Wherever Lynn Goes (5 page)

“I'd better go up and see what they want, Mrs. Wellington.”

“Want me to come with you?” she asked eagerly.

“That won't be necessary.”

“Oh …” Her small pink mouth pursed with disappointment, a crestfallen look in her wide blue eyes. “Well, dear, if you need any 'elp, you just 'oller and I'll come runnin'. Coppers 'ave no respect these days, clubbin' them students night and day and menacin' the public. They 'ave no right to come bargin' in 'ere to terrorize a sweet child like you. I feel I should warn you—that blond brute looked mean. 'E probably 'as a billy club 'idden under 'is jacket—”

Paying no heed to Mrs. Wellington's dire warnings, I hurried upstairs and opened the door of our flat. I had never seen either of the men before. They were sitting on the sofa, talking quietly, and both of them rose as I stepped inside—the blond giant in one athletic bound, the older man with considerable effort. He was at least sixty, tall and gaunt, with thinning silver hair, a complexion like wrinkled parchment, and sober brown eyes. His lips were thin, pressed in a grim line, and in his neat black suit and navy blue tie he looked like nothing so much as a prosperous funeral director.

“Miss Lynn Morgan?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Niece of Miss Daphne Morgan?”

“That's right.”

“I'm Clive Hampton,” he said in a sepulchral voice, “your aunt's solicitor, and this is Sergeant Duncan from our local police station.”

Sergeant Duncan nodded, looking extremely ill at ease. He was a towering six foot four, with wavy blond hair, celestial blue eyes, and an embarrassed expression on his handsome young face. The tweedy brown suit fit his lean, muscular frame much too tightly, straining at the shoulders, and his gaudy red-and-maroon tie was improperly knotted. Although he was undeniably manly, and possessed enough strength to subdue the most formidable opponent, there was, nevertheless, an air of schoolboy innocence that was as charming as it was refreshing.

“I'm very pleased to meet you,” I said.

A delicate pink flush mounted Sergeant Duncan's lean cheeks. He lowered his heavy brows in an effort to look suitably stern, but succeeded only in appearing all the more boyish and endearing. Clive Hampton cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable, too.

“You're both from the village?”

“That's right, Miss Morgan,” Hampton said.

“Is it about Aunt Daphne?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“So she's gotten into another of her scrapes,” I said. “I thought as much when she called, but I didn't expect the police to be involved. What is it this time? Poaching? Disturbing the peace? Assault and battery? Am I expected to provide bail money, or—”

“It's a bit more serious,” Hampton said grimly.

“Oh?”

“Murder.”

“She's killed someone?”

The sergeant shifted his weight uneasily, looking as though he wished the floor would open up beneath him. Hampton gave him a questioning look, and Sergeant Duncan nodded, his blue eyes filled with misery.

“I'm afraid there's no way to break it gently, Miss Morgan,” Hampton began. He hesitated, wondering how to phrase it.

“She's dead, isn't she?” I didn't recognize my own voice.

He nodded. “Her body was found night before last, after midnight. She had been stabbed several times. She was in the front hall, at the foot of the stairs …”

I didn't say anything. I merely smiled. This was exactly like a scene from one of Mandy's thrillers, I thought, quite unreal. Aunts aren't murdered, not in real life. They were just playing an elaborate joke, and in a moment they would both burst into gales of hearty laughter.

Neither did. Clive Hampton looked funereal, and Sergeant Duncan seemed extremely distressed.

My knees seemed to give way. Duncan took my arm, led me over to a chair, and pushed me into it with gentle firmness, carefully avoiding my eyes. Several minutes of strained silence ensued, and then I looked up at them.

“Are you all right, miss?” the sergeant asked. It was the first time he had spoken. His voice was deep, and he had an unmistakable Scots brogue.

“I'm fine now. Please forgive me for—”

“We understand, miss. Perfectly normal reaction.”

“She—she was
murdered?
”

“I was assigned to bring you the unhappy news, miss.”

“Do they have any idea who—”

“The inquest will be held tomorrow, but it's just a legal technicality. We know who did it. One of her neighbors, Colonel March. They'd been quarreling for weeks, the whole village knows that, and night before last he popped over to her house and …” He hesitated, looking pained. “After he did it he went home and blew his brains out. We found the murder weapon at his side, still smeared with her blood. It's an open-and-shut case, no question about it.”

“I—I see.”

Sergeant Duncan fell silent, and Clive Hampton took over. Reaching for a briefcase I hadn't noticed before, he sat down, opened it, and spread a sheaf of paper over the table. I only half listened as he told me about my aunt's will. With the exception of a few bequests to rather eccentric charities, she had left me everything, including the house and all its contents. He explained in a clear, precise voice, but I simply couldn't concentrate. After several minutes of his dry, monotonous rambling, I must have looked exceedingly distracted, for Sergeant Duncan frowned and laid a hand on Hampton's shoulder.

“Can't you see she's in no shape to listen to this dribble?” His voice was firm, full of surprising authority. “The lass has had a shock. You can give her all the particulars later.”

“Of course,” Hampton muttered. “Thoughtless of me …” He began to stuff the papers back into his briefcase.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

I got out of the chair, slightly dazed but steady on my feet. There was an air of unreality about all this. I knew it wasn't a joke, knew my aunt had indeed been murdered in that particularly horrible fashion, but I was unable to assimilate it. I had been thinking about her constantly ever since that hysterical telephone call, and I realized with a shock that the murderer might well have been there in the house at the very moment she had called.

“Colonel March,” I said in a strained voice. “I—I think I remember him. Was he a blustering old gentleman with a hearing aid?”

Sergeant Duncan nodded, miserable.

“He was always riding his bicycle up and down the lanes, and—and he bred Pekineses, I remember. He wanted to give me one when I was seven, but Aunt Daphne wouldn't let me keep it. He and Aunt Daphne were always fighting, but he was terribly fond of her. I just can't believe he—”

“He went berserk, miss,” Sergeant Duncan said gently. “This has been a very unpleasant task. I'm sorry we had to be the bearers of such Unhappy news, but my superior felt it would be better this way.”

“I understand.”

“You'll probably want to sell the place,” Hampton said, fastening his briefcase and standing up. “The house isn't much, tumbling down, in fact, but the property itself is quite valuable, with real estate selling for what it does today. I may be able to find a buyer for you. We can discuss that when you come down to Devon.”

I looked up, confused.

“For the funeral,” he added.

“Oh—yes, of course. What—”

“I took it upon myself to make all the arrangements, feeling you would probably want it that way. Your aunt left specific instructions. If you'd care to—”

“No, I'm sure you've handled everything properly.”

“Day after tomorrow,” he informed me. “Three o'clock, at the Chapel. Vicar Peckinpah will be officiating.”

“We'd best shove off,” Sergeant Duncan said uncomfortably. “When you get to the village, Miss Morgan, my superior would like to have a few words with you. The inquest will be over by then, and he'll … uh … give you all the details.”

“I'll stop by the station,” I promised.

“Would you like me to make reservations for you at the inn?” Hampton inquired.

“No. I—I'll stay at the house. I don't suppose there's any reason why I can't?”

“None at all. You'll probably want to take inventory, anyway. Much of the furniture is antique, might fetch a good price on the market. If you'd like for me to contact some buyers …”

“I'll think about that later, Mr. Hampton.”

I showed the men out. Sergeant Duncan was apologetic, more than ever like a shy, overgrown schoolboy who just happened to have the physique of a soccer star. His wavy blond hair was unruly, and relief showed all over his handsome face as he stepped out onto the landing. He tugged nervously at the gaudy red-and-maroon tie. Hampton looked slightly disappointed, much more concerned with his documents and deeds than with my aunt's demise. Although he was undoubtedly efficient, I was surprised that someone as bombastic and vitriolic as Daphne had tolerated him.

I closed the door behind them and turned to stare vacantly at the living room. The shock had worn off, and a curious calm possessed me. I was deeply saddened by Daphne's death, and horrified at the way it had happened, but I felt no sense of great loss. During the past thirteen years she had been almost a stranger to me, a pathetic old woman who barged noisily into my life only on rare occasions. Frowning, I stepped over to the telephone. I would have to leave for Devon almost immediately. There was much to do, no time to brood. I phoned Lloyd at his office, and my voice seemed to belong to someone else as I told him about the murder. I might have been reciting a weather bulletin.

“You sound peculiar,” he said in a worried voice.

“I'm perfectly all right, Lloyd.”

“Look, I've got several things that have to be taken care of here before I can get away. I'll come as soon as I can.”

“Marvelous.”

“Lynn, I think you should go to bed. You sound—”

“Don't be absurd. I have to start packing.”

I hung up. Mandy came in a short while later. Clothes were spread all over my bed, and I was stuffing them into a suitcase.

“Sudden trip, pet?” she inquired, leaning in the doorway of my bedroom.

“Very sudden. Aunt Daphne's been murdered.”

Mandy was marvelous. She didn't so much as raise an eyebrow. Nor did she bombard me with questions.

“I have to go down to Devon,” I explained.

“You can't make the trip alone, Lynn. I'll go with you.”

“I don't know how long I might be there, Mandy. I'll have to dispose of the house and sell the furniture and—”

“I have nothing but time. One of the joys of being unemployed.”

“It—it won't be much fun.”

“That's what you think,” she said lightly. “You know how I adore murders. At last I'm actually involved in one. Let me help you with the packing, pet. You're botching it up.”

“I—I feel rather strange.”

“That's what's known as delayed reaction. Why don't you go brew us a pot of tea? I'll do this. Such lovely undies, darling. When did you buy them? Don't just
stand
there, Lynn. Go make the tea.”

Later, sitting in the living room with our teacups, I told Mandy all I had learned. She was quiet and thoughtful, an intelligent look in her velvety brown eyes. She made no comment, but I could tell that she was examining the story from every possible angle.

“The phone call,” I said quietly. “She must have been …” I couldn't finish the sentence.

“Yes,” Mandy replied.

“What a terrible thing to have happened. She was a hateful, thoroughly unlovable old woman, constantly involved in lawsuits, constantly feuding. Many people must have longed to murder her over the years, but …” I shook my head, staring down at my teacup without seeing it.

“They're certain who did it?” she asked.

“Sergeant Duncan said it was an open-and-shut case. Colonel March must have gone berserk, he said. They—they found the knife at his side.”

“Very tidy,” she remarked.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, pet. Nothing at all.”

“At least this proves there was no connection between Aunt Daphne's phone call and the—the others.”

“I suppose it does.”

She sounded unconvinced.

Setting her teacup down, Mandy still wore a thoughtful expression. A tiny frown made a delicate line between her brows, and her eyes seemed unusually dark. After a moment she stood up, sighing, tossing her long golden hair like a cinema queen.

“Well, I guess I'd better start my packing. I've no
idea
what to carry. Incidentally, how are we going?”

“By train, I suppose. I hadn't really thought—”

“Why don't we drive? I can borrow Brent's car. He never uses it, and we might need one after we arrive. You said the house is isolated.”

“Very. It's over a mile from the village, surrounded by woods.”

“Lovely.”

“Mandy, you're not actually worried?”

“Of course not. I
adore
isolated old houses.”

“It isn't as if the murderer were still—”

“Such a shame, really,” she said gaily, “but perhaps we'll find something else to amuse us.”

“You're incorrigible, Mandy.” I smiled despite myself.

“I know, pet, but is there really any reason why we should be solemn and
grim?
There's no need to be hypocritical about it.”

“None whatsoever.”

“We must keep up our spirits.”

“Definitely,” I replied, playing along.

“I'd better call Brent right away. His Rolls is ancient and dreadfully battered; but it runs like a dream. I'll have him bring it around tonight so we can pack it. He can help us with the luggage. We'll take a picnic lunch and eat on the road, and you'd better bring along your typewriter, too, since you don't know how long we'll be gone. I wonder if I'll need my bikini.” The trip already began to sound like a lark, with Mandy's bright enthusiasm erasing the reason behind it.