‘What can I get you?’ Sir Clifford asked, seeing her to a chair and propping his silver-topped cane against the wall.
‘Dry sherry, please.’
As he went to the bar, Helen rapidly reviewed the points she wanted to raise, but first he’d a few questions for her.
‘Forgive me if I don’t remember your name,’ he said, placing two glasses on the table and sitting down opposite her. ‘Put it down to advancing decrepitude.’
‘Not at all — how could you remember, when you give so many lectures? I’m Helen Campbell.’
‘Delighted to meet you.’ He shook her hand across the table with old-world courtesy. ‘And are you enjoying the course?’
‘Enormously. In fact, that’s why I wanted your advice.’ She quickly sketched in her background in the antique business and her hopes for resuming work.
‘Well, my dear, it depends how much time you want to devote to it. You could take a year’s course at the Courtauld Institute, but possibly in the first instance your best step might be to find employment at a local auction house, if there’s one near you. Where do you live?’
‘In Hampshire — not far from Winchester.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem, then. Basically, what you need to do is study catalogues, walk round the sales and see how they’re laid out, check on prices and get used to handling objects. Then, if you want to go further and qualify as a valuer and auctioneer, you could take the courses set by the Association of Fine Art, Valuers and Auctioneers.’
‘Thank you — that’s a great help.’
He reached in the breast pocket of his waistcoat and extracted a small gold-edged card. ‘And if I can be of assistance at any time, do please telephone.’
She thanked him again. He nodded and took another sip of his sherry. ‘You’ve come from quite a distance; how did you hear of this course?’
‘My daughter’s at university in Steeple Bayliss. I saw it advertised when I brought her back at the beginning of term.’
‘A pity it’s not residential this year, but I gather they’re doing great things upstairs — putting in more bathrooms and generally modernising the place. Did you manage to find somewhere reasonable to stay?’
‘Yes, I’m at the Seven Stars just along the road. It’s run by two sisters and their husbands, and the food is excellent.’
‘Is anyone else on the course staying there?’
‘No, just two long-term guests and me.’
‘Well, I’m glad you found somewhere suitable. I usually stay at the White Swan in Steeple Bayliss when I’m up this way. It suits me well enough.’
Out in the hall, the gong sounded for lunch. As they both stood up, Sir Clifford said, ‘At the end of this afternoon’s lecture I shall invite the class to come in here for drinks. I like to round off two-day seminars in that way. I do hope you’ll come.’
‘Thank you, I’ll look forward to it.’
As they came out into the hall, Valentine Perry was passing the door and his eyes narrowed on seeing Helen with Sir Clifford. She smiled grimly to herself, then was ashamed for indulging in his own game of one-upmanship. When, therefore, he came and sat beside her in the dining-room, she prepared herself for more unpleasantness. But to her surprise he opened the conversation by stating flatly, ‘You know Gordon Cain.’
‘That’s right,’ she answered guardedly.
‘Well?’
‘No, but I’m staying at his guesthouse.’
‘Ah. Then you also know his brother-in-law.’
‘I’ve met him, yes.’
‘What do you think of him?’
Helen privately decided that whatever her opinion of Nicholas Warren, the last person she’d share it with was Valentine Perry.
‘Very pleasant.’
He shot her a malicious, sideways glance. ‘At least you didn’t say “nice”.’
Helen smiled despite herself. ‘I don’t know him well enough to express an opinion. Why?’
‘I just wondered what your impression was. He’s quite a big name round these parts. His family were landed gentry, don’t you know?’ His tone was deliberately facetious. ‘But to give him his due, he’s a bright lad and he made all the right moves. Liked living in the fast lane, from all accounts, and being an ex-pat suited him down to the ground. Which is why I’m amazed he’s not bored rigid, running a glorified pub in the country.’
Not sure why she was defending Nicholas, Helen nevertheless protested. ‘It’s hardly that, and anyway I gather he hasn’t much to do with it. He does consultancy work which takes him all over the country, so you can hardly say he’s buried himself.’
Perry, who had been eating rapidly during this exchange, took a drink of mineral water and with his next question unexpectedly switched back to Gordon.
‘What did you think of Cain’s article?’
Helen flushed, remembering her brush-off. ‘I’m sorry to say I’ve not had a chance to read it.’
‘You haven’t missed much. You’d do better to read mine, as I said in the first place.’ With which he pushed back his chair and left the table.
Helen gazed after him reflectively. Now what, she wondered, was the point of all that? But whatever lay behind Perry’s questioning, it had succeeded in reviving her own curiosity about the ménage at the Seven Stars.
*
The drinks session at the end of the day was a pleasant occasion. Helen didn’t attempt to approach Sir Clifford; she’d had a private audience at lunch-time and was happy to let others surround him now. Valentine Perry was monopolising him at the moment, but then he did have a column to write.
She had forgotten Gordon’s article until he’d mentioned it; she must try to read it tomorrow, in case Gordon himself referred back to it.
Idly, watching Perry chat to the old man, she thought over his comments. Were the Warrens bored with the life they now led? How had they really adjusted from what sounded like a glamorous lifestyle overseas? Michael Saxton, she remembered, had expressed surprise at Kate’s willingness to settle down. What had made them decide to throw in their lot with the Cains and bury themselves in the country?
‘You’re looking very serious!’ said a smiling voice, and Helen turned to Miss Chalmers.
‘Sorry, I was miles away!’ But only nine or ten, she added privately.
*
It was almost time for dinner when Helen reached the Seven Stars. As always, the evening paper lay on the hall table and curiosity impelled her to pick it up and turn to the horoscopes. This time, ‘Tomorrow’s Birthday’ was not required to get in touch with anyone. He must change it sometimes after all, she thought cynically. Odd, the way everyone had reacted when she’d mentioned the column, as though they were on the defensive. She hadn’t intended to sound sceptical.
‘You’re really hooked on those things, aren’t you?’ said a voice just behind her, and she jumped, turning to see Terry Pike looking at her curiously.
‘Can’t resist them!’ she said lightly. ‘Do you know anyone who can turn the page without reading them?’
‘And what does the future hold today?’ His flat, north-country voice made the query sound more scathing than perhaps he’d intended.
‘I only read “Tomorrow’s Birthday”,’ she said.
‘It’s your birthday tomorrow?’
‘No, but — oh, it’s too complicated to explain.’
He seemed about to pursue the subject, but to Helen’s relief Kate appeared from the direction of the kitchen and summoned them in to dinner.
*
‘I gather you got more than you bargained for at the Randall Tovey do,’ Webb remarked, when Hannah visited him that evening.
‘We certainly did. I felt so sorry for Monica, it put a pall on the whole evening. I suppose they haven’t found the ring?’
‘Not that I’ve heard.’ He poured her a drink.
‘Is there any chance they will?’
He shrugged. ‘Information has been sent to local jewellers. If it does turn
up, it could easily be identified — there are initials and a date inside. God knows why it was taken — it can never be worn in public unless it’s reset. Why did the silly woman take it off, anyway?’
‘One of the claws was raised and would have caught on the towel.’
‘Then she shouldn’t have worn it till she’d had it fixed.’
‘Easy to be wise after the event,’ Hannah said drily. ‘Admittedly she should never have taken her eyes off it, but the fashion floor at Randall Tovey’s is the last place one would expect to have anything stolen.’
‘You know at least some of those women. Any idea who might have taken it? Off the record, naturally.’
Hannah regarded him with horror. ‘I most certainly have not! David, they were —’
‘I know who they were, love. The fact remains, like it or not, that one of them is a thief.’
Hannah said sombrely, ‘And if she’s never caught, we all remain under suspicion. It’s appalling.’
‘Did you go to the cloakroom yourself ?’
She shook her head.
‘Or notice anyone who did?’
‘Not till after the alarm was raised. I was at the far end of the floor most of the time.’ She paused. ‘I hoped whoever had taken it might have hidden it somewhere.’
‘So did John Baker. The place was turned over from top to bottom but there was no sign of it. Never mind, love, it might turn up yet. Stranger things have happened. In the meantime, worrying about it isn’t going to help, so finish your drink and I’ll get you another.’
*
The theft was also the main topic of conversation over the Seven Stars dinner-table.
‘It’s caused a right old hooha,’ Gordon said, with his journalist’s inside knowledge. ‘Especially in view of the clientele. The duchess was there, for heaven’s sake.’
‘The Duchess of Hampshire?’ Helen asked. ‘We’re going to visit her place on Saturday. When did all this happen?’
Kate looked at her in surprise. ‘Last night, haven’t you heard about it? I thought I saw you with the paper.’
‘She only reads the horoscopes,’ Terry said.
There was a small, taut silence, then Stella said quickly, ‘Well, it was all over the front page, with a photograph of the store and police cars outside. Everyone had to be searched! Can you imagine?’
‘How much was the ring worth?’ Kate asked. ‘Does anyone know?’
Gordon shrugged. ‘Ten or twelve thousand, I think. Not megabucks, but enough to turn the insurance company pale.’
‘And there’s already quite a lot of pallor among insurance companies,’ Helen observed.
‘Oh?’ Stella looked at her inquiringly.
‘This Stately Homes business, I mean. My husband’s firm is investigating some of the losses — they’re astronomical.’
‘I suppose they must be,’ Michael agreed. ‘Funny, insurance companies are the last people one feels sorry for, aren’t they?’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Nicholas.
Gordon helped himself to vegetables. ‘Anyway, how was your day, Helen? Were you able to avoid Poisonous Perry?’
‘Actually, he joined me at lunch.’
‘Lucky you! What did he want — to rubbish my work?’
‘No, he was more interested in Nicholas.’
‘My God!’ Nicholas exclaimed in mock horror. ‘What have I ever done to him?’
‘He was saying what an interesting life you’d had in South Africa, and wondering if you found things dull now you’re back here.’
‘Kind of him to be concerned,’ Nicholas said shortly. ‘I hope you told him I haven’t yet succumbed to pipe and slippers?’
‘I said you did consultancy work. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘It is, though what the hell it has to do with Perry escapes me.’
‘He said you were a big name in these parts and your family was “landed gentry”!’
Nicholas held her eye for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘“Landed gentry”? Do people still talk like that? It’s what comes of working for Broadshire Life, I suppose; everyone’s family tree is on file. You’d better watch it, Gordon, old chap, or it might rub off on you.’
The sound of the telephone cut across the conversation. Nicholas and Gordon glanced quickly at their watches, then at each other and for a moment neither of them moved. Both the women had also tensed and Helen, curious, looked at her own watch. It was exactly eight o’clock. Then Nicholas said, ‘I’ll take it,’ and hurried from the room.
Kate, catching Helen’s puzzled eye, said lightly, ‘Why do people always ring during dinner?’ She pushed her chair back. ‘I’ll put his plate in the oven.’
‘Hardly worth it,’ Gordon said. ‘He’ll only be a minute.’
Fleetingly Helen wondered how he knew that, but he was right: in a short space of time Nicholas returned and Kate duly retrieved his plate. What struck Helen as curious was that no one referred to the phone-call. Surely the natural thing would have been for Nicholas to announce who the caller had been, or, failing that, for one of the others to ask?
She shook herself impatiently. She was becoming neurotic about her hosts, looking for mysteries where none existed.
After the meal, Helen went to the television lounge. She wanted some time to herself to reflect over the day, and in particular the advice Sir Clifford had given her. But Terry Pike followed her in, settled himself in one of the deep armchairs and picked up the Radio Times. Helen expected him to switch on the set, but instead he commented, ‘So your husband’s in the insurance business?’
‘Loss adjusting,’ she corrected. ‘Looking into false claims and things like that.’
‘But also, presumably, trying to retrieve lost property?’
‘Of course.’
‘And, as you said, there’s plenty of it about. Which firm is he with?’
‘Hunter Stevenson. Have you heard of them?’
He nodded. ‘He must have his work cut out at the moment. Has he anything to go on?’
She was beginning to resent his probing. ‘Not that I know of,’ she replied dismissively, hoping he’d take the hint.
He did not. ‘Which of the Stately Homes cases is he working on?’
Helen flashed him a brilliant smile. ‘Andrew’s work is confidential,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t discuss it with me except in the most general terms.’
Not quite true, but the nearest she could come to saying ‘Mind your own business.’ She was relieved when Michael joined them and, after asking their permission, switched on the television.
They watched the end of a programme on wildlife, the nine o’clock news and then the regional bulletin. And on this, the main story was the theft at Randall Tovey’s — ‘one of the country’s most famous fashion stores.’
The owner, an attractive woman with fair hair, was shown talking to a reporter and confirming, unwillingly it seemed to Helen, that the Duchess of Hampshire and her daughter Lady Henrietta Wolsley had been among the guests.
There were one or two shots of the window displays and the interior of the store. It looked interesting, Helen thought. Perhaps on the way home she’d stop in Shillingham and pay it a visit.
‘Things certainly happen while you’re in the area,’ Terry Pike commented. ‘First Molly’s accident, now this.’
‘The police aren’t sure it was an accident,’ Michael remarked.
Helen swung her head to look at him. ‘Why?’
He smiled slightly. ‘They don’t confide in me, I’m just repeating what people are saying.’
‘But — what’s the alternative?’
‘Presumably either suicide or murder.’
Helen stared at him, distressing scenes and voices jostling in her head: the girl’s headlong flight and the pursuer calling after her. Then, later, the overheard comment. Was that the voice of her killer, justifying his actions? Had someone followed her out into the fog and run her down?
That voice. She hadn’t
known any of them when she heard it, and even now she couldn’t pin it down. To do so, she’d need to hear each of the four men in turn repeat the words: Well, dammit, I thought she’d gone. God knows how much she heard.
With a wash of horror, Helen realised it might have been one of the two here with her now. But would Terry have referred to the incident, or Michael reported the police’s doubts, if either of them had been involved? Which left Gordon and Nicholas.
In her mind’s eye she saw them at the dining-table, laughing at a joke. Impossible to cast either as a murderer. But then Andrew liked to say not all thieves had striped jumpers and bags marked ‘Swag’ over their shoulders. By the same token, not all killers had twisted lips and a gun sticking out of their pockets. Indeed, it was apparent from newspaper photographs that the most ordinary-looking people could, and did, commit the most heinous of crimes.
‘Helen!’ Michael repeated, more loudly. ‘Are you all right?’ Her eyes refocused. ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
He was looking at her curiously. ‘Talk of Molly’s death always seems to upset you. You didn’t know her, did you?’
‘How could she?’ It was Terry who replied. ‘Molly was killed the night she arrived.’
Was killed. The sinister little phrase repeated itself in her head, but it applied as much to a traffic accident as to a deliberate act. She pushed herself to her feet.
‘I’m rather tired, I think. It’s been quite an eventful day.’ Michael also stood, and after a moment Terry followed suit. She smiled vaguely at them both. ‘Good night.’
‘Good night,’ they chorused, and were still on their feet when she closed the door behind her.
There was no one in the hall. The family must be in their private sitting-room. Helen went slowly up the stairs, her hand on the smooth polished balustrade. And suddenly, halfway up, she felt a great need to speak to Andrew. She paused, then turned and ran back down the stairs and into the corridor where the phone was.
The Seven Stars Page 9
