The Seven Stars

by Anthea Fraser

  Please let him be there! she thought, surprised by her urgency.

  The phone rang for quite a while, then Andrew’s voice said in her ear, ‘Hello?’

  A wave of relief flooded her. ‘Andrew, it’s me.’

  ‘Helen! Hello! How are things going?’

  ‘All right. Very well, in fact; the course is fascinating. What about you?’

  ‘I’m coping.’

  ‘What did you have for supper?’

  ‘Shepherd’s pie from the freezer. It was very good.’

  So he wasn’t existing on cornflakes, as she’d half-expected. ‘Are you coming back at the weekend?’ he was asking.

  ‘No, I told you, I’m staying up here.’

  ‘I thought you might be phoning to say you’d changed your mind.’

  There was a short silence, and she realised sadly that they didn’t know what to say to each other. She wanted to tell him she missed him, which was true, but she’d not had time to think over their problems, and daren’t ask if he had.

  ‘I’d better go, my money’s running out.’

  ‘Take care, love.’

  ‘You too. See you soon.’

  Helen rang off and stood for a moment in the silent corridor. Now the urgency had passed, she was wondering why, when she’d resolved not to phone Andrew, she had just done so. And reluctantly admitted the reason. It was because she’d suddenly needed to speak to someone who had no connection with this place, where she was becoming less and less comfortable.

  Lost in thought, she walked out of the corridor and came face to face with Terry Pike. He looked startled. ‘I thought you’d gone to bed. What are you doing, creeping about down here?’

  Helen felt her face flame with anger. ‘If it’s any of your business, I was phoning my husband,’ she said stiffly.

  He made a small, apologetic gesture and started to speak but she turned abruptly away and went up the stairs to her room.

  8

  Helen was relieved that Terry Pike had finished his breakfast and left by the time she reached the garden room. Michael Saxton, at his usual table, had a small radio beside him, turned down low.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he greeted her. ‘I’m waiting for the overnight cricket score.’

  ‘Then turn it up so I can hear,’ she invited, and he smilingly complied. Though not interested in cricket, she’d no wish this morning for uninterrupted musing, and was glad of the distraction.

  Stella came in with the coffeepot and filled Helen’s cup. ‘I’m hearing this in stereo,’ she remarked, nodding at the radio. ‘Gordon has it on in the kitchen.’

  From across the room came the announcer’s voice introducing the sports report and they all paused to listen. The England team was not faring well, and Michael muttered darkly under his breath as it came to an end.

  ‘And now here’s a summary of the news,’ the radio continued. ‘Reports are coming in that a break-in has taken place at Buckhurst Grange in Broadshire, the home of Lord and Lady Cleverley. It is believed that someone was seriously injured but no fuller details are yet available.

  ‘The Prime Minister —’

  Michael switched off the radio as Stella, murmuring something about toast, left the room. ‘These break-ins are getting beyond a joke,’ he commented. ‘It’s the first time anyone’s been hurt.’

  ‘Where exactly is Buckhurst Grange?’ Helen inquired, her mind going to Andrew.

  ‘Between Shillingham and Broadminster. It was in the news a couple of years ago, during its tercentenary. The Post Office did a commemorative issue of stamps, if you remember?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ Helen said.

  ‘Well, Broadshire’s got off lightly so far in the Stately Homes stakes, but they seem to be stepping up now. Perhaps it’s to make up for the botched job at Beckworth the other night.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Oh, they broke in but somehow triggered the alarm and had to leave p.d.q. Escaped over the wall, apparently, as police cars came up the drive.’

  ‘What with that and the Randall Tovey business,’ Helen commented, ‘the local police are being kept on their toes.’

  *

  With which sentiment Webb would have concurred. On this cold January morning he was standing on the terrace of Buckhurst Grange, his coat collar turned up and his hands deep in his pockets, watching the SOCOs at work. The point of entry had been taped and photographed and they were now searching the flowerbeds beneath the terrace in the hope of finding footprints. But for all the signs the gang usually left, Webb thought morosely, they might have dropped in out of the sky.

  The crime hadn’t been discovered till six-thirty that morning, when one of the maids had gone into the library to light the fire. And, in the best detective-fiction tradition, had found a body on the floor.

  Except that it wasn’t a body in the true sense, since His Lordship was still alive; though Webb didn’t fancy his chances after lying severely wounded in a cold room all night. They’d not been able to speak to Lady Cleverley, who’d gone with her husband in the ambulance, but he’d been told the only object that appeared to be missing was a small porcelain figurine. According to the housekeeper, it wasn’t particularly valuable, though it had been a favourite of Lady Cleverley’s. Another of the ‘cheeky’ thefts, then, designed simply to show they could take anything they chose. But one which in this instance had badly misfired.

  Entry had been made through the gun-room window. Webb supposed grimly they were lucky none of the firearms had been taken; they were all in locked cabinets, but that wouldn’t have deterred this lot had they wanted them.

  Sergeant Jackson appeared at Webb’s side, interrupting his reflections.

  ‘The butler says the household went to bed shortly before midnight. He locked up as usual and set the alarm.’

  ‘Any chance he didn’t?’ Webb asked.

  ‘You mean, might he be in on it? Shouldn’t think so. He seems a nice old boy, genuinely shocked by what’s happened and very worried about His Lordship. Blames himself for not hearing anything, but the staff quarters are at the far end of the building.’

  ‘Was anyone else in the house, apart from the Cleverleys and their staff ?’

  ‘Not overnight, but they’d had two tables of bridge during the evening. The guests didn’t leave till gone eleven.’

  ‘We’ll need their names and addresses.’

  ‘I’ve got them here.’ Jackson glanced at his pocket book. ‘Revd and Mrs Arnold Stokes, General and Mrs Laxby and Mr and Mrs Anthony Silver. He’s a consultant surgeon.’

  He grinned at Webb’s frown. ‘Don’t sound like a dangerous band of cutthroats, do they?’

  ‘I’m getting Regional Crime in, Ken; they’ve got reams on the gang’s MO and we need to confirm they’re behind this — especially since it could well turn into a murder hunt.’

  ‘You don’t think the old boy will pull through?’

  Webb shrugged. ‘A savage blow to the head, when he’s well in his eighties? It’s a wonder the shock alone didn’t kill him.’

  ‘If it was them at Beckworth, it would explain this following on so soon. Like getting back on the horse after a fall.’ He paused. ‘How many do Regional Crime reckon are in the gang?’

  ‘Not more than two or three. No matter where the break-ins take place, the MO’s identical.’

  ‘They’re pretty mobile, then. The furthest north was in Lancashire, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yep, and the furthest east, Cambridge. They’ve taken their time getting to us — it must be two years or more since this started.’

  ‘And in all that time nothing has been recovered,’ Jackson commented. ‘Quite a record, isn’t it?’

  ‘Depends whose side you’re on,’ Webb said acidly.

  ‘Nice if it could be our lot that cracks it.’

  ‘Well, we won’t by standing around here.’ He turned and started walking back along the terrace. ‘I can’t see that much will be gained by interviewing the bridge party,
but we’d better make the gesture. There’s a chance Lord Cleverley might have mentioned meeting someone interested in antiques.’

  ‘What bugs me,’ Jackson said, adjusting his shorter stride to Webb’s, ‘is why they take only one object, when they could get away with a fortune. Granted, what they do take is sometimes worth a king’s ransom, but that ornament — it’s just not worth the risk.’

  ‘I reckon they take the cheaper things for kicks. Probably get no end of fun plotting and planning — Lord knows they’ve got it to a fine art. Not to mention making the police look bloody idiots.’

  ‘But that china figure,’ Jackson persisted. ‘Did they go for it especially, or just pick up something cheap and cheerful when they got there?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Ken,’ Webb said heavily, ‘I wish I knew.’ And with a sigh he opened the car door and climbed inside.

  *

  In his office in Steeple Bayliss, Terry Pike sat staring thoughtfully into space. Then he pulled his phone towards him and requested an outside line.

  ‘Pike,’ he said curtly, when a voice answered. ‘That woman I was telling you about: it seems her husband’s a loss adjuster... I know; the last thing we want is someone queering our pitch... Hunter Stevenson, and his name is Campbell. Could be just coincidence, but check it out, will you, and ring me back?’

  *

  As Webb had anticipated, the bridge players had nothing to contribute but shock and disbelief. The first couple they called on, the retired general and his wife, were in their seventies and old friends of the Cleverleys. They were clearly distressed and Webb was reluctant to press for information. In any event, it was soon clear that they could recall nothing significant being said the previous evening.

  ‘Of course,’ the general added, ‘we’ve discussed these confounded burglaries before. Bertie was naturally anxious, but the feeling was that all possible precautions had been taken. It never entered our heads that even if the worst came to the worst, anyone would be hurt in the process. It’s the most damnable business.’

  ‘Is there any more news?’ Mrs Laxby asked anxiously.

  ‘I’m afraid not, ma’am. His Lordship’s in intensive care and everything possible is being done for him.’

  ‘When you see Marcia — Lady Cleverley — do please tell her that if there’s anything we can do...’ Her voice tailed off.

  ‘Of course.’

  A similar interview took place with the vicar and his wife, who were in the same age bracket, but when they arrived at the Silver house, they found to their surprise that the consultant’s wife was some twenty years younger.

  ‘My husband isn’t in,’ she told them. ‘In fact, he’s at the hospital with Lord Cleverley now. He’s a patient of Anthony’s — that’s how we met.’

  She showed them into her sitting-room and offered them a sherry, which Webb declined.

  ‘We wondered whether Lord Cleverley might have mentioned meeting someone interested in fine art, someone who could have had ulterior motives?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’ She hesitated. ‘How much did they get away with?’

  ‘One china shepherdess,’ Webb said flatly.

  Her eyes widened. ‘That’s all? It was for that that Bertie’s now fighting for his life?’

  ‘You know the ornament, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, quite well. It’s a Nymphenberg — a charming little figure but only of sentimental value. When I admired it, Marcia said they bought it in Vienna on their honeymoon. It could be mistaken for Meissen, I suppose, but not by anyone with specialist knowledge, which I thought these burglars had.’

  ‘Occasionally, as you might have heard, they take things of little value — for pure devilment, as far as we can see.’

  ‘Are you any nearer to tracking them down?’

  ‘Up to now, they’ve left no clues whatever, but their luck might be running out. We believe it was the same gang that broke into Beckworth House and had to flee empty-handed. Now, there’s the assault on Lord Cleverley, which I’m sure was unpremeditated. With luck it’ll break their nerve, they’ll make more mistakes and then we’ll nab them.’

  ‘The sooner the better,’ she said.

  *

  During the lunch-break at Melbray, Helen was told there was a phone-call for her and found Penelope on the line.

  ‘Sorry for the short notice,’ she apologised, ‘but I’ve managed to get a couple of seats for the rep theatre this evening. Would you like to come?’

  Helen’s spirits soared. ‘Darling, I’d love to.’

  ‘Fine. What time do you finish there?’

  ‘The lecture ends at four-thirty, but what with chat and questions we don’t get away much before five.’

  ‘Well, come along to the uni, and I’ll knock us up some pasta. The show starts at seven. It’s An Inspector Calls.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. See you later.’

  Helen dialled the Seven Stars and made her apologies for dinner, which were received without protest by Kate. At least she wouldn’t have to face them all round the table this evening, Helen thought with relief as she went back to the dining-room.

  *

  On their return to Shillingham, Webb and Jackson stopped off at the General Hospital, which was next to the police station in Carrington Street. Lady Cleverley was at her husband’s bedside and in the corner, trying to be inconspicuous, a uniformed constable also kept vigil.

  At Webb’s request, the elderly lady was brought to a side room, where he and Jackson awaited her. Someone came in with a tray of coffee and they all took a cup.

  ‘Lady Cleverley, I’m so sorry to trouble you at this time, but is there anything at all that you can tell us?’

  She looked at him with wide, haunted eyes. ‘I knew nothing about it, Chief Inspector. That’s what makes it so terrible. All the time Bertie was lying there, badly hurt, I just went on sleeping.’

  ‘Has anyone been to the house recently whom perhaps you didn’t know very well? Someone who might have been planning to rob you?’

  Her face was blank. ‘Was something taken? My mind’s been so full of my husband, I —’

  ‘A little china figure, that’s all.’

  ‘A figure?’

  ‘A shepherdess, from the library mantelpiece.’

  ‘My Nymphenberg?’ She looked totally bewildered. ‘That’s all they took?’

  He nodded. ‘Has anyone suspicious been to the house lately, ma’am?’

  She made an obvious effort to think back. ‘We had a musical evening just before Christmas. Quite a lot of people came to that. But Chief Inspector, if anyone was planning to break in, surely they’d be after something more valuable?’

  There seemed no point in trying to explain the burglars’ foibles and Webb changed the subject.

  ‘Is your husband a sound sleeper?’

  ‘Fairly, for his age. Occasionally, if he’s restless, he goes down and pours himself a whisky.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what happened last night?’

  ‘It might have been, though there was no sign of a drink. Perhaps he went down to get one, then heard a noise from the library.’

  A shadow crossed her face as she visualised the attack. Webb said gently, ‘What was the first thing you knew?’

  ‘When my maid came running early this morning and said he’d been injured.’ She stood up suddenly. ‘I must get back to him. When he comes round, I must be there.’

  He didn’t try to detain her. In the corridor he said to one of the nurses, ‘Isn’t there anyone who could sit with Lady Cleverley?’

  ‘Her son’s on his way; he’s flying back from Brussels and should be here in an hour or so.’

  Webb nodded. There was nothing more he could do here. ‘Fancy a spot of lunch?’ he asked Jackson. It was a rhetorical question.

  *

  Helen enjoyed her evening with her daughter. She had stood chatting in the communal kitchen while Penelope cooked spaghetti, which they’d eaten in her study bedroom, Pen curled
up on the bed and she on the only chair. There was a bottle of Chianti to go with it and fruit salad to follow, and Helen had no regrets for the more sophisticated fare she was missing at the Seven Stars.

  ‘How was the famous Sir Clifford?’ Penelope inquired.

  ‘Very charming and helpful. I asked him how I could get back into the antique business and he gave me some sound advice.’

  ‘You’re thinking of working full time, then? Good for you. And the digs are OK?’

  Helen hesitated. ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, they’re comfortable enough, and the food’s excellent, but there are — undercurrents.’

  ‘I thought you went back there because the people were interesting?’

  ‘Oh, they’re interesting, all right.’

  ‘Then what do you mean by undercurrents?’

  ‘It’s probably my overactive imagination.’

  ‘Tell.’ Penelope settled back expectantly.

  So Helen related seeing Molly’s headlong flight on her first visit, and later learning she’d been the victim of the hit-and-run — which, according to Michael Saxton, might not have been an accident. And, with a self-deprecating smile, she also told her about the horoscope column and how defensive they all seemed of it.

  Penelope laughed. ‘If I was writing horoscopes, I’d be defensive, too! I bet he gets the mickey taken out of him.’

  ‘But I wasn’t doing that!’ Helen protested. ‘I was only saying that sometimes he must have to fall back on generalities. They all have stock phrases and it’s silly to deny it.’ She paused. ‘What about the rest of it?’

  ‘Well, frankly, Mum, I think you’re overreacting. After all, it was a foggy night and there were no pavements. Just because you saw the girl run out of the house doesn’t mean someone killed her deliberately.’

  Put like that, Helen could scarcely argue. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said meekly.

  Penelope slid off the bed, collected the plates and carried them to the corner basin. ‘Have you heard from Dad?’ she asked as she started to rinse them.

  ‘Yes, I spoke to him yesterday.’

  ‘Is he managing OK?’

  ‘To the manner born.’