by Ann Granger
"I am pleased you could come," Schuhmacher said suddenly, leaning across the table. "And I'm sorry Miss Mitchell cannot be with us."
"So is she, but she wanted to go into Oxford to look around the bookshops. She's started collecting early editions of paperback crime novels. You know how it is with collectors!"
They had lunched well and Markby had that sense of well-being and rosy glow that comes from good food, wine, company and pleasant surroundings. "It was very good of you to invite me."
"Well, when you rang to see how we were getting on. it seemed only polite to offer you a decent meal, the more so because on the last occasion you didn't, as I recall, get any dinner!
"But enough of that!" Eric dismissed all matters pertaining to the murder. "My dear friend, I wish to discuss something of a personal nature. I have a great respect for your opinion. I am sure you will tell me the truth. A pity Miss Mitchell is not here to add a woman's viewpoint. However, you are a man who has seen much of human ways so I believe you will not be shocked, at any rate."
Markby contrived to appear outwardly both bland and encouraging but inwardly he was full of surprise mixed with trepidation. Meredith was right!
"I have now made the acquaintance of Miss Foster who runs the Horses' Home." Eric was saying. He was displaying unusually fidgety behaviour, realigning all the flowers in the table vase with scant resard to how the
finished arrangement looked. "Previously all our business had been conducted through third parties. When the child—your niece, of course. I am so very glad she was found. The fellow in the woods, the body, he is identified?''
He made this sudden sideways swoop in the direction of the conversation with a kind of intensity which suggested he was grateful for an excuse to abandon his original line of speech.
"Yes—he turned up in the computer with a string of sex convictions."
"Then he was certainly no loss." Eric paused to glower at the mangled flowers. "Sex turns up all the time in life, doesn't it?"
"Er—yes," Markby agreed cautiously.
Eric gave himself a little shake. "As I was saying, when the child and donkey disappeared, I called at the sanctuary to express my regret. She showed me round. I never saw such dreadful animals and she's devoted to them! I found her charming, not merely pretty but glowing with enthusiasm! She had mud on the end of her nose," added Eric regretfully. "I offered her my handkerchief which she refused and I hadn't the courage to wipe it away myself."
Markby struggled to suppress his reactions. He wished desperately Meredith were there. Eric, in this men's tete-a-tete f showed signs of going completely overboard. Silently he took back everything he'd said to Meredith about women chatting in the powder room! What the dickens was Schuhmacher going to say next?
"She is in fact a remarkable young woman," Eric declared. "And really most attractive—or she would be if it were not for the jeans and Wellington boots. And the awful haircut. Really, one longs ..." He fell silent. An absent expression entered his eyes. His fingers toyed with one of the martyred blooms in the vase.
"To do a Pygmalion?" Markby said with a smile.
"Exactly!" Eric came to. "Take her to a good hairdresser, dress her in some decent clothes—a skirt! I fear
this sounds quite disreputable on my part. I sound like some old roue of the Third Empire scouting around the streets of Paris for an innocent girl to establish. I don't mean it so." He fixed Markby with an earnest gaze. "I have no dishonourable intentions."
"Good Lord, Eric, I never thought you did! You like her. That's not a crime."
"Yes, I—did, do! But she is, I gather, only twenty-four. I am forty-four. It is a big difference in age, do you think?" Schuhmacher looked wistful.
4 'Nonsense. She is a most mature and capable young woman." Markby wondered guiltily if he ought to sound encouraging or not.
"Yes, yes!" Eric, somewhat disconcerting his guest, leaned forward and seized his sleeve. "I have never married, you know. I have always been too busy, always on the move. It is difficult. When I was young I first began in the hotel business because my family was in it. Then I turned out to have some sporting ability so I had a career in sport and then, when that finished, I returned to the hotel business. I have never had time to settle down. Of course in the past there have been occasions when I, you know, especially when I was a sportsman ... you understand?"
"Yes, yes, quite!" said Markby hurriedly, disengaging himself.
"But never seriously. Now, at forty-four, I do not wish to make myself ridiculous."
"You won't, why should you?"
"There is a younger man. Why should she not prefer him?"
"Why not ask her?"
"Hah!" said Eric grimly. He signalled to his head waiter. "A brandy? I have a special bottle, set aside for me. I bought it at auction some time ago. Very rare. You have been married, I think, Alan?"
"Yes," said Markby gloomily. He shook himself. "But don't let me put you off. Every marriage is dif-
ferent. Mine didn't work out, but that doesn't mean a thing."
"You will marry Miss Mitchell one day?"
"That's undecided. I mean, I'm decided, she isn't."
"Modern women," said Eric sadly. "Perhaps Miss Foster also would not wish to give up her independence."
Markby, recalling Zoe's rusting trailer, glanced round the sumptuous dining room. One could be tempted to be cynical. But, on the other hand, he was fairly sure this kind of affluence really wouldn't cut much ice with Zoe Foster. She'd see it as money wasted. Money which should be spent on old horses.
"She's rather keen on those old animals, Eric. Whatever she did, she wouldn't abandon them. Any, er, plan would have to take into account her dedication to the Rest Home."
"One of the small ponies attempted to bite me."
■ They all bite, as far as I can tell. Although my niece tells me it's generally because they've suffered at the hands of men. They don't bite her."
"Suffered at the hands of men," Eric repeated. "And do you think Miss Foster shares this mistrust of men?"
"How," demanded Markby in some exasperation, "should I know? If you want to find out, you'll have to—to make your own inquiries!"
"Yes." Eric sat back as the brandy arrived. "I have invited her to lunch. She has said she'll come. Perhaps I have made a terrible mistake. She will be insulted."
Markby, nursing the glass of tawny liquid and letting the aroma fill his nostrils, said slowly, "Some things aren't found often, Eric. Like this fine old brandy. When you find them it's a mistake to pass them up. At least put in a bid."
Margery Collins let herself into the shop, closed the door behind her and stood still letting her gaze wander around the shelves and racks, the bright stacks of wool, the array of tapestry canvases, the little trays full of rainbow-hued
cotton reels. It was all hers now. She owned Needles.
She had never owned anything substantial in her life before. She'd been brought up by an aunt. Since the age of eighteen she had lived in a rented room in a large house divided into a warren of lettings. She shared a couple of gas burners on the landing with two other people by way of a kitchen, and the bathroom with the whole house. She'd always hated it there, but now she needn't live there any longer.
Margery raised her eyes to the ceiling. She would live upstairs in Ellen's flat and come down every morning to open up the shop, her shop, just as Ellen had done. That was what Ellen had wanted. Mrs. Danby had been right. Ellen had wanted Margery- to have Needles, the flat, even thing, because Margery would understand and appreciate it. and earn' on where Ellen had left off. And the everything included Ellen's secret.
Margery knew now what it was. But she would keep it safe, just as Ellen had known she would. That was why Ellen had entrusted everything to her. Margery would look after it and preserve it as Ellen wanted, running Needles according to Ellen's business ideals, keeping the flat nice—and the secret safe.
At first Margery hadn't liked going upstairs to the flat. It had seemed cold an
d eerie. Sitting there with Mr. Markby going over the books she had felt like the worst kind of intruder.
But no longer. Not since she knew the secret. Now she felt a kind of partnership with Ellen. That was it, a partnership. Ellen had done more than just leave her Needles, she'd made her a partner.
Margery tossed back her hair and set off briskly towards the staircase leading up to the flat above. As she climbed it she was busily making plans. Mrs. Danby foresaw no problems with the will and when probate came through. Margery would be free to re-open Needles. She'd have to get herself properly organised first. She had already given notice to the landlord that she would be leaving the miserable cramped room at the end
of the month. But there was no reason why she shouldn't leave before. It was only a question of clearing the flat of Ellen's things and moving in her own few possessions.
She would keep Ellen's furniture, china and kitchen utensils. She might even keep one or two of Ellen's suits and dresses, because Ellen had bought some beautiful clothes recently. Not worn them, just bought them and hung them in the wardrobe. She'd shown them to Margery and Margery had understood. It wasn't necessary to wear these beautiful things, just to own them was enough. Just to be able to take them from their hangers and smooth the silky material, holding the garments up against you and parade before the mirror. Of course Margery wasn't Ellen and hadn't Ellen's looks, but in such nice clothes anyone, even Margery, would look better.
All this was probably sinful, thought Margery with a start of guilt. Vanity. But she would wear the dresses, put them to good practical use, and not just keep them to gloat over. And what she didn't keep she'd take along to Oxfam. That couldn't be sinful.
Feeling quite a buzz of anticipation Margery put the key to the door at the head of the stairs. To her surprise, without her turning the key and as soon as she touched the lock, the door swung open.
She hesitated, puzzled and feeling a twinge of alarm. She had locked it behind her the last time, she was sure. Had the police been back?
Margery hurried into the flat and stopped with a gasp of dismay.
Everything lay strewn about in unimaginable confusion. Drawers had been tipped out on the floor and their contents scattered far and wide. The desk had been forced open, the wood around the lock splintered, the pigeonholes gaping empty. Books had been tumbled from their case, the records taken from their sleeves. The chair seats had been wrenched out and the carpet rolled back.
She ran into the bedroom. The same confusion. The mattress taken from the bed and left propped against a wall. All the clothes, both workaday and the beautiful new designer labels, had been pulled from the wardrobe and tossed down like so many worthless rags, defiled. Margery gazed at them in horror knowing she would never be able to wear them now.
In the kitchen spilled lentils and beans crunched under her feet. A strong aroma of coffee filled the air from the sink into which had been tipped the contents of a Nescafe jar in a pyramid of brown powder. The empty glass jar rolled away across the floor as her foot struck against it.
Had the police done this awful thing? No.
Margery's hand automatically touched her shoulder bag. He'd done it. He'd been here. He wanted this, Ellen's secret, which lay in Margery's bag, burning a hole in it, shrieking out its presence and the danger having it meant to her. She was in no doubt.
He had searched, in increasing desperation. He had failed to find it and if he thought about it, he would realise where it was, who had it, and where he had to go for it. Even now he could be lurking in a doorway opposite the shop, having waited for her to return. He could be crossing the road, climbing the stair, creeping up behind her, his hands outstretched ...
She gave a little shriek and ran back to the living room and the telephone. With trembling fingers and her frightened eyes fixed on the door to the flat, she dialled 999. Terror was in her heart and the sure certainty that he would find her.
She stuttered, "P-police, p-please . . . ! Oh, do come quickly!"
After all, he had already killed Ellen for her secret, hadn't he?
Seventeen
"Eric's got it bad," said Markby into the phone. "You were right."
"You needn't sound so surprised," came Meredith's voice tinnily. "I did warn you."
"Surprised? I'm shell-shocked. To tell you the truth, it was embarrassing. Oh yes, very funny. You may laugh but you haven't spent the last hour listening to Eric's semi-erotic ramblings. It's in no way a joke! He is very serious about it and he's not a green youngster. He's forty-four. What's he going to do if she turns him down? He'll probably go into terminal decline."
"Now who's exaggerating? You can't do anything about it, Alan. It's up to Eric to plead his suit."
"He will. He's invited her to lunch. Lured her in with a ploy about discussing the fate of the old nags' home. If she rejects him, he'll be devastated and if she accepts him, young Harding will have to bite the bullet. Both possibilities make me extremely uneasy."
"Eric didn't like Robin. A rival, I suppose. I know Zoe's going to lunch with Eric. I met her in town and she told me. Poor kid, she wants to make a good impression and she hasn't a penny to spend on herself. She buys her clothes in charity shops."
"Don't worry, if she accepts Eric he'll load her down with Paris fashions."
"She wouldn't want that. That's the trouble, I suppose. I really believe the animals will always mean more to her than any mere human relationship. Clothes are a bit of a nuisance in her view. If you can't muck out horses wearing it, a garment is useless. And you can't
really shovel manure wearing Saint-Laurent, can you?"
"She's not a kid exactly, she's twenty-four and self-supporting. Perhaps she just hasn't had the chance to spend money on herself? Given the serious opportunity, she might surprise us all!" returned Markby, sounding hardbitten and then destroying it by demanding helplessly, "But what on earth was I supposed to say to Eric?"
He sighed when Meredith failed to respond. "It was such a change to hear him talking about something other than the hotel business and the damage done to his investment by the murder! He's dismissed all that to second place now. Eric's a person who gives one hundred and ten per cent effort to whatever is claiming his attention. He must have been a terrifying ice-hockey player. Utterly ruthless! Then it was hotels; now it's love. But he still works by the tactics of the ice-rink. He is a tactician, Eric, but a bruiser, too. No wonder I'm worried and not least because I know I encouraged him. You see the one thing Eric doesn't know how to do is how to accept defeat."
There was still silence from the other end of the telephone line. "Are you still there?" Markby asked. "How was Oxford, find any books?"
"None that I could afford and none exactly what I wanted but it was fun looking. Did you see the Fultons while you were lunching with Eric?"
"No, now you mention it. Perhaps they've gone home."
"I doubt it, not without saying goodbye. Anyway, they're supposed to be staying to support Eric in his hour of need, besides make up their recent rift, I mean the rift between Denis and Leah."
"From all you've told me, Denis is the last person to offer advice to Eric in his present state. I just hope Eric's got all the knives locked away!"
"Now that really isn't funny!" said Meredith.
Nor was it, Markby agreed silently as he hung up. But it wasn't helpful, nor did he have the time to brood over Eric's problem-strewn lovelife. He dismissed it firmly from his mind. He had problems of his own and the last thing he needed was anything further distracting him from tracking down Ellen's killer. He set out briskly on foot for Bamford police station, mulling over the murder as he went.
The way things stood almost anyone who was at Springwood Hall on the day of the gala opening could have done it. To drive in a knife is the action of a few seconds. The letter found in Ellen's flat indicated careful pre-planning, a victim lured by pre-arrangement to her death. The murderer knew exactly where to go to find Ellen and at what time of day. Hence the ne
cessary time for the murder was pared down to the smallest possible turn-round. Into the cellars, plunge in the knife, out again. Neat.
In the general milling about both among the uninvited sightseers and the invited guests as they circulated on the lawn, continually changing position and conversation partners, occasionally getting mixed up with the crowd or popping into the house for a variety of reasons, no one could be ruled out. A few minutes' absence wouldn't have been noticed or, if it had, been thought significant.
The only person he could rule out, thought Markby with a wry grin, was Hope Mapple, since she had had nowhere to hide a knife. But that pre-supposed the murderer carried the knife to the rendez-vous in the cellar. Suppose the knife had been abstracted from the busy kitchens earlier and hidden in the cellars? All the invited guests had been on the tour of the hotel which included both kitchens and cellars. The chef, Richter, and kitchen staff had all been in the kitchens and in sight of one another at the time the murder had taken place. Yes, the knife had been taken earlier.
But if this line of reasoning pointed towards one of the celebrities, then the concentration of attention on
those same celebrities meant that hardly anyone was taking notice of what any one person in the rest of the crowd was doing. And as soon as Hope started running, of course, all eyes were on her.
"Exactly!" muttered Markby as he pushed open the station doors. "So did the murderer know that Hope intended to streak, and approximately at what time, and make corresponding arrangements?"
Or, on the other hand, what about the victim, Ellen? She had certainly known of Hope's plan. Had she sent a message to her killer-to-be, indicating the moment when all eyes would be turned to the streaker so that she and her murderer could meet undisturbed?
It was with this uncomfortable mind-picture, of Ellen writing to indicate the cellars as a meeting place and thereby setting her signature to her own death warrant, that he stepped into the reception area.
