Murder Your Darlings

by Mark McCrum

  Further along the valley was the ruined farmhouse and the scrappy bridge, over which came the stony white track that ran down from the football field. A figure was approaching, clacking along briskly in well-worn leather walking boots. It was Tony.

  ‘Oh, hallo,’ he said. ‘I was just heading over to have a look at that church on the hill. It’s such a feature of the landscape I wanted to see it up close.’

  ‘It’s all locked up, sadly,’ said Francis.

  ‘So many of these places are. Sad really.’ They paused where they stood, like two bashful schoolboys. ‘You heading that way?’ Tony said after a few moments.

  Why not? After Duncan, Tony was the most reserved of his writing group and Francis was intrigued by him. Unlike Liam, he wasn’t a regular presence in the courtyard either, and came and went in his hire car. What did he do, what had he done, why exactly he was here? ‘Sort of counter-intelligence work’ had been his taciturn job description, which had made Roz scoff out loud, rather rudely, Francis thought.

  It was hardly as if there was nothing to talk about. After a couple of hundred yards of walking in silence together up past the wide field of dead grey sunflowers, they slipped into a conversation about the situation in the villa: what they thought of the police and the almost inquisitorial way they had taken their statements; and then, more tentatively, Poppy’s death.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Francis asked.

  ‘I have no idea. I didn’t even see the body, so what the hell do I know? But the police certainly seem to think there’s something untoward. Confiscating passports is a bit more than a formality, isn’t it? It’s not being treated as a straightforward accident, that’s for sure.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t imagine that they’re going to come out and tell us outright what their suspicions are. I mean, make a bald announcement that one of us is a murderer and we’d better own up sharpish.’

  They walked on in silence up through the olive groves, the crickets humming around them.

  ‘Once they’ve done their autopsy they’ll be on firmer ground,’ Tony went on. ‘Hopefully, all will be well and they can work out what to do with her. Repatriate her, probably. Although, if they do send her back, and the death is considered unnatural, then an English coroner is obliged to get involved, as they have to investigate any remains that get returned to their district. That always struck me as an odd stipulation, because, surely, if there were suspicious circumstances, the last thing any perpetrator is going to want to do is stir things up by sending the body home for further examination.’

  ‘You seem very well informed,’ Francis said.

  ‘My mother died abroad. So I had to sort some of this stuff out then.’

  ‘Here in Italy?’

  ‘No, south of France. Couple of years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No worries at all. The old bird had reached her natural span. One was just grateful, really, that she’d kept her marbles till the end. Unlike so many.’

  ‘Did you send her back?’

  ‘No, in the end we cremated her out there. It seemed easier. We flew the ashes back. Though even with them you have to get special permission. You can’t just bung them in your hand luggage.’

  ‘Who’s to know?’

  ‘The guys in Security. They see an urn. Or even a plastic Tupperware box, which is what we used. They generally want to know what’s inside.’

  ‘And do ashes count as remains? For the coroner?’

  ‘Not if you scatter them p.d.q.,’ Tony replied. ‘I imagine.’ He winked.

  They turned on to the little lane that led along the ridge to the chapel. There were high hedges on either side, thick with blackberries. Tony paused to help himself to a couple, and Francis followed suit.

  ‘Only a few days before the devil gets them,’ he said, popping one into his mouth.

  ‘Does that apply out here?’

  ‘Do superstitions travel? An intriguing question. To which I’m sorry to say I don’t know the answer. There’s also the point that it’s warmer here, so who knows. We’ll have to ask our hosts.’

  They walked on in silence.

  ‘I have to say,’ Tony said, after a while, ‘strictly entre nous, very sad and everything, but I did find her—’

  ‘Poppy?’

  ‘Yes. A deeply irritating woman.’

  ‘Off the record, I’d have to agree,’ Francis replied.

  ‘Difficult for you, I imagine. You can hardly gossip about your course participants.’

  ‘It would be a tad unprofessional. Even if they are dead.’

  Tony laughed. ‘What puzzled me about her,’ he went on after a moment, ‘was how chronically insecure she was. When, as far as I could see, she had everything. The beautiful gaff, the nice husband, even the title. Not that I personally care a monkey’s fart about that sort of thing. But there didn’t even seem to be a shortage of money, as there sometimes is in those big house situations.’

  ‘I guess that kind of insecurity starts earlier, though, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Still trying to impress the general, you mean?’

  ‘The dear old general. Who was the most brilliant young officer in Burma before moving on to sort out Northern Ireland …’

  ‘Yes,’ Tony said, looking down and away.

  Was it too far-fetched to think that Poppy’s death could have been some long-planned Republican revenge? With Liam as the discreet, double-bluffing operative? If this thought had also occurred to Tony, he wasn’t going to talk about it openly with Francis. Not now, at any rate. Perhaps, Francis thought, he hadn’t been joking, and he was some sort of counter-intelligence officer (on duty here, even, monitoring Liam?).

  ‘And here’s the chapel,’ he said with a smile. ‘Locked, as you said. What a damn shame.’ He walked along to the adjacent house and peered in through the window. ‘I wonder who owns this.’

  ‘An English family, probably,’ said Francis. ‘Or German. Doubtless a holiday home that gets opened up a couple of times a year.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Tony. ‘That’s a Venetian dresser, if I’m not mistaken. Rosewood. And look at that mirror, hardly the sort of thing the English would bother with.’ As Francis followed and looked in again, this time taking in the elaborate, old-fashioned furniture, Tony was already at the second window. ‘Come and look at these,’ he cried excitedly. ‘Renaissance armchairs. Oh my God, look at those backs. No, this is a well-to-do family from Rome or Milan. Una seconda casa in campagna, I’d say.’

  Before dinner that evening Duncan and Fiona surprised the house party by joining them for drinks. There was hardly a need for Stephanie to ping her glass, such was the hush as the three of them came into the little side room, but she did it anyway. ‘People, people, lovely people,’ she cooed. ‘Now I just want to say that it’s very nice to have Duncan back with us again, despite the very tragic circumstances. All our thoughts and sympathies are with you, Duncan. And can we also extend a very warm welcome to Fiona, Duncan’s daughter, who has flown out here from the UK to help her father make arrangements for poor Poppy …’

  Fiona gave the room a thin, rather nervous smile. She was blonde, skinny, late-thirties, Francis thought, rather careworn, like a mother of young children. You could see the resemblance to Duncan, though if he was the thoughtful bulldog she was the alert spaniel.

  ‘Welcome, Fiona,’ said Diana. ‘And sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you,’ muttered Fiona.

  ‘Thank you, Diana,’ said Stephanie, giving her a fond look. ‘Now the bad news is,’ she continued, ‘that the Italian police are continuing to take their time. The sauna remains sealed off and,’ she paused for a moment, ‘I’m afraid they are still insisting on keeping all our passports. For the time being.’

  There was a loud groan from Liam. ‘Do they actually suspect us?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not. As I said before, it’s merely a formality.’

  ‘A formality that means we ca
n’t leave the country,’ said Liam. ‘I’m supposed to be flying home on Saturday.’

  ‘I’m sure everything will be sorted out by then, Liam.’

  ‘It had better be.’

  ‘But the good news,’ Stephanie continued, ‘and I think this is most encouraging, is that we’re going to be allowed to go on our excursion tomorrow. To Gubbio.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ said Diana.

  ‘“Allowed”,’ repeated Liam, loudly. ‘Lucky us.’

  ‘Which is,’ Stephanie pressed on, through assorted group shh’s and tut-tuts, ‘as Gerry explained on Tuesday evening, a wonderfully atmospheric town. With a church on top of a mountain, a cable car to get there, a fine central piazza with fabulous views, and some lovely paintings tucked away in churches and museums. Gerry has maps printed out, which he’ll hand out tomorrow morning, or you can get them off him this evening. The coach will be leaving from the village square straight after breakfast at nine thirty. I’m assuming the same people who said they were coming before will be wanting to come again, but if there are any changes to that, we’d be grateful if you’d let us know.’

  Like the others, Francis kept an eye on Duncan and Fiona. But he didn’t go over, leaving that to more enthusiastically sympathetic spirits like Diana and Zoe. The bell rang and they all trooped through the courtyard and into the dining room. Duncan and Fiona were among the first, heading towards the far end of the long table and sitting opposite each other. People hovered nearby, and then suddenly Diana had dived in next to the bereaved ambassador, while Stephanie had commandeered his other side. Fiona, meanwhile, was deep in conversation with Tony, who had slid in beside her. Francis decided to take his chance and grab the chair on her other side.

  On his left, Francis had Belle, who was listening patiently to disgruntled Liam. So he found himself sipping his wine and nodding once again over the table at the redoubtable Angela, who sat straight-backed, maintaining her characteristically brilliant smile. Her hearing wasn’t great, so he would have had to yell to engage her. And what could he say, really? So, did you do it, Angela? And if so, what was your motive? Do tell.

  He looked round at the flushed faces troughing into the fig and pecorino salad starter. Liam had been over the top as usual, shouting out like that, but his concern was clearly privately shared. None of them liked this feeling of being imprisoned, even if the food in the jail was still excellent. Was one of them really a murderer? And if so, how safe was everyone else?

  With the arrival of the pasta, Tony turned to talk to Roz on his other side and Francis seized his moment with Fiona.

  ‘Hi, I’m Francis. The writing tutor. We haven’t really had a chance …’

  Fiona was flustered and smiley, her long blonde eyelashes fluttering nervously. ‘Of course, yes, how nice to meet you. It’s all been a bit rushed,’ she apologized. ‘Poor Daddy’s still in shock, really. But there’s such a lot to sort out. So many boring details. Registering Poppy’s death. Trying to get the death certificate organized. And then we have to decide whether to take her home or let her be buried here. The options aren’t exactly appealing. I’m not sure we’d want her in one of those above-ground graves where they’re stacked on top of each other in little chambers. Like Japanese love hotels, only for corpses. Tumulazione, they’re called.’

  After a bit of this rapid-fire offloading, Francis managed to get her on to herself and confirmed that Poppy wasn’t her actual mother. ‘No, stepmother,’ she said. ‘She met Daddy when things weren’t going too well between him and Mummy.’

  Francis nodded sympathetically, as was his habit. ‘And is she still alive?’ he asked. ‘Your mother?’

  Fiona looked only momentarily taken aback by his inquisitive directness. ‘Oh, yes. Very much so. She lives in London with her own new partner. They’re much better suited. When Mummy and Daddy were together they were always sniping at each other. For some strange reason.’

  ‘Why strange reason?’

  ‘Because they’re both, basically, nice people. Nicer than her, anyway.’

  ‘Poppy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So were you upset when he went off with her?’

  Fiona shrugged, fatalistically. ‘Nothing I could do about it. Especially as Poppy did most of the running. Dad’s quite lazy, and she just presented herself. In the area all the time.’

  ‘This was in Hampshire or somewhere?’

  ‘Wiltshire. Yes, Daddy was on a four-year stint at the FCO in Whitehall, so we were based down there, near Salisbury. Poppy used to swing by on her horse. And she has this beautiful house.’

  ‘We’ve heard. Your dad did a talk about it. After supper one evening. The house and the garden.’

  ‘The Garden That Broke Up A Marriage.’ Fiona laughed. ‘You’ve heard about Poppy’s silly book? It was her idea to have Dad in the first place, so if she couldn’t deal with him when she’d got him that’s her problem. He’s a sweetie, if you treat him right.’

  ‘And she didn’t?’

  ‘She did for a bit. When she was doing her number on him. Which we all witnessed as teenagers. Back in the day. It was pretty gross to be frank, she can really turn it on when she wants to. But then I think she got bored. With the very life she thought she wanted. The ambassadress. But in reality being posted in strange places abroad for years. She loves … loved – God, has she finally fucked off? I can hardly believe it – novelty. Sierra Leone’s fine for six months, while she’s exploring the beaches and learning some ridiculous dance moves, but then she wants to get back. To her comfort zone. And something else shiny and exciting and new for her to get her greedy mitts on.’ She laughed, rather bitterly. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t make a play for you, Francis.’

  ‘I’m a bit young for her, I think.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have stopped her, believe me. Dad’s five years her junior. Anyway, you don’t just teach, do you? You’re a proper writer too, aren’t you?’

  Francis liked the idea of being a proper writer. ‘I guess I am,’ he said. ‘Funnily enough, crime is my main thing. Though I did use to do celebrity interviews at one point.’

  He enlarged on his career for a bit. Then: ‘Why did you say “funnily enough”?’ Fiona asked. ‘Are you one of the ones who think Poppy’s death wasn’t an accident?’

  He gave her a measured look. ‘Who are the others?’ he asked.

  ‘The police, obviously,’ she replied. ‘Since they’re being so difficult. I’m just glad I’m not in the frame. But they’ve given poor Daddy an awful roasting.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. From all the questions they asked him anyone would think he had something to do with it.’

  ‘I suspect it’s the same the world over. The partner is always a suspect.’

  ‘The idea’s ridiculous. Daddy wouldn’t. I mean. No. Even if they haven’t been getting on that well recently.’

  ‘Haven’t they?’

  ‘Not really, no. This was supposed to be a make-or-break holiday. To see whether Daddy could make the effort. In Poppy’s inimitable words.’

  ‘Make the effort to …?’

  ‘Do exactly what she wanted, I think.’ Fiona laughed. ‘The writing course was part of that. Taking Poppy’s bloody writing seriously. Joining in with a project of his own maybe. Becoming like this intellectual couple that she’d decided she wanted them to be now he’s fully retired.’

  ‘And he didn’t want that?’

  ‘He didn’t mind. He’s always been very accommodating of her whims. For no clear reason. But recently he’s been a bit more obviously fed up.’

  Had she said too much? Whatever, she suddenly dropped the subject and turned the spotlight on him: how old was he? Was he married or single? For how long had that been the case? She had some lovely single friends in her tennis club, if he was interested. Late thirties, early forties, looking for Mr Right. But then perhaps he was spoilt for choice. Successful men of his age often were, in London. She was strangely direct, in a not dissimilar wa
y to him, he thought wryly.

  When the secondo arrived – grilled chicken legs, crispy, fried, sliced aubergines, proper mash – Fiona turned to Tony again, leaving Francis with Belle. She didn’t turn back for the pudding, a creamy panna cotta in a ring of sliced strawberries. The interview was clearly over for the moment.

  Nobody wanted to stay up for post-prandial grappas tonight. Perhaps they were conserving their energies for the Gubbio excursion in the morning, or perhaps they were all just worn down by the long day of statements and questions and continuing uncertainty as to what was really happening in this big, echoing old house, high on its hill above the remote Umbrian village, the almost-full moon above it, its light gleaming brightly on the villa’s two unshuttered windowpanes.

  Francis sat on the slope above the drive, on the little bench by the Wendy house, watching the lights in the villa and the bedroom building at the end going off one by one. He had just got to his feet and was about to head back down the steps through the bamboo plantation when he saw the front door open a little and a dark figure appear. It was Gerry. He looked around, then hurried across the courtyard past the writing table under the vine, where he vanished into the inky shadows. Most mysterious. Because this wasn’t the walk of the confident villa owner, going about some late-night business in his grounds, nor even the contemplative course leader, heading off for a quiet, pre-sleep stroll. There was only one word for the way he was moving: furtive.

  SEVEN

  Friday 28 September

  As Francis climbed higher, the last tarmacked street of the town gave way to a white gravel track, with a flimsy barrier across it on which was mounted a red and white No Entry sign. For cars, Francis decided. He skirted round it and walked on, all ready to be stopped if need be. But he wasn’t. The empty track wound on, making wide curves through the steeply-sloping, tree-covered scrub of the mountain side. There was little sound, except for the light breeze turning the leaves of the trees; down in the long grass, the chirruping hum of crickets; below, the distant sounds of the town: car horns, a shout, the slam of a car door.