled to bits because he'd beaten us.”

“All congratulatious,” said Mother.

“Unless he's been…well…” Martin tailed off delicately.

“Done,” said Mother with great relish, and her eyes shone.

Mrs. Saville didn't like the way things were going. The last thing she wanted, with the state of play extant, was her partner gallivanting (well, shuffling) all over the place hunting a murderer. Money was around to be won—the currency bankroll came vividly to mind—and Mrs. Saville had no intention of letting it permanently disappear into that
poult de soie
duffel bag.

But the slight eddy of concern whipped up by Martin's question was vanquished by the arrival of a huge white china dish of strawberries Romanoff.

“Don't you just adore
fraises du bois?”
cried Rosemary, clapping her hands.

“I do,” said Sheila. “Not that these are they. Far too large. Cream?” She passed the jug, watching, brows raised, as Rosemary lathered the fruit. “Goodness. Right over the million cal mark.”

“Oh, I can eat what I like.” Rosemary touched her waistline and smirked.

“Mm. It's either the figure or the complexion that goes, isn't it? Of course, makeup can work wonders.” The ladies exchanged golden syrup smiles.

“I think,” said Simon, “that I should go and look for your husband. He may not have heard the gong. Of course, there'll be plenty of food left but I do feel guilty that he's not enjoying lunch with the rest of us.”

“I'll go.” Sheila got up. “He may be in the kitchen, grilling the staff about last night.”

“Grilling the staff,” called Fred. “That's a good 'un.”

“I expect she'll be glad of the exercise,” said Rosemary loudly as Sheila walked away. “After all those potatoes.”

When Gaunt had staggered around with narrow-stemmed glasses and the guests had helped themselves to Château d'Yquem, a haze of contentment spread around. Everyone savored the berries lying in an exquisite minglement of strawberry and orange juices and curaçao, and Fred raved about the wine.

The silence became heavy and still, owing something to the enervating sun and more than a little to the alcohol already consumed. Second helpings of pudding were offered and devoured. The dishes were being scraped clean again and Fred had just said, “Mind out, Violet—you'll have the pattern off that plate,” when Mother dropped her spoon with a loud clatter. She turned her haglike profile, frozen into a strained, compressed gravity, toward the house. A second later, ripping through the still warm air, came a terrible piercing scream.

E
veryone leaped out of their seats, shocked into instant sobriety. Startled stares were exchanged, genuinely fearful until Violet cried: “It's the body! She's found the body…”

“He's copped it after all then, old clever dick,” said Fred.
“Come on…
”

An unnecessary directive. Already Simon and Rosemary were halfway across the terrace, the rest streaming behind. Even Mother managed, with a crablike scuttle, to almost keep up. Mrs. Saville was last, looking down her nose and concealing her concern at this unexpected turn of events.

Uncertain of the precise location from which the fear-filled scream had emanated, the guests came to a halt in the hall. Simon had just said, “We must spread out,” when Laurie, almost lost behind a vast blue-and-white-striped apron, and the vestibular Gaunt appeared, both looking extremely alarmed. Simon had just started to reassure Laurie when Bennet ran into the hall, crying: “Oh, sir! You must come. It's in the conservatory…Oh, sir! It's Mr. Gregory—he's dead…”

“Avanti!”
cried Simon and they all charged off. Laurie, having observed the pale and dreadful stamp of Bennet's countenance, followed more slowly. By the time she reached the conservatory the others were bunched together just inside the door staring in an impressed and exhilarated manner at a gorily dramatic tableau.

Derek Gregory was lying on his back, eyes wide open, mouth agape. The front of his shirt was splashed with red. There was also a long streak of red, glaringly vivid, down the front of Sheila's dress. And terrible sticky stains the same color all over the long knife she held in her hand. Just behind Derek a huge pot had fallen over and earth and chunks of terra-cotta were spread about. Sheila stood staring at them all, an expression of absolute horror on her face; then she dropped the knife and covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders twitched and shook and she started to cry.

“That's a bit of all right, ay, Violet?” asked Fred. “You can't fault that. She's as good as some of them on the telly.”

“Better,” improved Violet, starting to applaud. All but Laurie and the servants joined in and the place fairly rocked. Someone whistled and Gilly called “encore,” only to be told by Fred not to be gormless, they hadn't solved this one yet.

Throughout her warmly enthusiastic reception Sheila had continued to evince signs of the most acute distress. Now, as the last smattering of applause died away, she looked at them in turn with blank incomprehension.

“What's the matter with you all?” she shouted. “Are you mad? I've told you my husband's dead and you're…you're… Oh, God—won't someone please do something…Help me…
please
…”

“She's getting a bit carried away,” said Fred. One or two people started to look rather uncomfortable. The group drew a bit closer together. Glances were exchanged along “now what?” lines. Simon left the audience and crossed over to the actors. He studied Sheila's trembling lips and wild eyes, then knelt down by Derek, felt his pulse and leaned his head against the splotched shirt. He ran his hands over the body and, to Laurie's horror, closed Derek's eyelids before standing up, face deathly pale.

“I'm afraid Sheila's right. He is dead.”

Still uncertain, half convinced yet unable to really believe, the guests murmured to each other. Fred spoke.

“Look, Simon, a joke's a joke—”

“No joke,” said Simon. He was silent for a long moment before once more stumbling into speech. “When…When I was at University College…I worked at Guy's in the long vac. As a hospital porter. Believe me…I know a corpse when I see one.”

At the word
corpse
Sheila gave a cry and pitched forward. Simon moved just in time and stood, looking nonplussed and deeply unhappy, with her in his arms. Violet came forward to help.

“You'd better get her some tea…or brandy,” said Simon, handing over the half-swooning woman. “Whatever you think best. Fred, bring that cloth thing—over there.”

Fred crossed to the sofa. There was an Indian-print bedspread draped across the back. He pulled it off and took it to Simon, who placed it carefully over Derek. It was a few inches short and his feet peeped out. As Simon bent to pick up the knife, Fred said quickly: “I shouldn't do that, squire.”

“Why not?” But Simon let it lie and straightened up, frowning. “Ohh…I see. I suppose no one should touch anything. But then I don't think anyone has…except Sheila of course.”

“You're right there, Simon. Shurshy la famm. Know what I mean?”

“For heaven's sake.” Simon lowered his voice almost to a whisper. But Sheila and the rest of the company had departed. Mother, who had showed signs of desiring closer acquaintance with the remains, leaving only under pressure. Fred and Simon moved toward the door.

“Better lock him up.”

“I suppose so.” Simon turned the heavy iron key, tested the door and put the key in his pocket. “God—what a mess.”

They found the others in the second sitting room. Bennet, having made tea for the servants not long before, had already produced a strong sweet cupful for Sheila, who was sipping at it when she wasn't sipping at an extremely generous measure of brandy. Violet gently mopped the younger woman's tear-stained face. Simon crossed to Laurie, who looked pale and drawn. She said: “I've asked Bennet to make us all tea.”

“Good.”

“You look like death.”

“Don't.”

“Sorry. What on earth are we going to do?”

It was the butler who returned with the tray. Lurching less but still far from functioning on that perfectly even keel that Blades would consider
de rigueur
.

“My sister is rather incommoded, madam.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Laurie, who felt pretty incommoded herself. “Put everything down on the coffee table, Gaunt. People can help themselves.”

After everyone had, with more than one guest gussying up the beverage with a spicing of Courvoisier, they all sat around, Mrs. Saville choosing a position near the window where she could keep an eye on the card table. Looks were exchanged. Apprehension, suspicion, uneasy excitement. Fear.

Sheila, head resting awkwardly on Violet's shoulder, had stopped sobbing but had become alcoholically loquacious. “Poor Derek…” she was now wailing while wringing her hands. “Lying there all alone…in a pool of his own blood… with a knife in his heart…”

People murmured consolingly. Laurie murmured too but, desperately sick and worried as she was, could still rustle up enough irritation to wonder who else's blood Derek could possibly have been lying in a pool of with a knife in his heart.

At last Sheila became quiet and they all sat very still. Intensely aware of each other and holding themselves rather carefully, perhaps afraid that the slightest movement might reactivate that animus of rioting disorder that had wreaked such havoc in the conservatory. Eventually, Fred spoke.

“Well,” he said, for once understanding the case, “Here's a turn-up for the book.”

The phrase hit the spot. Most of those present had experienced by proxy precisely such a scene. The suspects gathered together after the crime waiting to be cross-questioned by the detective. Except, of course, in this instance there was no detective.

“A right shame, ain't it?” Fred voiced the thought. “He'd have loved this—old Derek. A real murder.”

This set Sheila boohooing again and crying, for the umpteenth time: “I can't understand it…Who would want to kill him…poor darling…”

That of course was the nub. In books it was frequently the widow, especially if, as was the case here, she then came into a generous helping of the ready. But no one, not even Rosemary, who was far from pleased at Sheila's sudden reentry into the eligibility stakes, was quite crass enough to put this perception into words.

“Well,” said Mrs. Saville, sitting bolt upright and musing once more on the curious discrepancy between the daily routine at Madingley Grange and that of the Royal Georgian Hotel, Bath, “none of this bizarre behavior has anything to do with me. I haven't moved from the terrace all morning. As Mrs. Gibbs will, I'm sure, confirm.”

“Clears you both, then,” said Fred. “Point of fact, our whole family's out the bog if we're talking alibis.”

Alibis! Suddenly people looked more lively, although still carefully holding in place their masks of sympathetic concern. Something wildly out of order might have just occurred but matters were now being eased back onto the correct procedural rails. Once the right questions had been rigorously asked, and honestly answered, the dense clouds of suspicion would lift and the bright truth shine forth.

“Vi and me,” continued Fred, “was on the lake. With Gilly. Right, Gil?”

“Absolutely.” Gilly looked sulky. He had been rehearsing what he thought of as his testimony for the defense—length of time in punt, previous experience in negotiating same, brief description of water wildlife and skill in embarkation—only to have the opportunity of presenting it snatched from under him.

“So that's five of us sorted—”

“Just a minute,” Simon interrupted. “Didn't Violet and your mother go into the house just before one? We were halfway through the soup, I seem to remember, before they turned up.”

“We were together all the time.” The foxglove bloom had reappeared. Violet looked across at Mother in what seemed to some of those present a slightly threatening manner.

“Except when I went to the doings,” said Mrs. Gibbs.

“They don't want to know every sordid detail,” chided Fred. Mrs. Gibbs immediately put on a vague, faraway look suggesting spiritual uplift.

“We weren't in the cellar five minutes,” said Violet. “It was getting her up and down all them steps that took the time.”

“And while Mrs. Gibbs was…?”

“I waited in the hall. The butler and maid went by a couple of times with stuff for the table, but no one else.”

“I wonder,” said Fred, back in the director's chair, “if Simon with his bit of medical know-how could tell us how long Derek had…well…been lying there.”

“Not long,” said Simon, staring at his feet. “He was still warm.” Then, as Sheila gave a little cry: “I'm sorry.”