Death at the Duck Pond

by J New

  Reaching out to the nearest bookshelf, Penny gently ran her fingers along the spines. She could tell some of the books were very old and would need careful handling. Others, not so much. Pulling out a paperback with a striking title, she looked at the illustrated cover that depicted the genre. It was a 1950’s pulp fiction mystery, part of a long running series about a Californian private-eye. The series spanned three-dozen novels over forty years, during which the main character remained thirty years of age throughout. Smiling, she replaced the book and pulled out another.

  When Fischer reappeared a while later, Penny had no idea how much time had passed, so engrossed had she been in discovering the delights that lay on the bookshelves surrounding her. As well as classics and historical treasures, she had found Mr Montague’s PhD thesis, as well as celebrity biographies and several trashy romances. And that was only one small section of the shelves which stretched all the way to the ceiling. What she loved about the collection was that it was real, there was no snobbery, or question of books being displayed just for show. They had been read and enjoyed, regardless of their artistic merit.

  “Get off those books, little man, they’re not for climbing on.” Penny shooed Fischer away and straightened up from where she had been kneeling on the floor in the midst of several piles she had started to categorise. Her knees creaked, and she found she had pins and needles in both feet. Wincing, she shook out each leg in turn and massaged her calves until the blood began to flow again.

  The chinking of china made her turn around. Celia had entered, carrying a tray. “I’ve brought you some tea and sandwiches, Penny. Fischer and I have already eaten, and Fischer’s had a run outside, although I’ll join you for a cup of tea, if I may? I believe you’re somewhat of a tea connoisseur, and Mrs Montague kept quite a collection. Lapsang Souchong all right? It has a rather nice smoky pine flavour which I thought you’d enjoy.”

  She set the tray on the desk of the study, and Penny came down the steps from the mezzanine. As well as the china cups and teapot, there was a selection of finger sandwiches made with soft white bread with the crusts cut off.

  “No meat, I know you don’t eat it,” Celia added. “I remembered from the Christmas dinner in the Village Hall, when you had the vegetarian option.”

  Penny was touched. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble, Celia, but thank you. I’ll just go and wash my hands first. I found one of Mrs Montague’s library books, by the way, so I’m sure the others are here somewhere.”

  “That’s good, dear. The nearest bathroom’s just down the hall. Second on the right after the watercolour of Winstoke Castle.”

  Myrtle’s housekeeper was much chirpier than she had been earlier in the day, and Penny paused, wondering whether to risk asking her the burning question. It had been weighing on her mind, but she feared upsetting her again.

  Celia made the decision for her. “What is it, dear?”

  “Mrs Montague left me her library card in the envelope containing the letter she gave to her solicitor last week. I’ve been worried about what it means, and was wondering if you might have any idea?”

  Not even a flicker of surprise registered on Celia’s face at this turn of events. “It means she feared she was going to die, of course. What else could it be?”

  Five

  “’That man will be the death of me.’ Those were her exact words.” Celia’s expression was deadly serious. “And here we are, not a week later, and poor Mrs Montague’s gone. What do you make of that?” The china teacups and saucers rattled as she laid them on top of the gold-leaf-embossed leather inserted in the antique wooden desk, along with silver spoons on each saucer. As well as the sandwiches and a side plate for Penny, she placed a small bowl of sugar cubes and a jug of milk in the centre, before looking up.

  Penny was staring at her, open-mouthed. “Mrs Montague said that? When was this, Celia?”

  Celia nodded, and tilted her head to the side, thinking for a moment or two. “Last weekend. It was Saturday night, I remember because we were watching the celebrity ballroom dancing show on television.” A faint smile crossed her face. “She telephoned, to cast a vote for the newsreader with two left feet. But they got voted out in the dance-off. We didn’t usually watch television together, except for that one show if we were both at home. I don’t think I’ll be able to face it tonight.” She swallowed, rummaging for her tissue again.

  “Who was she talking about, did she say?”

  “That dreadful man next door, I expect. Nick Staines. Do you know him?”

  “Not really. I’ve just seen him around. He’s hard to miss, in that car of his.” Penny couldn’t remember the name of the expensive brand of vehicle that Nick drove, although Edward had explained to her, in revered tones, it was the Holy Grail of sports cars apparently. All she knew was, it was very loud, and Nick drove it like he was in a Grand Prix. The fact that anyone would choose to buy a car costing more than some people’s houses was beyond her, no matter how much money they had to spare. She could think of plenty of ways it could be put to better use, for the wider good.

  Celia wiped her sniffles away and dragged another chair over to the desk. “Off you go to the bathroom, dear. I’ll pour the tea.”

  “Thank you.” Penny headed for the door. When Fischer made a move to follow her, Penny shook her head. “I’ll be back in a minute, Fischer. You stay here with Celia.” He stared at her, ears cocked, before obediently trotting back to the desk, where Celia was waiting with a home-made dog treat and a hug.

  As she wandered down the hallway, Penny’s mind was in a whirl. The interior of the part of the house she found herself in was grand, but not as formal as the reception rooms Mrs Montague had used for entertaining. The walls were painted in a duck-egg blue, and chintz curtains with swags and tails draped the full-length windows. Outside, she could see the gardener driving a golf buggy across the lawn, laden with tools of the trade. Spotting the watercolour painting of Winstoke Castle, moments later she was freshening up in a small traditional bathroom wallpapered in Toile de Joie.

  Penny considered what she knew about Nick Staines. Early forties, she guessed, although there had been debate about his age in the village. Some said his youthful looks weren’t natural and were enhanced by non-surgical procedures. Whether or not that was true she had no idea, but if not, he had either been blessed with good genes or the years had been kind to him. His line of work was something vague, but media-related. As far as anyone could tell it seemed to involve socialising with celebrities in London and having his photograph taken for tabloid newspapers with scantily-clad models. One of the fast set who zoomed around Hampsworthy Downs, she wasn’t sure why he had been so keen to buy the land and build an imposing modern home on it in the first place. By all accounts, he was away more often than he was in residence. What, she wondered, had he done to upset Mrs Montague?

  Celia was dabbing her eyes when Penny returned. “Don’t mind me. You eat your lunch, dear.” She pushed the sandwiches towards Penny. “There’s egg and watercress, cream cheese and celery, and cucumber and tomato. I hope you like them.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. I hope it didn’t delay you from all your other jobs? I know you have a lot to do.”

  Penny selected a finger sandwich, demolishing it in two bites. They were dainty, and she was hungry. She had planned to go home for lunch, but it would have been rude to refuse after Celia had made them. “Mm, these are delicious. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Celia opened her mouth to say something else, then stopped.

  “Tell me about Nick Staines,” Penny said cautiously, taking a sip of her tea. “Why do you think Mrs Montague said what she did?”

  “He was here, last Saturday afternoon.” Celia was hesitant. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, but there were raised voices. I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  “Of course.” Penny was solemn. “Go on.�
��

  “There had been one of his parties the night before, and the music was very loud. Some of the guests were out the back, smoking, so those big glass doors of his were open into the garden. The sound carries you know.”

  “I’m sure it does.” It was quiet up on the hill, there being no through road across the Downs. Nick’s house was on the other side of the trees, and whilst it was shielded from direct view of the manor, it wasn’t actually far away as the crow flies.

  “Mrs Montague told me the following morning she had rapped on his front door before breakfast to have a word. A half-naked woman came to the door wearing nothing but a man’s shirt and told her Nick was still in bed.” Celia gave an exaggerated eye-roll. “Can you imagine? The trollop would have had a piece of my tongue, but I expect Myrtle was far too polite.”

  Penny suppressed a smile. Somehow, she didn’t think anything would have shocked Mrs Montague.

  Celia, it appeared, was just getting into her stride. It all came tumbling out, how Nick had come around to the manor later that afternoon, and accused Myrtle of being, amongst other things, ‘a crabby old witch.’ Myrtle had held her own, giving him short shrift about being rude to her in her own home. “Said she was all for people having fun, and if he’d had the courtesy to warn us beforehand, we could have bought earplugs,” Celia added. “And then he had the cheek to say she should sell up, preferably to him, and move away, if she didn’t like it. Quite belligerent, he was, too.”

  “That’s awful. What did Mrs Montague do?”

  “She asked him to leave and said she would call PC Bolton if he didn’t go quietly. Not that old Humphrey Bolton’s much use, if you ask me. Ever since he announced his upcoming retirement he seems to have gone to ground. You’ll find him in the Pig and Fiddle, more often than not. Sooner he hangs up his boots and they get someone worth their salt in the police house, the better.”

  “Oh dear.” Penny didn’t want to say anything negative about PC Bolton, who lived in the police house in the village, but privately she thought Celia was right. He had been of little help when one of the villagers had been murdered a short while before, and it had been her and Mr Kelly who had ended up working with Detective Inspector Monroe to solve the case instead.

  “It’s not the first time Nick Staines upset her, either.” Celia pursed her lips. “She may have stood up to him when he was here, but she was quite flustered when he’d gone. I had to pour her a stiff drink. Every time he’s been home, there’s been something. If you want my opinion, he was wearing her down until she’d had enough, and agreed to his offer to buy the place.”

  “I knew they didn’t get along, but I had no idea things were so bad.” Bad enough to kill her, and be done with it? From what Celia was saying, Penny thought it sounded like Mrs Montague had no intention of caving in to Nick’s demands. A woman in her seventies, in good health, before the incident at the duck pond, her life expectancy was probably good. Maybe Nick ran out of patience.

  There was something else Penny didn’t understand. “Why does he want this place so badly, anyway? I mean, it’s very imposing, of course, but I didn’t think it would be Nick’s style.”

  “Luxury apartments,” Celia said with a knowing look, her eyes wide. “Mr Jebb at the Planning Office told Mrs Montague he received a preliminary enquiry for an agreement in principle to build apartments on part of Nick’s land next door. Had she been alive, Mrs Montague would have objected to any formal planning application, of course.”

  “Ah, that makes more sense.” Penny was starting to see the bigger picture. If Nick owned Mrs Montague’s land, not only would there be no-one to object to new apartments on Nick’s property, he would be free to develop the rest of the land as well. She was aware of other stately homes further afield that had been converted into apartments and sold for prices way beyond the reach of most local residents of The Downs. If she were a betting person, she would have wagered that the people in Nick’s circle were just the sort who would snap them up.

  “More tea, Celia?” She reached for the teapot and topped up Celia’s cup. The longer she could keep her talking and the more background information she could garner, the better.

  “Thank you, Penny. Mrs Montague told me her solicitor was dealing with it, that’s all I know.” Celia added a drop of milk to her teacup, and a sugar lump, before stirring.

  Thinking back to her meeting with Mr Hawkins, Penny had not got any indication he thought there was anything untoward about Myrtle’s death. “Celia, this is important. Did Mrs Montague ever say that Nick had threatened her, or anything like that? I realise it’s a serious allegation, and I don’t want to put words in your mouth, but I’m just wondering if he crossed a line.”

  Celia sighed. “Not that I know of. He’s a bully, I saw and heard that for myself. If there was anything more to it, I don’t think Myrtle would have shared it with me in any case. She was my employer after all, although we got on very well. I thought the world of her.” Her eyes welled up again. “I can’t help blaming myself. If I’d raised the alarm sooner, maybe she could have been saved.”

  “There’s nothing you could have done.” Penny reached over and squeezed Celia’s hand, the remaining sandwiches forgotten about. “Don’t even think that. I’m sure Mrs Montague wouldn’t want you to.”

  “I wasn’t home until after ten that evening. I’d been at the cinema with my sister to see the Hollywood musical everyone’s been talking about,” Celia went on, choking back a sob. “I locked the door, thinking Myrtle was already home from her walk. I didn’t hear her make her cocoa for bed, but then I don’t always. My rooms are on the other side of the house, so unless I’m downstairs I wouldn’t.” Her eyes implored Penny. “Why didn’t I check if she was home? I keep asking myself that, over and over.”

  “Ssh, you mustn’t think that,” Penny soothed. “There’s nothing anyone could have done.” Another thought occurred to her. “I saw Mrs Montague on her way to The Pig and Fiddle, and she said she was meeting someone later that evening. Did she mention to you who it was, by any chance?”

  Celia shook her head. “No, not a word, just that I shouldn’t make dinner as she was eating out. Do you think you and Fischer can help find out who killed her, the way you did with Julia Wargraves’ murder? I do hope so, so she can rest in peace.”

  Fischer whined at the sound of his name, and Penny gave Celia a sad smile. “We don’t know for sure if anyone did kill her,” she whispered. “But rest assured, Celia, I’m going to make it a priority to find out.”

  Six

  Penny peered around the door of the kitchen, and saw Celia washing pots and pans, her arms elbow-deep in a sink of soapy water. “I’m going to call it a day, Celia, but I’ll be back on Monday evening, if that’s all right?”

  Celia turned and smiled. “How did you get on?”

  “I made a good start.” Penny was pleased with her progress, having catalogued several rows of books, and sorted them into piles. There was one for the library van, another for the local schools and Further Education college in Winstoke, and the smallest pile contained several first editions and collector’s items she thought may be of interest to the British Library. Their policy on potential donations meant she would need to contact them to check if the items were a good fit with their collection. And sometimes, conservation and storage costs meant that they declined offers even when it was material they did not hold.

  “You come back any time, my dear. You’re no trouble and Fischer’s a delight to have around the place. I’m expecting Master Milo will have arrived by Monday, but I’m sure you won’t be in his way either. You’re carrying out his mother’s wishes, after all.” Celia pulled her hands out of the sink and wiped them on a towel. “Any plans for tonight? I hope Edward is taking you somewhere nice.”

  “I’m cooking him dinner.” Almost as though she was apologising for Edward, Penny added, “We don’t go out much.”

>   Celia tutted. “Lovely woman like you, deserves to be treated like a queen. I hope he knows that.”

  “I think he needs a reminder. I’ll tell him you said so. Bye, Celia.”

  Celia’s words had struck a chord, and on the way to the van, Penny mulled them over. It wasn’t that she was unhappy in her relationship with Edward, but they were stuck in a bit of a rut. An ambitious man, it seemed to her as though he gave his work his all, and there wasn’t much left for her. She loved her job too, but she didn’t prioritise it over the people she cared for the most. Which was why she needed to hurry, if she was to get to Winstoke and back before Edward arrived.

  Darkness was falling, and her pace quickened. It was a grey, damp afternoon, dreech, as her Scottish grandmother would have said. As a child, Penny had spent many happy summer holidays with her on the Isle of Bute when she was alive, and remembered the local terms with fondness.

  Fischer, running ahead, let out a sharp yelp as she approached the van, fumbling in her bag for her keys.

  “What the… “ A silhouette appeared from nowhere, startling Penny. “Stupid mutt,” the man said, raising his foot in the direction of Fischer’s tail.

  “Hey! Don’t you dare!” she shouted, just in time for Fischer to dart out of the way. “Stop that. What do you think you’re doing?”

  James, the gardener, faced her with a scowl. “Thought it was going to bite me. Didn’t see you there. You should have him on a lead.” He stomped off, muttering under his breath, leaving Penny to stare after him in shocked surprise.

  She scooped Fischer up and carried him the rest of the way to the van, stroking his fur. “Are you okay, Fish Face? Don’t listen to that horrible man, and if you see him again, stay out of his way. Got it?”

  Fischer let out a tiny whine in response.

  They climbed in. “I’m just going to call ahead to the Police Station, Fischer, and let them know we’re coming.” She scrolled through the list of contacts on her phone. Inspector Monroe’s mobile phone number was saved on the device from their previous investigation, and she considered calling him direct, but plumped for contacting the switchboard to start with. “If Inspector Monroe’s not at the station, then I’ll call his mobile. How does that sound?” She looked across at Fischer, who was staring at her with wide eyes and a cheeky grin. “Good, I’m glad you agree.”