Murder Among Us

by Ann Granger

  "Well, look it, for heaven's sake! Or sound it! One or the other—preferably both!"

  "It's just that I'm not like Bernie or Marcus, I'm not a financial wizard, a go-getter, possessor of a rapier brain at whose approach lesser mortals tremble. I'm just a scribbler about nosh who can't master his own word processor and I feel—"

  Leah leapt up and came over to him. She put her hands on his shoulders and bending down kissed him, her long chestnut hair brushing his cheek, her perfume filling his nostrils and the warmth from her body seeping into his skin. As always, when she touched him like this, he felt he trembled from top to toe. He set down the glass and grabbed her, pulling her down on his lap.

  "I love you," she whispered, twisting her arms round his neck.

  He said desperately, "I love you too, Leah. I love you so much I ache."

  "Margery?" Ellen Bryant paused by a display stand to straighten up a stack of expensive angora wools. "I'm taking this Saturday afternoon off. You can manage in the shop, can't you? This hot weather makes it a slow time. No one thinks about sitting home and knitting when the sun is beating down."

  "Needles" was the name of the shop Ellen ran in Bamford High Street. It catered for home knitters, nee-

  dlecraft workers and dressmakers and Ellen aimed for the best. Nothing in Needles was cheap, but people came from miles around to buy their wool, patterns, trimmings, embroidery silks and all the other bits and pieces associated with nimble fingers.

  Ellen looked complacently around the shop now, a wonderful treasure house glowing with the jewel-like colours of the wools and silks. Just in front of her was a special display in shades of mauves and purples of which she was particularly proud. She was clever at showing things off to their best advantage. She knew how to make the best of her own natural advantages too. Unthinkingly, she straightened her sweater and pushed up its sleeves. Her bangles jingled musically.

  "Oh, yes, Ellen," said Margery Collins quickly. She brushed away a wisp of untidy hair and blinked eagerly at her employer through her large round steel-rimmed spectacles.

  The blatant heroine-worship in Margery's brown eyes would have embarrassed most people but Ellen usually accepted it with amusement and, frankly, as no more than her due. Margery was such a mouse but at least she had the sense to recognise it. Unlike Hope; what a mess that woman was! Hope's reaction towards Ellen had been one of jealousy from the start and it was only to be expected, thought Ellen serenely. However, something about Margery's admiration just now irritated and those devoted brown eyes reminded her of a spaniel.

  4 'Just lock up as usual—and I'll see you on Monday morning!" she said a little sharply.

  "Right you are!" breathed Margery, adding daringly, "I hope you'll have a nice time—wherever it is you're going."

  "I doubt it!" said Ellen brusquely and poor little Margery looked appalled at her own temerity at asking in the first place.

  Ellen lived over the shop. It was a comfortable flat and opening the door to it gave her the same kind of satisfied glow that gazing round her business did. She

  reflected on her good fortune as she climbed the spiral stair. The building was unusual for this area where so much was built in stone. It was timber-framed, black and white, with a jutting upper storey supported by carved corbel heads which grimaced down at passers-by. It was known locally as "the Tudor house." Apart from the church, it was the oldest building in Bamford to survive in anything like its original form and its appearance certainly helped to entice people into the shop.

  She made a decent living from Needles and didn't pay Margie a vastly generous wage. Let's face it, no one else would have employed Margie, so dowdy and without interests in life except the shop and some sort of ultra-strict religious sect she attended on Sundays. Ellen knew she terrorised and exploited her assistant but she salved her conscience with the knowledge that it would all be made up to Margie one day. Not that Margie knew this. It would be a big surprise. But not for a long time yet, let's hope! thought Ellen as she closed the door of her living room.

  She dismissed all thought of Margery Collins. She had, goodness only knew, enough other things to think about. For Ellen was by no means as pleased with life as it appeared and as she had been, say, a year ago. Dissatisfaction had crept in, a tiny worm in the centre of the apple, gnawing away at her peace of mind. She wasn't a woman to do nothing, and so she'd done something . . . convinced at the time it was right and proper and her due. But then it hadn't quite gone as she'd envisaged. Perhaps she ought to have planned things better. The whole business was a damn nuisance. In a way she wished she hadn't started any of it. And there was Hope and her wretched determination to make a scene at Springwood Hall. But Ellen was going to turn up all right that Saturday.However she had her own reasons for it and they had nothing to do with preserving mausoleums of old houses.

  She took the envelope from the letter-rack on the desk and pulled out the slim sheet of paper. She'd read it

  MURDER AMOMQ U5 25

  through so many times it was beginning to get quite grimy. The typewritten message was disagreeably blunt and it was unsigned.

  "We can discuss this better face to face," it read. "It should be possible on Sat at SH. I'll see you there and let you know when there's a chance to slip away for a private chat. I am assuming you'll be there. I really think this opportunity ought not to be missed."

  The tone of the note was a mixture of the informal and the peremptory. "What a nerve!" she muttered. "Ordering me to turn up!"

  However, the writer was keen to maintain a facade of civility. Even so, Ellen wasn't used to people taking that kind of line with her. She always took care to make the running, took pride in doing so. Meeting opposition of any kind had come as quite a shock. Not that she couldn't deal with it.

  "I'll go," muttered Ellen. "Why not?" She crushed the note in her hands and tossed it carelessly towards the wastepaper basket in the corner. It bounced off the rim and unobserved, rolled under the unit housing her music centre. "I'm not scared to spell it out, face to face. I hold all the cards, when all's said and done!"

  Three

  Meredith Mitchell shifted her weight cautiously from one foot to the other. Wearing stiletto heels for drinks on a lawn had perhaps been unwise. Wherever she went, she left a trail of little holes in the soft turf. Not that she wasn't enjoying the occasion. So far she'd enjoyed the day very much. She hoped Alan was enjoying it too, although she fancied that from time to time he looked a little abstracted, as if he had something on his mind. He'd tell her about it when he was ready, no doubt. One of the blessings of their relationship was that each respected the other's essential privacy.

  She lifted her face to let the still-warm rays of early evening sun play on it and the breeze flutter escaping tendrils of her hair. Before her, Springwood Hall's honey-coloured stone glowed in the mellow light and in its setting of manicured lawns and clipped hedges it looked near perfection. She raised her glass in the direction of the old house and said aloud, "Cheers!" Laura Danby said, "I just want to sit down." They had been shown over the entire place by a proud and indefatigable Eric Schuhmacher. They'd opened closets and taken due heed of colour schemes. They'd admired the sauna and the indoor swimming pool housed in the converted coachhouse. They'd been led in a respectful crocodile round the kitchens where the staff had hovered in spotless aprons and hats, obviously anxious to get on with their interrupted work. They'd descended with cries of awe into the wine cellar. Actually, thought Meredith, she hadn't much enjoyed that bit. She'd found the cellars rather chilly.

  MURDER AMOMQ U5 27

  Afterwards they had been served tea. Then they had all retired to the various rooms allotted to them and changed into their evening finery. And here they all were, holding glasses and chatting against a background of trees and flowerbeds, with the promise of a marvellous dinner ahead of them.

  "It is," she said, "a bit like Glyndebourne. All this standing around in gardens in full evening fig at far too early an hour of th
e day. That was a quartet I saw lugging their instruments in just now, wasn't it?"

  "Eric's pulled no punches," Alan admitted.

  "There's a right old mixture of people here," she went on. "That distinguished looking chap is Victor Merle, I know, because I once went to a lecture he gave. I did get a chance to have a word with him when we were being shown round. That balding chap with the expanding turn is, I understand, Denis Fulton. He looks as if he's had a few gourmet meals all right, a few too many!"

  "He pinched Paul's recipe!" said Laura firmly.

  "Don't start that again," Paul said wearily. "He didn't. He borrowed it. And he wrote and asked first if he might. He didn't have to do that. I kept his letter and when we get home I'll hunt it out and show you and perhaps then you'll stop harping on about it."

  "He wrote and asked you but he knew you wouldn't refuse, couldn't really."

  "It's Mrs. Fulton that takes my eye," said Alan Markby, breaking into this beginning of a domestic tiff between his sister and her husband. "I am informed by those who follow the social scene that she was the relict of Marcus Keller, the millionaire. Rather a stunning lady, wouldn't you say?"

  "Marcus Keller to Denis Fulton!" said Laura in tones which implied a dreadful fall from grace. "Denis won't have to sing for his supper nowadays! All right, he may be a frightfully nice chap as Paul insists and I doubt, but frankly, I wouldn't have thought he was her type."

  "Who is ever whose type?" asked her brother mildly.

  Meredith, knowing he was looking at her and the question directed at her, turned away. She studied the glamorous Mrs. Fulton, formerly Keller and before that hadn't there been a first husband? Meredith was apt to get confused about this sort of social tittle-tattle in which she had basically little interest. Anyhow, there Leah Keller Fulton was, slim, elegant and turning all heads.

  Beside his wife Denis looked flustered. Meredith began to concentrate on Mr. Fulton, forgetting Leah. He looked unhappy, even hunted. Was he worrying what to put in his review? He was doing his best to behave as if he were at ease, but he was no actor.

  Leah Fulton, Meredith now noticed, began to move away from the group including her husband to the other side of the lawn where Victor Merle greeted her. She saw the art historian incline his head of beautifully waved silver hair, take Leah's hand and raise it briefly to his lips. To do that kind of thing a man needed real style and assurance and Merle had both. Denis, as if aware that just at the moment he didn't give the impression of having either, looked miserable, observed Meredith. He shuffled about, straightened his bow tie, scrubbed furiously at the sleeve of his jacket as if some mark had appeared on it and glanced doubtfully at his wife and balefully at Merle, as if he would have liked to have followed and listened to their conversation but didn't dare. Eventually he excused himself from his companions and trailed away to join others, still casting occasional unhappy glances at his wife. Meredith wondered what worried him. Leah was presumably circulating in a well-trained way and before long the social Paul Jones executed another change of partners, this time Merle himself crossing the short patch of lawn to join Meredith's group.

  "The house looks remarkably improved," Markby said to him. "I'm impressed by what's been done and I understand you advised Eric on most of the changes. I remember this place as a near ruin."

  "Yes, it's a pleasant old house of its type," Merle

  MURDER AMOMQ U5 29

  replied in his slightly professorial manner. He was no different standing here on a lawn with a drink in his hand to how Meredith remembered him lecturing to a room full of students. Although viewed closer to hand he was perhaps even more of an impressive figure. "But it's not important," the art historian went on. "The architecture is a mishmash of fashionable styles of the time and the architect unknown. I suspect he was a local builder with some knowledge of design and he looked in books for ideas. To see it as an important Victorian residence and wish to preserve it, every brick and stone, as did the Society for Preserving old Bamford or whatever it's called—that was sheer nonsense."

  "Did the society give you a lot of trouble?" Meredith asked.

  "My dear Miss Mitchell, they made a lot of fuss but they never had a case. They wanted a public inquiry but they didn't get one! We had more trouble with the fire service which worried about the open staircase and so forth. They were extraordinarily particular about the safety arrangements but I think we managed to satisfy them in the end. But the historical society? No." Merle's tone became one of contempt. "A bunch of cranks! I just hope that now they've found some other cause to campaign about. I don't care what it is, so long as I don't receive any more correspondence from them!"

  Meredith glanced across the lawn. Neither of the Ful-tons was now to be seen nor, come to that, was Schuh-macher and she wondered if he'd gone to check on his kitchens.

  At this point she became aware of some disturbance. A little way away a small crowd of local sightseers had gathered, kept back behind a barrier. Not much went on around Bamford apart from the occasional fete or jumble sale, and the opening of the hotel and on such a fine day had provided an obvious and popular outing. They'd been there all afternoon, snapping away with their cameras, ooh-ing and ah-ing, but now some new happening had taken their attention. The crowd parted and Meredith

  saw that the TV camera crew had arrived. As one, the assembled special guests straightened up and surreptitiously tidied hair and fixed smiles.

  Zoe Foster and Ellen Bryant, standing together at the back of the crowd, also observed the arrival of the TV crew.

  "This," Ellen said in a low voice, "is where I slip away. And if you've got any sense, Zoe, you'll do the same!"

  "You don't think Hope really will—will do what she said?"

  "Why not? She's crazy enough. But I can do without that kind of publicity for Needles. I don't suppose it's really what you want for your old nags' home. I'm just not going to be around when the cameras start turning and Hope starts streaking!"

  "But we ought to stop her!" exclaimed Zoe anxiously.

  "A tank couldn't stop her."

  Zoe hesitated then took her stand. "I can't leave—it would be like, well, deserting Hope."

  "Rubbish. You've turned up and shown your face, haven't you? As I have? We've done our bit, we're excused. So long—see you around!"

  And Ellen slipped between the nearer bystanders and vanished from sight. Robin Harding appeared in her place.

  "Ellen deserted?"

  "Sort of. I can't blame her. She's worried about bad publicity for her shop. I mean, Needles is a posh sort of shop. Hope won't really do it, will she?"

  He shrugged. "We'll have to wait and see. I haven't seen her for the past ten minutes. Your animals have been quiet this afternoon. Have you got them all doped?"

  "Emma Danby is with them. I've shut the noisiest ones in the barn. Robin, I'm worried sick about it all. I

  don't mean Hope's protest stunt, I mean the rest home, I know it's nothing to do with you—"

  He seized her hand. "See here, we're friends, aren't we? If you've got troubles, we'll share them. Something will turn up, never fear. Old Schuhmacher will relent."

  "Not a chance," said Zoe dismally.

  "Well, in the meantime Ellen isn't going to quit on us! We're all in this together. If my ugly mug and your fair countenance are going to be put before the nation's viewers, to say nothing of a great deal more of our chairperson than most people would care to set eyes on— Ellen is going to be there too. I'm going to find her and drag her back!"

  Robin disappeared into the crowd and Zoe found herself alone again. She could see Charles Grimsby mooching about with scowling visage a few yards away and now he came over.

  "Seen Hope?"

  "No, neither has Robin."

  "I've been looking for her for a quarter of an hour by my watch."

  "Perhaps she's gone home?" suggested Zoe forlornly.

  "We should be so lucky. I'll keep looking and you keep your eyes peeled. It's up to us." He sta
lked grimly away.

  As for Hope.. . where was she? Zoe looked round frantically and thought she caught a glimpse of the Batik print between some shrub conifers. She made her way as unobtrusively as possible in that direction and saw the coloured cloth more clearly. Hope was behind the screen of trees, moving energetically about. Quite possibly she was taking off her clothes and unwrapping the banner. Zoe's heart sank and a paralysis of horror seized her. Hope really was going to do it.

  Zoe snapped back into life. "No, she's not!" she muttered. "I'm going to stop her!"

  She began to walk briskly towards the conifers which were providing Hope Mapple with an alfresco changing

  room but she was too late. The greenery parted and their chairperson emerged, flushed of face and stark naked but for a pair of plimsoles.

  The awful thing was, as far as Zoe was concerned, that Hope just looked so funny. Not shocking, not sexy, not even rude. Just vulgarly comic, like one of those seaside postcards. Even so she began to run towards her, holding her arms outstretched to either side in a vain attempt to shield others from the view and trying to call just loud enough for Hope alone to hear it, "Go back! Don't do it!"

  The first thing to attract Meredith's attention was the shriek, a sort of ululating war-whoop which made everyone's head turn, not only hers. A united gasp went up from the onlookers.

  A grotesque figure had emerged from the spectators who, astounded, had fallen back like the parting waves of the Red Sea to let her through their midst. The figure was undeniably female; the evidence for that was star-tlingly displayed. She was a very large lady, shaped like one of those primitive earth-mother figurines, ample charms flaunted in a wonderful free and proud manner. In her way she was awesome, not beautiful, but to Meredith's eye, magnificent if flawed. She had a great deal of black hair falling about her shoulders and very little else to disguise anything. Nothing else, as far as Meredith could make out.