by Ann Granger
"You, you found her, didn't you, the dead woman, I mean." Denis fixed anxious eyes on Meredith's face. "That was a rotten business, rotten for you. Hell of a nasty shock."
"Yes, it was. I was so sorry for Schuhmacher and his staff. All their hard work more or less for nothing. But I didn't actually find her first."
"Oh yes, quite. As to Eric, he's pretty durable. He was a first-class ice-hockey player once, you know, and a fine winter sportsman still. Businesswise he's hard to beat and altogether Eric's a tough nut to crack. He'll recover." Denis sounded envious as he catalogued Schuhmacher's virtues, perhaps comparing the Swiss with himself.
"I thought he seemed a nice man. I hadn't met him before."
"I've known him for years because of his association with the restaurant business and my own interest in food and wine. I like Eric too, of course, and I'm sorry his grand opening was ruined. I didn't mean to sound unsympathetic." Denis rolled his now empty whisky tumbler between his hands. "You're a friend of the investigating officer, aren't you? Markby, he's a good chap, I suppose? Efficient and all that?"
"Very. He'll get to the bottom of it."
"His being there on the spot, fortuitous."
"Not good fortune for him, he was meant to be a guest and enjoying himself!" Meredith said wryly.
"Quite. Has he any idea who did it?" "It's early yet. Anyway, he doesn't confide in me," Meredith said with a touch of asperity.
Denis gave her a dubious look. Obviously he didn't believe this. He seemed disappointed. But that was the worst of being friendly with a police officer. Denis and others probably assumed she must be in the know. She hoped she hadn't been invited along here in the hope she'd entertain the company with titbits of inside information.
4 'Thought you were pretty friendly with Markby!" Denis said.
"Yes, but we don't talk shop when we're together!"
Denis looked suitably rebuffed and went on to another tack. "You know Merle too, don't you?"
This took her by surprise. "Not exactly. I attended one of his lectures once. He remembered me, which I hadn't expected."
"You're an attractive woman," said Denis unexpectedly. "You can bet your life Victor remembered you!" He got up and splashed a refill of whisky into his glass. Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, "Sherry okay? I should have asked you first."
"Fine, thanks, I'm not much of a drinker."
"I hope you like a glass of wine. I've got a Russian wine for us this evening. I'm anxious to get opinions on it."
"That's what we should be buying now, is it?"
"Well, they produce a heck of a lot, variable quality. Truly awful version of champagne-type. But some of their better table wines are very acceptable and now, with opening up to the West and profit no longer a dirty word over there, their producers are very anxious to find export markets. The Georgians are particularly bullish about their prospects. Of course they'll have to settle down and get themselves organised first. I'd say they were worth trying and yes, I'd recommend laying in a few bottles."
"You'll have to tell me which ones." It was remarkable how his manner had changed now he was talking on his own subject, suddenly at ease, affable, humorous. A different man altogether, she thought.
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"I say," said Denis now confidentially. "You don't know anything about computers, do you?"
"A little, not much/'
'This is a word processor I've got. I'm assured it's a state of the art machine and can do just about everything. It's obviously my fault I can't make it do anything. Perhaps I can lure you to my study to take a look at it later. If you could decipher the handbook you'd earn my eternal gratitude."
"I honestly doubt I could help."
Voices were heard again outside including a man's. Denis's cheerful manner disappeared and he scowled. "Merle!" he said dourly.
The door opened. "Here's Victor!" said Leah appearing with an armful of flowers. "He's brought me these, aren't they gorgeous? Meredith, you and Victor have met before, haven't you?"
"Of course, and the last time at that debacle which marked the opening of the new hotel. None of us is likely to forget that day! My dear Miss Mitchell!" Merle executed his elegant bow and kiss-hands routine. "I'll have a small whisky, Denis."
Denis grunted and shambled to the drinks cabinet where he began to make a great clatter among bottles and glasses, back turned to them.
"You've no news concerning the progress of investigations, I suppose?" Merle asked Meredith, setting himself in a chair next to her, smoothing his leonine silver mane and adjusting his cuffs. He was a man who still wore cuff-links, gold ones with diamond chips in them.
"No, but I'm thinking about taking a few days off and going down to Bamford. I have friends there, after all."
There was an almighty crash. "Sorry!' called Denis. "I've broken a glass. Careless of me. It's all right."
"My dear fellow!" Merle rose to his feet in concern. "You've cut yourself, you're bleeding!"
"It's all right, I tell you!" Denis snapped, warding
off help and sympathy. He dragged out his handkerchief and wrapped it round his thumb before realising this would hamper use of his hand. "Excuse me, I'll just go and get a plaster—'' He bolted out of the room.
4 'Poor Denis," said Merle majestically. 44 He lives on his nerves. Very trying for Leah. I suppose I must get my own drink!"
Dinner wasn't a success. Merle lectured them at length about the architectural alterations he had supervised at Springwood Hall. Denis, his thumb bound up in pink sticking plaster, drank the greater part of the wine they were all supposed to be sampling. He grew moodier by the minute and finally fell out with Merle's opinion on the wine when it was given.
"Well I don't think it's bad and I've drunk enough bloody wine in my time!" he said truculently.
Merle twitched an eyebrow. 44 So we see. However, I didn't say it was bad. You're putting words in my mouth. I'm just not a great fancier of these East European wines. How about you, Meredith?"
44 I rather like them. But then I'm sort of used to them, Hungarian ones like Badacsonyi, Egri Bikaver and Tokay and so on," Meredith confessed.
44 Ah yes, you're a much travelled lady, of course!" Merle acknowledged this with a bow over his glass.
44 I shall be recommending this one!" said Denis fiercely, grasping the bottle in question by the neck in a manner which suggested he would have preferred it to be Merle he had by the throat.
4 'You're the connoisseur, Denis!"
44 You needn't sound so patronising about it! I don't know much about art or architecture but I know something about food and drink!"
4 'Denis, darling—"
44 My dear fellow—"
44 My thumb's throbbing! I should have nipped out to the hospital for a tetanus jab. Probably get lockjaw!"
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Denis's resentment, fuelled by alcohol, was settling on any grievance.
"Isn't that necessary only if the cut is caused by a metal blade or got when doing gardening or woodwork?" pontificated Merle genially. "I once injured myself quite severely on rosethorns—''
4 'Who cares about your blasted gardening accidents? I suppose you're an expert on gardening as well as on art and wine?" yelled Denis.
"I'm awfully sorry," interrupted Leah with a placatory smile, "I'm afraid Denis has had a drop too much to drink. Hazard of his profession, I expect. We'll go into the drawing room, shall we, and let Dolores clear away here? Coffee will be ready directly."
"I'm not drunk!" growled Denis as he was bundled along by his wife. "What hazard of profession? I can hold my drink! When have I been found drunk? You tell me—"
"No, darling, of course you're not drunk. But you are just a teeny bit tiddly. You're being awfully rude to Victor."
"That's it! Take his side!" Denis came to an abrupt halt and jerked his arm free with a wild gesture. T might have expected that!"
"Now see here, old chap—" Merle began disastrously.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Merle snapped without it being clear whether it was the slur on his hair-colour or his morals he resented.
"Think I'm blind? Think I don't know what's been going on? You sit there, ogling my wife—"
"Stop it, Denis!" ordered Leah sharply.
He rounded on her. "No, why should I? Afraid Meredith might find out what a two-timer I married? Afraid I might find out? Unless Meredith is blind she'll already have sussed it out for herself, nor am I stupid! Lunches with Lizzie? Lunches with him!"
Denis threw out a hand and pointed accusingly at Merle, the gesture somewhat spoiled by the sticky plaster on his injured thumb.
"You're drunk!" said his wife coldly.
Meredith's heart sank. She was to be obliged to witness a domestic spat and all indications were it was going to be one with embarrassing revelations. Why couldn't they keep it till later?
"Oh, am I?" snarled Denis. "How's this for a bit of drunken logic? It just so happens I met Lizzie in the street the other day and she hasn't had lunch with you since last March! The most she's shared with you is half an hour and a cup of tea at Heal's! Any lunches you've had you've had with him!"
"Rubbish!" Leah's eyes blazed.
"Of course she wasn't with me, hasn't been with me!" Merle declared vigorously. "If you seriously mean to suggest such a thing, you're a fool!"
"Yes, yes, I am a fool, aren't I?" Denis was getting more and more agitated, purple-faced and sweating. "And you've both played me for one! But I'm not quite so thick as you imagined. Okay, Leah, if you weren't with him, where were you and with whom?"
"I'm not going to discuss this now, Denis! Meredith, I'm so sorry about this little scene—"
"Stop apologising for me!" Denis bellowed. "Stop acting the injured innocent! I'm the injured party, dammit!"
"Indeed yes," observed Merle. "But only in so far as you've cut your thumb, Denis. Otherwise I'm afraid it's all in your imagination! Have you thought of having a word with your doctor about these delusions of yours?"
"That does it!"
As bad luck would have it, Denis had fetched up standing by a pair of ceremonial daggers fixed in a wall display. Without warning he whirled round, seized one of them and lunged at the astonished Merle.
"I'll bloody injure you! Go on, get out of my house!"
The blade glittered in the bright electric light as it swished through the air. "Go on," yelled Denis jumping back and forth in a clumsy parody of fencing steps. "Or I'll slice you into ribbons!"
"As it happens, this is my house!" Leah said loudly. "Victor, stay right where you are. Denis, you're just being childish. I think perhaps you ought to go upstairs and lie down. Your behaviour is inexcusable. I can only suppose you're ill."
"My, my behaviour!" Denis appeared about to choke. He spun round to face his wife and the dagger flashed dangerously near to her. She stepped back with an alarmed cry, throwing up her hands.
"Watch out, you idiot!" cried Merle.
Shouting wasn't going to do much good! thought Meredith in exasperation at it all. Denis was going to do some damage with that dagger at any moment, if only to himself. She looked round. Someone, presumably the late Marcus, had been quite a collector of militaria. Also on the wall was a silver-topped swagger stick.
Meredith snatched it off, raised it on high and brought it down with a crack on Denis's forearm.
"Ow!" Denis shrieked and the knife dropped from his fingers to the floor. Meredith stooped and grabbed it.
Silence fell. Denis nursed his arm and glowered at her. "You've probably broken my wrist! Maniac!"
"I'm sorry, but this dagger is very sharp and you wouldn't want to hurt anyone, would you?" Meredith returned reasonably.
Denis's fury and belligerence evaporated. "No— oh—oh, shit!" He turned and stumbled out of the room.
"Thank you, Meredith," said Leah, breathing heavily. "I am sorry, I apologise to both of you. I can't think what's come over Denis. He really isn't a violent man. Victor, you know him. He's been under a lot of stress."
"Quite, quite, Leah my dear. These things happen.
But are you sure you can manage now? Who is in the house besides the maid?"
"Dolores' husband, Raul, our cook. But I can manage. He won't make any more fuss. You saw him ..." She smiled sadly. "Denis isn't good at standing up for himself. What—what you saw just now, that was just a flash in the pan. Over and done."
"Then I think I should be going now. It really is quite late." Merle managed to make it sound as if almost nothing had happened. "But try and get him to see a doctor or take a little holiday."
Outside on the steps when the door had closed behind them Merle paused and asked, "May I give you a lift home, Meredith?"
He actually wore a cloak, a black one which he threw dramatically round his shoulders as he spoke. Standing on the bottom white-washed step, one hand resting on the wrought iron balustrade and light from a street lamp gleaming on his silver hair, he presented a quite extraordinary sight. He was, Meredith realised, quite well aware of it.
Denis really did get it all wrong, she thought in a burst of insight. Leah hasn't been seeing Merle. Victor amused himself with that kiss-hand routine but it was just empty gallantry. He would never compromise himself. Really Victor wasn't interested in women, nor in men either come to that. Only in himself and in things, beautiful things. Houses, paintings or sculpture had meaning for him. People had none.
She shivered, possibly because of the cool evening air and said aloud, "I've got my car, thanks."
Merle had noticed the shiver. "Well, we mustn't stand here while you catch cold!" He glanced up at the first-floor windows of the house they had just quit and an extraordinary expression crossed his face. There was a new sharpness in his eyes and the silver wings of his waved hair stuck up like pointed ears.
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Just for a moment, in his dark cloak, he looked like a great black bat.
"Denis really isn't a bad chap," Merle said. "But not good at coping. Such people often go to extremes. It was interesting, don't you think, that he automatically reached for that knife? It really makes one wonder if he hasn't done something similar before?"
Eight
''There's something wrong with these figures!" said Markby firmly.
"But I don't understand!" protested Margery Collins.
It was Monday afternoon and it was raining, a steady drizzle which beat against the windowpanes of the upstairs flat which had been Ellen's and where Markby sat with Margery at Ellen's dining table. It was chilly in there. Margery, after some hesitation, had made them both coffee in Ellen's kitchen. But she hadn't drunk hers and the steam from it curled into the cold air, growing gradually fainter as the coffee cooled and an unpleasing thick skin formed on it. "It's like sitting at table with the dead!" Margery had said.
Markby had replied he hoped she didn't mean him, which had roused a brief weak smile. But he was inclined to agree with her. The flat resounded with that echoing emptiness which said the owner had gone away for good. A faint smell of damp had invaded it. Dust had settled on the furniture. The welter of papers scattered across the table top only emphasised that this had ceased to be anyone's private home and sanctum. It was now the scene of a post-mortem on a business.
Markby reached out and picked up several bank statements, clipped together.
"Now look, according to these statements Ellen banked increased takings from the shop on several dates during the past eight months. Roughly these dates are every six weeks. The spacing isn't exact but it's near enough to suggest a regular pattern of sorts. The leap in the amount on those dates suggests that the shop wasn't
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just doing well but doing outstandingly well—once every six weeks. Why is the increase in turnover not more evenly spaced out?"
He tapped one entry and Margery peered at it from beneath her untidy fringe
. "This is an increase here of one thousand pounds over the equivalent date last year. And we're supposed to be in the middle of a recession!" Markby stretched out his hand and indicated another stack of papers. "But looking at the corresponding invoices for goods delivered in the period and checking the stock held in the shop as you have so kindly done, well, you can see for yourself that the two sets of figures don't tally.
"According to goods ordered and stock held, the shop was doing no better or worse than average for the time of year. Was it your impression, Margery, that Needles was doing exceptionally well over the past six to eight months? Sales up? Bumper demand for any particular item?"
She shook her head. "No. Summer is a slow time for wools. People start buying in August, looking ahead to the long winter evenings. They think they'll start a tapestry or embroider something or knit a cardigan, you know, looking for a winter hobby. We are expecting a new delivery soon to anticipate that. Or at least, we were. I wrote and asked the suppliers if they could hold off for a bit. I didn't want to cancel it—but I didn't want boxes of stuff arriving just at the moment. I mean, the will's not yet been granted probate and I don't know how I'd pay for it."
"Yes. But going back to the past year. Where did all the extra money Ellen was banking in the name of the shop come from?"
"I don't know, Mr. Markby!" She was becoming agitated. The rain beat more insistently at the window and she threw a hunted glance in that direction. "I had nothing to do with that side of things. I never went to the bank. Ellen took the money there. She banked every day. She didn't believe in keeping money on the premises.
96 Ann Granger
She said, word would get round. I keep telling you she
didn't discuss it with me!"
Markby sighed and began to put all the papers together again. 'Til have to get an expert to cast an eye over them, someone who knows more about business accounts than I do." He meant someone in the regional Fraud Squad, but he didn't want to alarm her even more. "Did Ellen never use the professional services of an accountant 0 "
