Design for Murder Page 5

  “I need a breath of air, and I shall enjoy the walk.”

  “Sure?”

  “Quite sure.” I’d had enough of him, suddenly—he and his probing policeman’s questions. “Thanks for the lunch.”

  He drove off in the Gilchester direction, while I turned back across the ancient stone bridge that spanned the river, pausing a moment to gaze down at the water glinting in the sunlight, at the pebbles and trailing fronds of greenery, the dark shapes of lurking trout.

  As I walked on along the village street, I was conscious of the sleepy hush of a summer afternoon. Bees droned in a lavender hedge, a marmalade cat sat dozing on a mossy wall, and old Mr. Pembury, nearly ninety, was nodding contentedly in a basket chair on the porch of his cottage.

  Going past the What-Not Shop, I glanced in through the bottle-glass bow window and caught sight of the owner, Ursula Kemp. She spotted me, too, and beckoned.

  “Hallo, Tracy,” she greeted me above the jangle of the doorbell. The look on her face was ambiguous, uncertain, as if she felt a smile would be out of place in the circumstances. “Isn’t it dreadful about Oliver? Is there any further news—I mean, about who did it?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I just thought... since you had lunch with that detective inspector...”

  The speed of light was as nothing compared with the Steeple Haslop telegraph.

  “He’d hardly tell me anything, Ursula. I’m still high on his list of suspects,”

  “Oh, surely not? What possible reason could the police have for suspecting you?”

  She seemed genuinely shocked and upset on my behalf. Ursula was a comparative newcomer to Steeple Haslop. Two years ago, recently widowed, she had chanced upon the village during a holiday in the Cotswolds. She had fallen in love with the place and decided to settle. Opinions were mixed about the likelihood of her making a success of the little shop she had opened, but she seemed to manage. Probably she had some kind of widow’s pension, too. Her stock was a shrewd mixture of junk souvenirs for the tourists who passed through the village during the summer months, and some really rather nice pieces. On occasion Oliver and I had made the odd purchase from her.

  Well into her forties, Ursula was still an attractive woman. She had good skin and clear brown eyes, and she wore her silver-streaked hair scooped into a loose coil. Invariably she gave the impression of twin-set neatness, which was possibly intended to reassure customers only too used to being ripped-off in such shops. I would have thought that Ursula had enough going for her to find another husband, but she showed no sign of wanting to. The village speculated about her. Had her first marriage been so good she wanted to preserve the memory intact? Or was it a case of once bitten?

  “I think the police suspect every person who might conceivably have done it until they are proved innocent,” I told her. “I suppose that’s routine procedure.”

  “So that’s why they were in here this morning asking questions.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “About you, actually,” she admitted. “I suppose I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but it seems only fair to warn you.

  They wanted to know if I happened to have seen you drive past here yesterday morning before you found Oliver’s body.”

  So much for Neil’s palliness over lunch, I thought furiously.

  “What did you tell them, Ursula?”

  “I told them the truth—that I hadn’t seen you. But I don’t understand why it should matter so much, Tracy.”

  “It’s a question of timing,” I said grimly. “In their minds, it’s possible that I might have arrived at the Coach House earlier than I said, quarrelled with Oliver, and ... and struck him over the head.”

  “I see.” Ursula looked at me wide-eyed. “If only I’d realised! I could have said ... well, that I had seen you at the time you told them.”

  “But you didn’t.” Thinking of Tim and the fingerprints, I said, “It’s no good lying to the police, Ursula. They always find out in the end, and it only makes matters worse.”

  “Yes ... yes, I suppose you’re right.” She touched my arm, giving me a comforting little squeeze. “Don’t worry, Tracy, they can’t possibly go on suspecting you.” After a brief hesitation, she asked, “What’s going to happen now? Will you try to carry on at the Design Studio without him?”

  “I don’t see how I can.” A look I couldn’t decipher fleeted across Ursula’s face, then I understood. We had recently bought from her a set of cushion covers in hand-blocked linen for a weekend cottage we’d just refurbished for a Bristol wine merchant, and there had also been a pair of carriage lamps. About two hundred pounds’ worth altogether. I hastened to add, “Naturally, I’ll be staying on long enough to see that all the accounts are settled.”

  “My dear, I wasn’t thinking of that,” she protested, flushing.

  There was a babble of voices outside. A motor-coach had drawn up by the village hall opposite, and a bevy of women were descending purposefully on the What-Not Shop.

  “You’ve got customers,” I said with the ghost of a smile, and thankfully escaped.

  Escape from Ursula, escape from Neil.... I walked with a brisk pace through the rest of the village, looking straight ahead of me, determined not to catch another eye. Then on up the hill, with beechwoods on the left and the high stone wall of Haslop Hall on the right. I turned in at the gates and was a hundred yards along the drive when I heard a vehicle coming from behind. I stepped aside to let it go past, but it pulled up alongside me.

  “Hallo, Tracy. Want a lift?”

  It was Ralph Ebborn, no doubt just returning from lunch at home. It seemed less trouble to let him drive me the short distance to the Coach House, than to decline his offer and have him linger here for a chat. So I jumped up in the Range Rover beside him.

  “I was going to drop in and see you anyway this afternoon,” he said, as he moved off. “I heard that you were lunching with the detective inspector at the Trout.”

  “My God, does everybody know that?”

  Ralph gave me a sympathetic smile. He was a large man, in his mid-fifties, with a pleasant squarish face. His hair and thick eyebrows were gingery, and he had a rather florid complexion. As usual for work, he wore khaki slacks and a safari jacket and he carried about his person a vague and not unpleasing aroma of cigar smoke.

  “I know how you must be feeling, Tracy.”

  “Do you?” I said sarcastically. Then, quickly, “I’m sorry, Ralph I didn’t mean to take my bad temper out on you.”

  He reached across and patted my hand in an avuncular way. “What did he have to say?”

  “Neil Grant, you mean?”

  Ralph pulled a face. “It sounds as if you two made rapid progress over lunch.”

  “Oh, that accounts for his being so friendly now.”

  “I’m not so sure how friendly he is,” I said. “He has me down on his list of suspects.”

  Ralph didn’t look shocked as Ursula had done. He just grunted. “I imagine that it must be a helluva long list. Who else is on it, did he say?”

  Tim Baxter, I could have told him. But something checked me. Then, as we swung through the arch into the courtyard, I saw Tim himself getting out of his green estate car.

  “Hallo, Baxter,” Ralph called. “Is it Tracy you want?”

  “That’s right.”

  I jumped down from the Range Rover and gave Ralph a thank-you salute. But as I went to walk away, he said, “Hang on a tick. I haven’t got around to mentioning what I wanted to see you about. Grace said to invite you for dinner this evening. We’d hate to think of you moping at home all on your own.”

  “Thanks, Ralph, I’d like that.” I meant it, too. Grace and Ralph were the two people I’d feel most at ease with just now.

  Ralph swung round in a tight circle and drove off. As I turned to unlock the door to the studio, Tim said moodily, “I needn’t have bothered to come.”

  I looked at him. “How d’you mean?”


  “I was going to ask if you’d like to eat with me this evening.”

  “I’m sorry, Tim, but I can’t now, can I?”

  “There’s no need to sound so relieved about it,” he remarked bitterly.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  I stifled back the uneasy knowledge that I was relieved to be provided with a good excuse for refusing Tim. It was crazy ... I knew that he wasn’t responsible for Oliver’s death—he couldn’t be—yet the niggle of suspicion refused to go away. Neither of us suggested making it another time. Standing like this at the foot of the stairs, a question darted into my mind. I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it before.

  “Tim, you never told me why it was you came to the studio yesterday morning.”

  He stared at me before answering. “Does it matter now?”

  “It could. I’m surprised that Neil Grant hasn’t asked you yet. Or has he?”

  “Neil Grant. He’s asked me too many bloody questions.... He was up at the vineyard this morning, nosing round. Why he wants to nail this murder on me, God knows. But he seems bent on it.”

  “Oh Tim, now you really are being stupid,” I protested. “Neil’s just doing his job.”

  “Which includes taking you out to lunch? You’re very thick with him all of a sudden, aren’t you?”

  I’d had enough of this. I gave him a furious glare. “Look, I’ve got work to do.”

  Tim returned my glare for a moment, then, “Okay, I’ll leave you to get on with it.”

  Before he’d driven out of the courtyard I realised that he’d not given me an answer about his reason for coming to the studio yesterday. I could still have called him back, but I didn’t.

  By the time I got upstairs the sound of his car had receded to nothing and everything was quiet. From somewhere far-off on the estate I heard the clatter of a harvester, which only accentuated my feeling of isolation. The sick panic I had experienced this morning came back to me with renewed force. Against my will, my eyes went to the damp patch on the carpet and I looked away hastily. How was I ever going to make myself work in this room?

  The sound of the phone crashed through the silence. It was several moments before I could bring myself to pick it up.

  “Hallo,” I said huskily.

  “Miss Yorke, is that you?” I recognised the voice, hoarse and strained though it was.

  “Yes, Sir Robert.”

  “Ah, good. I tried to reach you at your home.”

  “I thought I had better come along to the studio and make a start on sorting things out,” I explained.

  “Yes ... good ... actually, that was what I wished to speak to you about. Er ... could you come up to the Hall now, do you think?”

  I welcomed any excuse for leaving the studio. And it was a relief, too, to find that sooner than I had expected, Sir Robert was ready to discuss winding up the business. I’d now be able to think about plans for the future.

  “Yes, I’ll come at once,” I agreed.

  Thrusting a notepad and pen into my shoulderbag, I ran downstairs and within two or three minutes I was ringing the bell at Haslop Hall. Grainger let me in and loped ahead of me to Sir Robert’s study.

  It was a room I had only seen once before when I was first sounded out about joining Oliver. Dark oak panelling rose to head height on all four walls, swallowing the afternoon sunshine. Oliver had not been allowed to change the decor of this sanctum.

  Sir Robert was not, as I had anticipated, alone. His adopted son, Sebastian, was seated with him behind the massive leather-topped desk, giving it the appearance of a magistrates’ bench. Sir Robert rose politely as I entered, and Sebastian followed suit.

  “Please sit down, Miss Yorke,” he invited me, after a little cough to clear his throat. “Er ... you know Sebastian, I believe?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Oddly, though there was no blood connection, Sebastian bore a superficial resemblance to Oliver. It struck me that Sir Robert’s taste in women had remained consistent as the years advanced ... both his previous wives, like the present Lady Medway, had been tall and elegant and raven-haired. But Sebastian lacked his stepbrother’s charm. His eyes, dark and long-lashed, were a shade too close together, and there was a tightness to his mouth.

  “Sebastian came home from Oxford yesterday to be with us at this dreadful time,” Sir Robert explained, at which Sebastian looked smugly virtuous. The university long vacation had already begun, of course, but I seemed to recall that Oliver had mentioned something about Sebastian staying on for a symposium on international law.

  Sir Robert himself looked ghastly, even worse than in those first minutes of shock yesterday. His cheeks and lips were tinged with blue, and I noticed that the hand resting on his desk vas trembling.

  He cleared his throat again, with some difficulty. “Oliver’s death has, er ... placed you in an unfortunate situation, Miss Yorke. I feel to some degree responsible, having persuaded you to abandon your plans to return to London after your aunt’s death.”

  Sir Robert paused, as if expecting me to comment. But I could think of no comment to make. His next words took me utterly by surprise.

  “Would it be possible for you to carry on the Design Studio alone?”

  “You mean,” I stammered foolishly, “run it myself?”

  “I would be very ready,” he went on, “to lend my financial support. As you know, I charged Oliver a purely nominal rent for the premises, merely for bookkeeping purposes, and this arrangement could continue. I could also provide you with the necessary working capital.”

  Sebastian’s expression was far from approving, but he kept quiet. After some rapid thinking, I said cautiously, “It’s only fair to point out, Sir Robert, that anything I undertook would need to be on a much smaller scale. For one thing, I haven’t got Oliver’s talent—that was something very special. And for another thing, I lack his contacts. Even if I were able to succeed alone, there wouldn’t be much of a return on your investment, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m not looking for a profit,” he said tetchily. “It was your assistance, Miss Yorke, that made it possible for my son to practise a profession which seemed to suit him. I am very much aware of that fact, and this is a way of showing my appreciation.”

  It was a marvellous opportunity. So why did I hesitate?

  Was it the curious mood that had gripped me earlier this afternoon at the studio, the sense of unease amounting almost to panic? Was it because the horror of Oliver’s death was too fresh in my mind? But this would surely pass, as everything has to pass in time.

  “You’re very generous, Sir Robert,” I made myself say. “I should be glad to accept your offer.”

  “Good.” He gave a satisfied nod. “Then we shall have a proper agreement drawn up. My solicitor will see to it, Miss Yorke, and be in touch with you.”

  That was that, there was nothing more to be said. The matter was settled and Sir Robert wanted the interview over. But the surprising thing was that he had screwed himself up to talk to me at all on this subject, so soon after Oliver’s death.

  I rose to my feet, and both men stood up too.

  “How is Lady Medway today?” I said. The question was asked merely from politeness, but Sir Robert stared at me as if I must have had some other, hidden motive. It was Sebastian who answered.

  “My stepmother is indisposed, Miss Yorke, as one might expect after such a shock.” The shock, his tone seemed to imply, resulting from Oliver’s lack of consideration in getting himself murdered.

  “Yes, of course,” I muttered. “Naturally. I hope she feels better soon.”

  Sebastian did not show me out himself, as courtesy might have demanded. Instead, he rang for Grainger, and from the speed with which the butler answered the summons, I suspected that he had been lurking outside the door.

  Walking back to the studio I tried to feel elated, but couldn’t. Was it because I was gaining from Oliver’s death? Or because I lacked sufficient confidence in my own ability? I had a str
ong feeling that Sir Robert had made his proposition purely from a sense of obligation. And Sebastian clearly opposed the whole idea.

  Chapter 5

  Grace must have been watching for me. Before I had opened the front gate of The Larches she was out of the house and hastening to greet me down the flower-flanked path. After a hug, she held me back at arms’ length to study my face.

  “Tracy, you poor girl. How dreadful it must have been for you. I was wondering whether to ring you last evening, but decided that you’d probably had quite enough talking for one day. Come along in, Ralph’s seeing to drinks. I expect you could do with one.”

  She ushered me up the single step and beneath the pretty fanlight into the long, narrow hall which had been made to appear spacious by the use of gleaming white paintwork and a couple of large mirrors. Ralph appeared in the doorway of the sitting room, a bottle in his hand.

  “Hallo, Tracy. Dry sherry okay for you?”

  “Thanks.”

  He had changed into a dark suit, which in Grace’s book would be required evening wear at home, even for just the two of them. The comments people often passed about Grace Ebborn behind her back were of the sort that were outwardly kind but carried a mild sting in the tail. She means well. She likes things to be just so. Her heart’s in the right place. For myself, I found Grace’s little faults very forgivable. She was just a shade too house-proud, a bit over-fastidious, and rather strait-laced. If she’d had children, this doubtless would all have been knocked out of her, but she had married Ralph a bit too late in the day for that.

  Self- discipline was an important ingredient in Grace’s character. Now fifty, she had taken care to keep herself in good shape. Without any pretensions to beauty she always managed to look nice (a word that was frequently on her lips). This evening she had on a moire silk dress in a soft shade of dark green, with her pearls. Her hair, which she wore in a slightly old-fashioned style, was newly set.

  We sat together on the velvet sofa and Ralph handed us our drinks, remaining standing himself before the white-marble fireplace which was filled now with one of Grace’s elaborate arrangements of flowers and ferns.