‘He must have given you a reason.’
‘He gave me no reason. No good reason. I’ve been coming here ever since I was a boy. My father was here before me. And he come out here and just said that was the end of it.’
They had come to the rose garden. It was surrounded by a wall with an entrance that was an arbour shaped out of dark green leaves. Beyond, there was crazy paving, a statue of a cherub, all the different roses, and a bench.
And on the bench, Frances Pye and Jack Dartford were sitting, holding hands, engaged in a passionate kiss.
3
In fact, nobody was really very surprised. It had been obvious to Pünd – and even to Fraser – that Lady Pye and her ex-tennis partner had been conducting an affair. What else could they possibly have been doing in London on the day of the murder? Chubb had known it too and even the guilty parties only seemed mildly put out that they had been discovered in flagrante. It was going to happen sooner or later so why not now? They were still on the bench, sitting slightly apart, facing the three men who stood over them. A smirking Brent had been sent on his way.
‘I think you should explain yourself, Lady Pye,’ Chubb said.
‘There’s nothing really to explain,’ she replied, coolly. ‘Jack and I have been seeing each other for almost two years. That day in London … I was with him the whole time. But there was no shopping, no art galleries. After lunch, we had a room at the Dorchester. Jack stayed with me until about half past five. I left at seven. You can ask them if you don’t believe me.’
‘You lied to me, Lady Pye.’
‘That was wrong of me, Detective Inspector, and I’m sorry. But the fact is, it doesn’t make any real difference, does it? The rest of my story was true. Coming home on the train. Arriving at half past eight. Seeing the green car. Those are the salient points.’
‘Your husband is dead. You were deceiving him. I’d say those are also salient points, Lady Pye.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Jack Dartford cut in. ‘She wasn’t deceiving him. That’s not how I saw it anyway. You have no idea what Magnus was like. The man was a brute. The way he treated her, his infantile rages, it was disgusting. And she gave up her career for him!’
‘What career was that?’ Pünd asked.
‘In the theatre! Frances was a brilliant actress. I saw her on the stage long before I met her.’
‘That’s enough, Jack,’ Frances cut in.
‘Is that where your husband met you? In the theatre?’ Chubb asked.
‘He sent flowers to my dressing room. He’d seen me as Lady Macbeth.’
Even Chubb knew that one: a play in which a powerful woman persuades a man to commit murder. ‘Were you ever happy together?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I knew very quickly that I’d made a mistake but I was younger then and I suppose I was too proud to admit it. The trouble with Magnus was that it wasn’t enough for him to marry me. He had to own me. He made that clear very quickly. It was as if I were part of the package – the house, the grounds, the lake, the woods and the wife. He was very old-fashioned, the way he saw the world.’
‘Was he ever violent to you?’
‘He never actually struck me, Detective Inspector, but violence can take many forms. He was loud. He could be threatening. And he had a way of throwing himself around that often made me afraid.’
‘Tell them about the sword!’ Dartford insisted.
‘Oh Jack!’
‘What happened with the sword, Lady Pye? Chubb asked.
‘It was just something that happened a couple of days before I went up to meet Jack. You must understand that, underneath it all, Magnus was a great big child. If you ask me, this whole business with Dingle Dell was more about upsetting people than actually making money. He had temper tantrums. If he didn’t get what he wanted, he could become very nasty indeed.’ She sighed. ‘He had a good idea that I was seeing someone – all those trips to London. And the two of us were sleeping apart, of course. He didn’t want me any more, not in the way a husband wants his wife, but it hurt his pride that I might have actually found somebody else.
‘We had a row that morning. I can’t even remember what started it. But then he started screaming at me – how I was his, how he would never let me go. I’d heard it all before. Only this time, he was crazier than ever. You noticed that there was a painting missing in the great hall. It was a portrait of me, which he’d commissioned as a present for my fortieth birthday. As a matter of fact it was done by Arthur Redwing.’ She turned to Pünd. ‘Have you met him?’
‘He is married to the doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have seen another work of his but we have not yet met.’
‘Well, I think he’s very talented. And I loved the painting he did of me. He actually managed to capture a moment of real happiness, standing in the garden near the lake – and that was rare enough, I can tell you. It was a gorgeous summer that year. Arthur did the painting over four or five sessions and although Magnus hardly paid him anything for it – that was typical of him to be so mean – I think it was rather wonderful. We talked about putting it in for the summer exhibition, you know, at the Royal Academy. But Magnus wouldn’t put me on show. That would mean sharing me! So it stayed on the wall in the main hall.
‘And then we had that argument. I’ll admit that I can be quite nasty when I want to be and I certainly let him have a few home truths. Magnus went very red, as if was going to burst. He always did have problems with his blood pressure. He drank too much and he quite easily worked himself up into these rages. I told him I was going up to London. He refused to give me permission. I laughed at him and told him I didn’t need his permission or anyone else’s. Suddenly he went over to that stupid suit of armour and with a great yell pulled out the sword—’
‘The same sword with which he would later be killed?’
‘Yes, Mr Pünd. He came over to me, dragging it behind him and for a moment I thought he was going to attack me with it. But instead he suddenly turned it on the painting and stabbed it again and again in front of my eyes. He knew it would hurt me, losing it. At the same time, he was telling me I was his possession and that he could do the same to me at any time.’
‘What happened next, Lady Pye?’
‘I just went on laughing. Is that the best you can do? I remember shouting those words at him. I think I was a little hysterical. Then I went up to my room and slammed the door.’
‘And the painting?’
‘I was sad about that. It couldn’t be mended. Or maybe it could, but it would have been too expensive. Magnus gave it to Brent to put on the bonfire.’
She fell silent.
‘I’m glad he’s dead,’ Jack Dartford muttered, suddenly. ‘He was a total bastard. He was never kind to anyone and he made life a misery for Frances. I’d have done it myself, if I’d had the nerve. But he’s gone now and we can start again.’ He reached out and took her hand. ‘No more hiding. No more lying. We can finally have the life we deserve.’
Pünd nodded at Chubb and the three of them moved away from the rose garden and back across the lawn. There was no sign of Brent. Jack Dartford and Lady Pye had remained where they were. ‘I wonder where he was on the night of the murder,’ Fraser said.
‘You are referring to Mr Dartford?’
‘We only have his word for it that he stayed in London. He left the hotel at half past five. That would have given him plenty of time to catch the train ahead of Lady Pye. It’s just a thought …’
‘You think him capable of murder?’
‘I think he’s a chancer. You can tell just by looking at him. He comes across an attractive woman who’s being badly treated by her husband – and it seems to me that if you’re going to cut somebody’s head off, there has to be a better reason than saving a local wood and those two had a better reason than anyone.’
<
br /> ‘There is some truth in what you say,’ Pünd agreed.
Their car was parked a short distance away from the front of the house and they moved towards it slowly. Chubb too had noticed that Pünd was resting more heavily on his walking stick. He had once thought that the detective only carried it as a fashion accessory. Today he clearly needed it.
‘There’s something I forgot to tell you, Mr Pünd,’ he muttered. It was the first time the two of them had been alone since the interview with Robert Blakiston, the evening before.
‘I will be interested to hear anything you have to say, Detective Inspector.’
‘You remember that scrap of paper we found in the fireplace in Sir Magnus’s study? You thought there might be part of a fingerprint on it.’
‘I remember it very well.’
‘There was a fingerprint. The bad news is there wasn’t enough of it left to be any use to us. It’s certainly untraceable and we probably won’t even be able to match it to any of our known suspects.’
‘That is a pity.’
‘There is something though. It turns out that the paper itself was stained with blood. The same blood type as Sir Magnus for what it’s worth, although we can’t be 100 per cent certain that it was his.’
‘That is of great interest.’
‘That’s a great headache, if you ask me. How does it all add up? We’ve got a handwritten envelope and a typed up death threat. This scrap of paper clearly didn’t belong to either of them and we have no way of knowing how long it had actually been in the grate. The blood would suggest it was thrown in the fire after the murder.’
‘But where did it come from in the first place?’
‘Exactly. Anyway, where do you want to go next?’
‘I was hoping you might tell me, Inspector.’
‘As a matter of fact, I was about to make a suggestion. I had a very interesting phone call from Dr Redwing before I left the office last night. Did you know her father’s just died? Natural causes, which makes a pleasant change. Well, apparently he had a bit of a story to tell and I rather think we need to talk to Clarissa Pye.’
4
Clarissa Pye came into the living room carrying a tray with three cups of tea and some biscuits, neatly arranged on a plate as if somehow the symmetry would make them more desirable. The room seemed terribly small with so many people in it. Atticus Pünd and his assistant were next to each other on the faux-leather sofa, their knees almost touching. The round-faced detective inspector from Bath had taken the armchair opposite. She could feel the walls hemming them in. But ever since Dr Redwing had told her the news, the house had not been the same. It was not her house. This was not her life. It was as if she had been swapped for someone else in one of those Victorian novels she had always enjoyed.
‘I suppose it was understandable that Dr Redwing should tell you what her father said,’ she began. Her voice was a little prim. ‘Although it might have been considerate to inform me that she was going to make the call.’
‘I’m sure she believed she was acting for the best, Miss Pye,’ Chubb said.
‘Well, I suppose it was only right that the police were informed. After all, whatever you may think of Dr Rennard, he committed a crime.’ She set the tray down. ‘He lied on the birth certificate. He delivered both of us, but I was the first. He should really be prosecuted.’
‘He’s gone somewhere far beyond the reach of the law.’
‘The reach of human law, certainly.’
‘You have had very little time to get used to all this,’ Pünd remarked, gently.
‘Yes. I only heard yesterday.’
‘I imagine it must have come as quite a shock to you.’
‘A shock? I’m not quite sure that’s the word I would use, Mr Pünd. It’s more like an earthquake. I remember Edgar Rennard very well. He was very much liked in the village and he often came up to the house when Magnus and I were growing up. He never struck me as an evil man and yet it really is a monstrous thing to have done. His lie took away my entire life. And Magnus! I wonder if he knew about it? He was always lording it over me, as if there was some terrific joke and I was the only one who wasn’t in the know. He threw me out of my own home, you know. I had to support myself in London and then in America. And all the time there was no need for it.’ She sighed. ‘I have been very much cheated.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I will claim what is mine. Why not? I have a right to it.’
Inspector Chubb looked uncomfortable. ‘That may not be as easy as you think, Miss Pye,’ he said. ‘From what I understand, Dr Redwing was alone in the room with her father when he told her what he’d done. There were no witnesses to the conversation. I suppose there’s always a chance you may find something in his papers. He may have written something down. But right now it’ll just be your word.’
‘He may have told someone else.’
‘He almost certainly told Sir Magnus,’ Pünd cut in. He turned to the detective inspector. ‘You remember the notepad that we found on his desk, the day after he was killed. Ashton H. Mw. A girl. Now it is all clear. The call was received from Ashton House. Edgar Rennard knew that he was dying and, out of a sense of guilt, telephoned Sir Magnus to explain that, when he delivered the twins, the first-born had in fact been a girl. The notepad also contained a number of crossings out. Sir Magnus was clearly perturbed by what he heard.’
‘Well, that could explain something,’ Clarissa said and there was real anger in her voice. ‘He came to this very house, sat where you’re sitting on the very day of his death. And he offered me a job at Pye Hall! He wanted me to move into the Lodge House and take over from Mary Blakiston. Can you imagine it! Maybe he was afraid that the truth was about to come to light. Maybe he actually wanted to contain me. If I’d moved in, I might have been the one with my head lopped off my shoulders.’
‘I wish you luck, Miss Pye,’ Chubb said. ‘It’s clearly a great injustice that’s been done and if you can find any other witnesses that will certainly help your case. But if it doesn’t offend you, I’d offer you this advice. You might be better off just accepting things as they are. You have a nice enough house here. You’re well known and respected in the village. It’s none of my business, but sometimes you can spend so much time chasing something that you lose everything else while you’re about it.’
Clarissa Pye looked puzzled. ‘Thank you for your advice, Inspector Chubb. However, I had assumed that the reason for this visit was that you had come to assist me. Dr Rennard committed a crime and we only have his daughter’s word that he wasn’t actually paid for his trouble. At any event, I assume it is a matter you would wish to investigate.’
‘I must be honest. That hadn’t really occurred to me.’ Chubb was suddenly uncomfortable, looking to Pünd for help.
‘You must remember that there have been two unexplained deaths in this village, Miss Pye,’ Pünd said. ‘I can understand your wish that the police should investigate the events that took place at the time of your birth and yet we are here on another matter. I would not wish to distress you any further in what is clearly a difficult time for you but I am afraid that I must ask you a question in connection with the two deaths – of Sir Magnus and of Mary Blakiston. It concerns a vial of liquid that went missing from Dr Redwing’s surgery quite recently. The vial contained a poison, physostigmine. Would you know anything about that?’
Clarissa Pye’s face went through a range of emotions, each one drawn so distinctly that they could have hung together like a series of portraits. First she was shocked. The question had been so unexpected – how could they possibly have known? Then there was fear. Were there to be consequences? Then came indignation, perhaps manufactured. She was outraged that they should suspect her of such a thing! And finally, all within a split second, came acceptance and resignation. Too much had happened already. There was no point denying it. �
�Yes. I took it,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘How did you know it was me? If you don’t mind my asking …’
‘Mrs Blakiston saw you leaving the surgery.’
Clarissa nodded. ‘Yes. I saw her watching me. Mary had this extraordinary ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know how she did it.’ She paused. ‘Who else knows?’
‘She kept a diary which Inspector Chubb has in his possession. As far as we are aware, she told nobody else.’
That made things easier. ‘I took it on an impulse,’ she said. ‘I happened to find myself in the surgery on my own and I saw the physostigmine on the shelf. I knew exactly what it was. I’d done some medical training before I went to America.’
‘What did you want it for?’
‘I’m ashamed to tell you, Mr Pünd. I know it was wrong of me and I may have been just a little bit out of my mind. But in the light of what we’ve just been saying, you of all people will understand that very little in my life has worked out the way I wanted. It’s not just Magnus and the house. I never married. I never had any real love, not even when I was young. Oh yes, I have the church and I have the village, but there have been times when I’ve found myself looking in the mirror and I’ve wondered – what’s the point? What am I doing here? Why should I even want to go on?
‘The Bible is very clear about suicide. It’s the moral equivalent of murder. “God is the giver of life. He gives and He takes away.” That’s from the book of Job. We have no right to take matters into our own hands.’ She stopped and suddenly there was a hardness in her eyes. ‘But there have been times when I have been very much in the shadows, when I have looked into the valley of death and wished – and wished I could enter. How do you think it’s been for me, watching Magnus and Frances and Freddy? I used to live in that house! All that wealth and comfort was once mine! Forget the fact that it was actually stolen from me, I should never have come back to Saxby-on-Avon! It was mad of me to humiliate myself by returning to the emperor’s table. So the answer is – yes. I thought about killing myself. I took the physostigmine because I knew it would do the job quickly and painlessly.’
Magpie Murders Page 19
