Murder at Maddingley Grange (36 page)

“Course you can go, dear,” said Violet. “It's only for an hour or two. What you got lined up for supper?”

“Boeuf en croute.”

“I know how to cook that. We often have a nice fillet for Sunday lunch. All sealed up, is it? Mushrooms in?”

“Mm. It just needs glazing. And there's a toffee pudding to warm through. Butterscotch sauce in the double boiler and I've elderflower sorbet for an alternative.”

As Laurie spoke, enthusiasm started to color her voice. She suddenly realized how very, very nice it would be to get away. She felt she had been shut in at Madingley Grange baking, cleaning and washing up forever and, although it was not in her nature to be self-pitying, she could not help but compare her contribution to the weekend with Simon's (who had sloped off yet again). Serve him right, she thought, if he was left to entertain Gilly and
los trios
Gibbs for the evening. About time he earned his crust.

“It's really very kind of you, Violet. If you're quite sure. My brother will be here of course.”

“That's settled then.” Hugh, expansive, tilted his chair back. Taking charge. “After we've booked a table we can walk round Saint John's gardens and have some tea.”

“Lovely,” said Laurie. Martin agreed. Poppy squealed with pleasure, then pointed out that she could see Betsy through the trees. As the little red car bumped over the drawbridge Sheila, peering into her bag, cried out: “Derek— I've lost my comb.”

“Good heavens—you can soon buy another.”

“But it was the jade one you got for my birthday. I must have left it on the dressing table.” She started to move off. Derek called her back.

“The taxi will be here any minute.”

“Shan't be a sec.”

“But I need you to—” He tailed off, not wishing to say aloud that what he needed his wife for was to establish a solid pincer movement on the left flank so that both rear doors of the taxi were simultaneously breached. “Don't be long.”

Gilly, with a great final full-throated roaring rev, parked the MG and climbed out, his face alight with rapture.

“Heaven…” he caroled, to the tune of “Cheek to Cheek,” “I'm in heaven…”

“Enjoyed it, then?” said Hugh, determinedly unemotional. “Super.”

“Oh, Laurie”—Gilly rushed over to their table—“that one single little jaunt was worth the cost of the whole weekend to me. I've never
ever
been so—”

“What about the taxi?” shouted Derek.

“Coming along behind. Never been so utterly—”

“And speaking of money.” Mrs. Saville, after instructing Rosemary not to move from her sprinter's mark, crossed to Laurie's side. “I trust I shall be receiving your check for a refund of the complete amount in both our cases?”

“A complete—” Laurie was rather taken aback. Mrs. Saville and Rosemary had after all been at the Grange for almost twenty-four hours, eating heartily and knocking back the claret as if the grape were about to become extinct. To ask for a hundred percent refund seemed a bit thick. On the other hand she had lost her earrings.

As if picking up the thought Mrs. Saville continued: “My jewels are, of course, insured. I shall be reimbursed to their full value. I shall state on my claim that they were stolen.” She gave Mother a freezing stare. “Not all that far from the truth.”

“Oy!” said Mrs. Gibbs, ears winking like fireflies. “I'll have you up for scandal—”

“Simon handles the financial side,” Laurie interrupted hastily. “I'm sure he'll be getting in touch with you.”

Further acrimony was averted by the sight of Figgins's buff Cortina. No sooner had it halted than the three combatants hurled themselves upon it like Sumo wrestlers. Alf, who had the look of a man who'd seen it all before and hadn't rated it the first time, lifted the hatch and started chucking in the bags. Derek, installed in the front seat, wound the window down and stared crossly back at the house. He called, “Sheila,” then tooted the horn.

Hugh reversed Betsy carefully past the estate car and called: “Boarding here for the fodder trail.”

As the others prepared to join him, Laurie turned to their resident musician. “Gilly—you'll keep everyone entertained, I know.”

“Just you try and stop me. Plinkerty plonk.” He mimed a vigorous twanging.

“You won't forget ‘My Little Girl from Idaho,' will you? I know it's Simon's favorite. He'd be too shy to tell you so himself.”

“Opening and closing number, Laurie. And at least one encore.”

“Oh, at least. It would mean so much.”

“You'll have to perch on the back, you two.”

Martin did so, tucking in his legs. He stretched out a hand to help Laurie. “Up you come, little fluffy bottom.” She hit him. “Ow! That hurt.”

“Serves you right.” She kissed him. “I love you.”

They all waved and called: “Good-bye, good-bye…” Hugh negotiated the bridge and started down the drive. “I say isn't that a dead peacock?”

“I'm afraid so,” said Laurie. “It got shot.”

“Gosh and golly,” cried little giddykins. “And there's not even an R in the month.”

Hugh put his foot down and Betsy gathered speed. The periwinkle dress fluttered and Poppy's bunches of hair streamed in the wind. One of Laurie's curls was blown across her cheek and Martin lifted it and smoothed it back behind her ear. What a lot of fuss, he thought, looking into the deep dark blue eyes of his heart's darling, over a couple of moldy sapphires.

And so, to the bright shout of trumpets, they drove away. Through the avenue of pleached limes, past the silver birches rising from clouds of pale green ferns and out into the glorious pretty ringtime of an English summer afternoon.

Five minutes later a cream and ebony Phantom Continental rolled in through the wrought-iron gates.

Meanwhile, back in the Vuillard room, Simon Hannaford held his mistress in his arms. Hers were wound tightly round his neck; his, rather more loosely, circled her waist.

“Angel,” she breathed, “I thought we'd never be alone.” They kissed. And kissed again. Sheila groaned with desire. “It seems forever since last Wednesday.”

“Oh, it does. It does.”

“I'm sorry everything went so wrong.”

“Force of circumstance.”

“Who'd have thought in a million years that he'd have worked it all out?”

“He's an aficionado.”

“He even twigged about the rail fare.”

“Mm. Got it wrong about the secret passage, though. I really didn't know about that.”

“I thought he was going to kill you.”

“So did I. I searched him for that bloody gun as well when I was pronouncing him dead. He must've hidden it somewhere.”

“We'd have been all right if he hadn't found the book.”

“Bad cess to Dame Agatha.”

“What on earth was it doing there?”

“My sister—being helpful. She said she'd taken in a stack of paperbacks. I just didn't make the connection. We mustn't be too hard on her, though—that smock got us out of a tight corner.”

“Where was the real shirt?”

“Rolled up behind that great pot he smashed. Still there, I suppose, under all the dirt. I wish you'd mentioned he was accident prone. I could at least have boarded out the livestock.”

Sheila interrupted guiltily, quickly. “Tell me how you worked it so he got the victim's card.”

But Simon would not be deflected. “I shall be paying for this weekend to the end of my days. Do you realize that blue and yellow vase spread all over the hall is Chinese?”

“Oh.”

“Twelfth century.”

“I'm sorry.”

“He has also put his foot through a Hepplewhite lyre-back. It'll cost practically every penny I've made from this deal to get it repaired.”

“Darling…”

“You want to see a real murder? Come back in September when my aunt comes home.”

“…the hat trick?”

“Oh—that. Well, I started with Laurie to make sure your husband came last. Held the card with the red cross against the side of the hat with my thumb, then let it go. Simple.”

“You're so clever.” Sheila pressed closely to her lover. “And we were so near…”

“We'd have been a whole lot nearer if you'd gone to look for him at one o'clock as you were supposed to do. He wouldn't have had time then for book browsing. I kept giving you pointed looks all through lunch.”

“You were certainly giving someone pointed looks.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Little Miss Rosebud.”

“Honestly, darling. You of all people should know the importance of red herrings.”

“Ohh…I see…”

“I thought I played that particular fish rather well.”

“You're sure that's all it was?”

“As sure as I'm standing here.”

“Kiss me then…not like that—a real kiss.”

“We're a tiny bit pushed for time.”

“Sweetest.” Sheila urged one last embrace in vain. She sighed deeply. “I guess I'll just have to wait then…till Wednesday.”

“Wednesday might be a bit iffy. There's going to be masses to clear up here.”

“Simon…you do still love me?”

“Cross my heart.” And Simon, removing one arm from Sheila's waist, laid his fingers upon his breast almost directly over the little square of cardboard on which was written the address and telephone number of Rosemary, that sweet, attractive, unencumbered legatee. “And hope to die rich.”

“We'll have better luck next time. You'll see.”

“Angel,” murmured Simon, silkily slipping away. “I have a confession. When I picked up the knife—the moment before he jumped me—I knew that I'd never be able to do it. I'm simply not the metal of which murderers are made.”

“But, darling…” Sheila's mouth trembled with disappointment. She looked hurt and betrayed. “You promised.”

“I know. And I'm sorry.”

“What shall we do now then?”

“It looks as if the ball's rather back in your court, my love. In any case I'm sure you'd be much better at this sort of thing than I. Men are so clumsy. All fingers and thumbs. Just keep your eyes open for a suitable opportunity.”

“Trouble is,” sighed Sheila, “I'm not really an ideas person. I'm better at carrying out instructions.” Toot! Toot! “Oh— that must be the taxi.”

“If I were you I'd suggest a holiday. Perhaps a second honeymoon. Take him away somewhere. Right away. Abroad. Accidents are always happening abroad. And what with the language barrier and foreign medics, no one can ever quite work out what really took place. Take him…” Simon's eyes gleamed. “Take him to Switzerland.”

“Switzerland?”

“Take him to Switzerland,” repeated Simon. “And send him over the Reichenbach Falls in a barrel.”

The Royal Georgian Hotel, Bath, was breathing a sigh of relief. Not metaphorically but in actual, literal fact. The strength of the exhalation set the copper Trade Winds weathervane spinning, disturbed the spine-leaved palms in the Palm Court Lounge and made the windows creak.

But the relief felt by the bricks and mortar was as naught compared to that experienced by the staff. All had heard the rumor and, though not all believed, a repressed fizz of disciplined hysteria began to prevail.

The second chambermaid, crying quietly in a broom cupboard as she had been for the past thirty-six hours, crept out wondering if such a miracle could possibly be true. The Boots, who had been keeping her supplied with Kleenex and cups of strong Irish Breakfast Tea, gave assurance that it really was. He had got it from an assistant chef, who had got it from a waiter who had been crossing the foyer when the telephone had barked into the receptionist's face instructions to make up the account for the Queen Charlotte suite.

Trembling with excitement and disbelief, the receptionist had run into the manager's office where Harold Peasmarsh sat, his graying hair (rich russet brown a mere two weeks before) veering upright in a mad tangle.