Murder Your Darlings

by Mark McCrum

  Marta was nodding. Now she spoke in rapid-fire Italian again to Sabatini and her fellow detectives. There was another little confab, the gist of which Francis struggled to follow, even when he could hear the names of the guests in the mix.

  ‘These are two very good points, Francis,’ said Moretti. ‘Particularly this second one. So if we go through our suspects thinking about this, who are we left with? Sir Duncan, Poppy’s husband. Fiona, his daughter. And that’s about it.’

  ‘La famiglia. Come sempre,’ said Sabatini.

  TEN

  Seated in the central armchair, surrounded by inquisitive Italian investigators, Sir Duncan seemed sad, but also resigned and poised. Francis couldn’t help but ask himself how this elegant, thoughtful man could have ever got involved with a nightmare like Poppy. Perhaps Diana was right, and it was all down to ‘the Demon S’ (though the thought of Poppy cavorting in that mode, let alone with the corpulent Sir Duncan, made Francis feel slightly ill).

  ‘Thank you for talking to us,’ said Moretti. ‘Especially at this time of grief for you and your daughter.’

  ‘Of course,’ Duncan replied, ‘you must do your interviews with everyone. I can’t be treated any differently.’

  ‘Thank you for your understanding,’ said Moretti. She was a bit over the top, Francis thought, but then again she had the experience – perhaps the kid glove approach was the best way to treat grieving relatives who were still in the frame.

  ‘So how is your investigation going?’ asked Duncan.

  Marta smiled back. ‘Slowly. We are still trying to establish some motive. As to why anyone here would want to … would want to …’

  ‘Murder my wife,’ Duncan concluded, putting the commissario out of her misery.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you feel certain that it is someone here – at the villa – rather than from outside?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marta. ‘We do.’

  Duncan nodded thoughtfully. ‘I just thought you would want to keep all options open at this stage.’

  ‘An outsider seems like an unlikely option,’ Marta continued. ‘This villa is so remote. There are perhaps a hundred people living in the nearby village, Pianetto. They are mostly small families. Many of them are old.’

  ‘A couple of the cooks live in the village, I understand,’ Duncan replied.

  ‘Again, you come up against motive. What would be the reason for one of these rural women to murder a foreign visitor? Who they might be cooking meals for, but otherwise have no relationship with at all. So may I ask, on a different matter,’ Marta went on, ‘did you tell your friends at home that you were coming out here for this week?’

  Duncan looked puzzled at this question.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Those that we saw.’

  ‘And anyone else? Do you perhaps have people working for you – at home?’

  ‘We have a cleaning woman who comes in three times a week and a gardener who’s in most days. Why is this relevant?’

  ‘Because we need to know who knew you were coming on this course, to this place, Villa Giulia.’

  ‘Quite a few people, I imagine. Poppy was very active in the village, and also, being the person she is – was – in the local town, not to mention her activities further afield. She might have told any one of those what we were planning. In fact, knowing her, I’d make that “might” a “would”.’

  The policewoman nodded. ‘So this village is called …?’

  ‘Framley.’

  ‘And is how large?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. Perhaps five, six hundred souls.’

  ‘Souls?’

  ‘People,’ Francis chipped in.

  Moretti nodded. ‘You say she was active?’ she went on. ‘In what way was she active?’

  Duncan smiled round at Francis. ‘Francis here would know what I’m talking about. I don’t know how it works out here, but in an English village like ours, people do stuff. There’s a church, which Poppy was very much part of—’

  ‘So she was religious?’

  ‘Not madly religious. Just involved. Again, it’s a rather English thing. You can be involved in church activities without being religious.’

  ‘This is the Church of England?’ Sabatini asked, and was there just a touch of contempt in his question?

  ‘Yes. There’s also the WI, the Women’s Institute—’

  ‘This is another church?’ Ricci chipped in.

  Duncan laughed, and looked over at Francis to share the joke. Marta was smiling, but not going to embarrass her colleague. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘it’s not a church, although perhaps it is in a way. It’s a club, for women.’

  ‘In the village?’ Ricci asked.

  ‘And elsewhere. With the greatest respect, I think we’re in danger of getting bogged down in cross-cultural confusion here. This organization I’m talking about, the Women’s Institute, known as the WI, is quite famous at home. It’s like a club for women across the UK – perhaps I should say some women, middle-aged maybe, with time to spare. Poppy was involved with them. She was involved, as I say, with the church. She was involved with the local modern dance club. She was involved with amateur theatricals in our local town. And then she was also active in other groups and societies elsewhere, some of which meant meetings in London. So to answer your question, she might have told anyone from any of those groups that she was planning to come out to Umbria to do a creative writing course.’

  Marta nodded. ‘I understand. She was a busy lady who talked to many people.’

  Duncan nodded. ‘Yes. It was no big secret that we were coming out here.’

  Francis was intrigued, watching this exchange, and the sequence of questions that followed, to see how unflappable Duncan was. Not that Moretti was aggressive, but she was sticking to the point that a murder on a residential course in a foreign country did rather cast suspicion on the people the victim knew best. Duncan conceded this, conceded also that this put him and Fiona more in the frame than the others, yet acted as if nothing could in fact be less likely than that he, or his daughter, would want to murder his wife.

  ‘When did you book it?’ Francis chipped in. ‘The course?’

  ‘Over a year ago. We were originally going to come last year, but then Poppy couldn’t do it. She had her Grade One saxophone exam so we had to pull out.’

  ‘Sassofono?’ said Moretti, miming playing the instrument. ‘Your wife was learning the sassofono? In her sixties?’

  Duncan smiled. ‘Seventies. She was seventy-one. She never stopped,’ he said. ‘Also, she has this theory – had this theory – that learning new things was a defence against dementia. “I’m keeping the grey cells lively,” she used to say.’

  There was silence. For a few moments they were left with the memory of Poppy and the slow tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. From the other room came the sound of Liam laughing. Infectiously, as he did.

  ‘So what made you want to come here?’ Francis asked. ‘Was it your idea or Poppy’s?’

  He smiled. ‘Poppy’s. She was always on at me to write my memoirs. My reply was usually that though I had enjoyed writing dispatches, and speeches and so on, as you do as a diplomat,’ he looked round at the police, ‘which is what I was, that that was it. I wouldn’t know how to tackle the larger challenge of a book. Quite apart from not wanting to expose myself personally in that way, as you have to do, I think, to be any good. So, Poppy being what she is – was – booked us both on to this course.’

  ‘Did she find it on the Internet? Like Sasha. Or what?’

  ‘She heard about it from Zoe.’

  ‘From Zoe?’ Francis sat forward, as did the others.

  ‘Yes, they were on a similar course together in London. At the Guardian. A life-writing masterclass or some such thing. Poppy loved doing courses. She met Zoe there and then in due course Zoe recommended this. It ticked all Poppy’s boxes. Learning stuff, but in nice surroundings, with agreeable people, and good food.’

 
‘I see,’ said Marta. ‘So Zoe knew you were coming.’

  ‘Of course. Didn’t she say?’

  ‘She claimed not to have met you before.’

  ‘That’s true. I did only meet her here. But she’d met Poppy, as I say. Just for a weekend, on this course.’

  Significant glances were exchanged. ‘OK,’ Marta went on, ‘before we finish, you have told us that you love this beautiful house you share – shared, I’m so sorry – with your wife?’

  ‘I have – and I do.’

  There was a short silence as Moretti sat back. It was almost as if she were deciding how to proceed. Then: ‘Let me make up a little story,’ she said. ‘A man like yourself, who has been successful in his career, has reached retirement and now has no financial worries, is nonetheless tired of his wife. The couple argue, they misunderstand each other, there is no passion left. Perhaps, even, this man has met another woman, who makes him happy. She makes him laugh, she is sexy, she returns him to his younger self. Usually, this kind of situation ends in divorce. But in this case the wife owns a beautiful house. Which the man loves. If he divorces her he gets his new woman, but not the house. And so he starts to think of other possibilities. Initially, such possibilities seem absurd, stupid. But then, talking it all over with his lover, they come up with an idea that could work. On a holiday abroad, the now hated wife could be safely removed. Once she is dead and buried, ideally in the foreign country, away from the eyes of friends, neighbours and the English coroner, the house passes to the man. Now he has everything he wants.’

  Duncan’s expression as Marta spoke was beyond impassive; it was impossible to read at all. Even his blue-grey eyes, with the yellow-grey arcus senilis ring around the cornea, offered only mild, slightly bored disapproval. Perhaps this was the diplomatic training, that however deeply you felt, your face never gave you away. When she’d finished, he looked round at this posse of foreign police and sighed.

  ‘It’s a perfectly believable story,’ he said. ‘I particularly like the description of this man rejuvenated by this new woman, which is something I understand all too well. Some years ago, I was in such a marriage myself. One which had, sadly, degenerated into rancour. To say the passion was gone was to put it mildly. For several years my wife and I slept in separate rooms. We went through the motions publicly, we had to, for my job, but privately our only physical engagement was when we tried to strangle one another. And then I met a woman who freed me from all that. Running against the cliché, she wasn’t the famous “younger model”. She was a bit older than myself and my first wife. But though she was highly extrovert, no doubting that, she was also very kind and loving. At least to me, and that’s what mattered. I think you know who that was.’

  ‘Poppy,’ said Marta, stating the obvious. Diana’s intuitions had been spot on, Francis thought.

  ‘Poppy,’ Duncan repeated. He looked over at Francis. ‘I’m not insensitive. I know all too well she wasn’t to everyone’s tastes. She could be a bit full-on at times. But underneath all that she was a very sweet person. Perhaps sweeter than some other women who might tick all the conventional boxes in terms of how they present themselves.

  ‘Your little story was interesting,’ he went on, looking directly at Marta, ‘because if one had believed it, one might almost have thought it could provide a motive for murder. Murder is not just a horrible, intensely selfish crime, but a difficult one to pull off successfully, so not often indulged in cold blood in the real world. Most murders are hot-blooded, stupid mistakes. A step too far in a violent relationship, a fight that gets out of hand. If you were trying to make such a scenario fit the case of my wife’s death, you would be doing me the compliment of saying that I was a sophisticated and level-headed operator. Cool as a homicidal cucumber. The only problem being that this supposition doesn’t fit the facts. Even though I was married to Poppy, Framley Grange doesn’t pass to me after her death. Because of his desire to keep the place in the family, come what may, her father’s will dictates that it passes to her sister, Araminta – Minty, as she’s known.’

  If Francis were the gasping type, he would have gasped. Having been the prime suspect, Duncan was now – surely – off the hook. As was his daughter, previously Prime Suspect No. 2. The inheritance motive had passed firmly to someone who wasn’t even in the country, let alone the villa. Unless, of course, Duncan was bluffing.

  ‘I see,’ said Marta. ‘If you will excuse us for a moment.’ She turned to her colleagues and there was another rapid Italian pow-wow. Did Marta know whether Duncan spoke the language? With his own rudimentary smattering, Francis certainly felt at a disadvantage, trying to pick up the gist of this fast-flowing exchange but recognizing only a few words, most of which were names. Duncan, Fiona, Ara-minta. Did ragazza mean ‘children’? Or just ‘girl’?

  ‘Thank you for telling us this,’ Marta said, turning back to Duncan. ‘May I ask: does this mean that you will no longer be living at Framley Grange?’

  Duncan looked down and then slowly up again. ‘I fear that it does.’

  ‘Does your sister-in-law – Araminta – have family?’

  ‘She does. Two daughters and a son. And two of them have children of their own. It’s a bit of a dynasty. I expect they will make very good use of that lovely place.’

  ‘And when she dies?’

  ‘It goes to her children. Poppy never having had any.’

  ‘Is there a husband?’

  ‘Minty’s, do you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. Not any more. He was a lot older. Passed on a few years ago. Poor fellow was in rather good shape but had a sudden stroke.’

  ‘So may I ask: is she on her own? Or are there other men in her life?’

  Duncan stalled. It looked as if he really didn’t want to answer this question. ‘This is very personal,’ he replied. ‘About someone who isn’t even here to defend herself.’

  ‘But necessary. Even if she isn’t here, this sister now has a motive.’

  Duncan shrugged, but seemed to accept her point. ‘There are various men, I believe, but Poppy wasn’t always put in the picture. Having lost her much older husband, she prefers younger ones these days.’

  Like her sister, Francis thought. ‘And how old is she now?’ he chipped in. ‘Minty?’

  ‘There were two years between her and Poppy. So sixty-nine, now. Yes.’

  Marta looked down at her notes. ‘And will you be visiting Framley Grange now,’ she asked, ‘on a regular basis, d’you think?’

  ‘No.’

  In the silence that followed Francis realized that Marta Moretti was not just an experienced but an impressive inquisitor. This was an excellent question and she didn’t press home with the obvious follow-up but waited patiently, albeit that the little white eraser at the end of the sharpened blue pencil she held in her right hand was drumming silently against the base of the thumb of her left. ‘As Francis here could tell you,’ Duncan continued, ‘because this came out in one of our writing sessions, there wasn’t a lot of love lost between Poppy and her sister.’

  ‘They didn’t like each other?’ asked Sabatini.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Has this always been true?’

  ‘Certainly as long as I’ve known Poppy.’

  ‘So you are not friends with this Minty?’

  ‘I’ve never met her.’

  Now the gasps were real. Even Francis could feel an involuntary intake of breath.

  ‘She didn’t even come to your wedding?’

  ‘No. Poppy didn’t want her there.’

  ‘And yet you know about her children, and her grandchildren?’

  ‘Of course. Although they didn’t speak, they kept close tabs on each other.’

  Marta nodded, and spoke briefly to her colleagues. Francis guessed she was glossing the ‘kept close tabs’ expression.

  ‘But you may have to meet her now?’

  ‘I may. On the other hand, there is a great deal that lawyers can achie
ve.’

  ‘Gli avvocati possono fare molto,’ Marta translated, to nods from her colleagues.

  ‘Perhaps she will come to the funeral,’ Francis said. ‘People often act in strange ways when their relatives have died.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Sir Duncan, but didn’t add to it. Francis liked his style. He was old school, dry, to the point. You could almost sense the tone of his diplomatic dispatches in the way he answered these questions, at what was, surely, underneath his composed surface, an emotional and difficult time.

  Shortly after that, he was dismissed. Marta asked him to tell his daughter that she would be the next one they would like to interview. Not immediately, though. They would call for her in a few minutes.

  When the ambassador had departed, Francis asked if he should leave too. He felt sure that hard-boiled Marta was perfectly capable of telling him when his presence was no longer required, but then again, he wanted to keep relations with her and her colleagues as cordial as possible. He couldn’t imagine an English DCI inviting an amateur like him to be part of the investigation process, however helpful he was being, so he was trying not to take anything for granted.

  But no, if he was happy to stay, Moretti insisted, that would be useful. There was another brisk Italian confab, which seemed to bring approval for this position, though Francis, watching their faces carefully, wasn’t sure if this was a unanimous decision. Lorenzo Ricci was casting meaningful looks in his direction, though if he did have an objection to Francis’s presence, it was overruled by both Sabatini and Moretti. Then the four of them veered off into a more general discussion. Francis sat patiently, trying to follow what was going on. It was interesting that Sabatini, having remained silent throughout the interview with Duncan, was now taking a dominant part in the conversation. There was something he wanted Moretti to do, though what that was was infuriatingly beyond Francis’s understanding.