by Ann Granger
Zoe appeared in the doorway. It struck Meredith that
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she looked briefly apprehensive before she exclaimed, "Oh, it's you. Come in."
"Sorry to intrude. Is—is anyone with you?"
"No. Rob's stormed off in a bad temper. I suppose I can't blame him. We had a dreadful row. Rob is normally the most easy-going person, but when he does lose his temper, it's really quite frightening. Anyway, he was very rude to me and I wasn't going to stand for that!" She shrugged, dismissing the subject. "I was just going to make coffee, only instant. Would you like some?"
The interior of the trailer was by no means as bad as the exterior suggested. Zoe had done a good deal to make it comfortable. All the same it was a poor place and Eric would never be persuaded this was a suitable place for Zoe to live. Nor, thought Meredith, was it. Eric was right. His trouble was that he was generally right but had problems persuading people of it.
Zoe sat with her feet up on a long seat which probably doubled as her bed, with her back against the wall of a cupboard, nursing the mug of coffee. "I went to that lunch with Schuhmacher. It was a disaster."
"I know," Meredith confessed. "I was in the dining room and heard."
"Then I don't have to explain. Rob was right about Schuhmacher! Do you know what bugs me most? That I'd actually begun to think better of that man and he turned out to be a creep after all!"
"I think you're being unfair, you know. Robin turning up like that threw Eric a bit and you can't be surprised. Eric said things he ought to have saved up to say another time. I'm quite sure he didn't mean to make his offer of a new site for the home depend on a return in personal services! That wasn't his meaning at all!"
"Wasn't it?" Zoe glared at her over her coffee mug. She looked like one of the pugnacious Shetlands in the paddock glaring through its tangled forelock. "Well, it doesn't make any difference now, does it?" Her aggression faded and dejection entered her face, voice and whole manner. "I can't accept his offer of the new site,
not after all that, even if we could have raised the money for stabling somehow. Which is unlikely. I'm having to face it, Meredith. The home is finished. When the lease is up, the animals will all be put down and I—I don't know what I'll do . . ."
"It would be stupid if that happened only because of pride!" countered Meredith vigorously. "Just because you wouldn't go back and say, yes, I'd like to move to the new site."
"I told you, it isn't just because of that. It's because even if we moved, we haven't money for new stables. I've been thinking about Ellen. I suppose I was wrong to expect she might have left us something. But I do think she ought to have done! She knew how badly off we were and she could still have left the bulk of it all to Margie Collins! I mean, it isn't as if Margery will spend the money! It will sit in the bank! I know Margery!" Zoe stared into space. "Life's bloody unfair."
There was no answer to that.
Markby stood in the street as Meredith had done and looked up at the elegant, well-maintained fa?ade of the Fultons' Chelsea house. But now it was early afternoon and, unlike Meredith, he was not alone. For company he had a metropolitan colleague by the name of Chirk.
DI Chirk had just reached forty but looked a few years older. Whereas Eric Schuhmacher represented the type of former athlete who had kept his physique, Chirk represented the other extreme, the man who had largely given up strenuous sports and had gone to seed. He was overweight with heavy shoulders, a bull neck and jowls. His face was red and his hair receding. He had an ill-trimmed moustache. About him hung an air of general disillusion and mistrust towards human kind. If he resembled anyone, he resembled a particular type of nightclub bouncer. And he gave the distinct impression that it would be unwise to argue with him, a suggestion given further credence by a long, black leather jacket of Eastern European type belted round his ample midriff.
.
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Markby was, however, grateful for Chirk's awesome appearance. He suspected that despite the warrant in Chirk's pocket, entry to the house wasn't going to prove easy and as for removing items ...
"Nice place," observed Chirk with a touch of resentment. He rubbed a sausage-like finger over his walrus whiskers and peered over the railings into the basement. "Looks like a separate flat down there."
"Staff probably," said Markby. "I understand there is a Filipino couple in residence."
"Speak English, will they?" asked Chirk as if the greatest number of obstacles was being placed in his path by malign Fate.
"Oh, I should think so. This house, incidentally, belongs to Mrs. Fulton. She already owned it when they married."
"Wish my old lady had owned something, anything!" said Chirk, further incensed by the unjustness of life. "Mind you, we did get her dad's allotment eventually."
"Gardener, are you?" said Markby brightening and pleasurably surprised to find he had something in common with his lugubrious companion.
"Gets me out of the house!" said Chirk meaningfully. "I keep us going with veg from the allotment. Of course that's not my real interest. Dahlias are that. I belong to the Dahlia Club. That's all I grow in our house garden."
"Get much trouble with earwigs?"
"You can't help it. The missus doesn't like cutting the blooms and bringing 'em indoors for fear of earwigs dropping out and running over the table. She's dead scared of creepie-crawlies. is Eileen. Screams blue murder at the sight of a spider. But her uncle, he kept snakes in glass tanks. Had 'em all over the house, even in the bedroom. So she doesn't mind snakes. But insects, any sort, she goes barmy."
"I'd like to see the dahlias," said Markby.
Chirk cheered up for a couple of seconds but then relapsed into his habitual gloom. "Yes, I'd take you if
238 Ann Granger
you had time today. If you come again, we'll make time. Pity."
'Yes, it is. Oh well, let's see how we get on here.'" Markby walked briskly up the steps and beat a loud rat-tat on the door.
Silence followed. Chirk, still leaning over the railing and peering down at the basement, said. "Someone's just taken a gander up at us from down there."'
"When the houseowners are away I expect the staff get nervous. Do you think we look like coppers?" They exchanged furtive glances. "Can't be helped!" said Markby with a sigh.
There was a scrabbling at the front door which opened two inches on a chain to reveal a strip of features, mostly nose and mouth.
"Good afternoon!" said Chirk loudly, stepping forward and, with a professional sleight of hand, producing the warrant and his identity card from his black jacket. "Police. Detective Inspector Chirk. Take a look at the card. Okay? I have a warrant here. We'd like to come in."
"I ask my husband!" said the voice. "You give me paper."
' * You—bring—husband—to—door!'' returned Chirk, speaking even more loudly and slowly than the British normally do when faced with foreigners. He thrust his battered face towards the crack. "I show paper to your husband, savvy?"
The door was slammed shut, just missing his nose.
"Silly bitch!" growled Chirk, starting back.
"Scared." said Markby with some sympathy.
Voices could now be heard on the other side of the
door. The chain chinked and the door opened wide. The
maid had been joined by her husband. They stood side
de blocking the entry and gazing apprehensively at
Chirk and Maris
Chirk displayed his card and warrant again and explained in pidgin English just what it represented. When he'd finished Markby felt that, if he hadn't known al-
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ready, even he would have been at a loss to know what it was.
"Mr. and Mrs. Fulton not at home!" said the husband.
"You will be Raul?" asked Markby cheerfully, anticipating Chirk. He owed this nugget of information to Meredith. "The cook, right?"
The man looked slightly more at ease. "Yes, I am Raul.
I am cook. Mr. and Mrs. Fulton are not at home."
"We know. But we come in." The pattern of speech was catching. Markby mentally checked himself. "We have a warrant, permission, to come in. Do you understand?"
There was a flurry of conversation between the two servants in a tongue quite strange to Markby and which he supposed might be Tagalog. Then they moved reluctantly aside and allowed the two police officers to enter.
"Study," said Markby. "Where is Mr. Fulton's study? The room where Mr. Fulton works." He mimed typing.
More Tagalog. "Come, please!" said the maid, moving off down the hall.
From the corner of his eye, Markby saw Raul edging towards the telephone. "No!" he said firmly. "No telephoning. We all go to Mr. Fulton's study."
The four of them progressed down the hall. At the far end Dolores tapped at a door. Markby and Chirk exchanged startled glances.
The woman opened the door and the sound of slow, inexpert typing could be heard from within. Dolores leaned through the crack. "Gentlemen come from police, seiior. They got paper."
The typing stopped abruptly and a voice uttered a soft exclamation of surprise. The newcomers were equally surprised.
"Thought they weren't at home?" muttered Chirk hoarsely.
"Watch those two!" retorted Markby. He slipped past
Dolores and Raul, threw open the study door wide and strode in, Chirk at his heels.
Victor Merle had risen from the table at which he had obviously been working at an old Remington.
"Good grief, Chief Inspector!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
"We might ask you the same, Dr. Merle!" Markby replied sharply.
Merle flushed but did not lose dignity. He carefully disengaged the sheet of paper from the platen of the Remington. "Just writing a note for Denis. I hadn't realised they were out of town. The staff know me well so I asked if I could just pop along here and write a letter. I don't think there's anything wrong in that. Chief Inspector!"
Markby silently held out his hand. Merle's flushed cheeks deepened in colour. He looked as if he was about to make some sharply worded refusal but then thought better of it. He handed over the half-typed letter and retreated to stand before the marble fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, his head tilted attentively as if Markby were a student about to read out a piece of written work for comment and correction.
Markby scanned the sheet.
"My dear Fulton," it read. "I am sorry to miss you. I do not want us to continue on bad terms, especially as it was all a misunderstanding. If I have offended you, I regret it deeply. But I must insist that on all occasions when I have met with Mrs. Fulton none has been in any way in the nature of a tete-a-tete. As she will in no doubt confirm, she and I have never lunched out together (one cannot count a cup of coffee during a chance encounter at Burlington House), and I am at a loss to comment on the occasions to which you refer. Reference to my diary shows that on two of them I was not even in London and on one I was in America—"
At this point the letter writer had been interrupted by Chirk and Markby. Markby handed the letter to his colleague and glanced round the room. The word processor,
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bane of Denis's life, was set up in the comer, a battery of screens and leads suggesting the Starship Enterprise. All of Markby's Luddite instincts led him to a momentary sympathy with Denis.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Merle," he said politely. "I wonder if you would mind writing out your note by hand?"
Merle had been watching him closely as he read. His expression was no longer offended but wary. Clearly he was working out how to deal with a man who now knew that Merle was seeking to extricate himself from threatened scandal. "Why is that, Chief Inspector?"
"I'm afraid we need to remove the typewriter for a couple of days."
Chirk walked across to the table and picked up the bulky machine. Either Markby's calm air of authority or the ease with which Chirk manhandled the weighty Remington impressed Merle. It also gave him food for thought.
"Quite so..."
"And we'd be obliged if you didn't mention this to anyone."
"Yes, of course."
"Just one little thing," Markby raised his hand holding Merle's original typed letter. "You don't mind if I borrow this?"
Merle was regaining poise and his normal colour. He adjusted his cuffs, the light shining on the gold links. "I have every objection. It has nothing to do with any of your inquiries. It's a private matter and concerns only Fulton, his wife and myself."
"I understand, but possibly you may be wrong. We are interested to know about Mr. Fulton's recent behaviour."
"Then I shall consult a solicitor."
"Why should you do that?"
"Why," asked Merle, smiling thinly, "should you want Fulton's typewriter?"
"Do you think," Markby asked him directly, "that Denis Fulton has been altogether himself lately?"
44 Ah ..." Merle looked thoughtful. "Now that's another matter. I think perhaps Miss Mitchell has already told you what happened here at a recent dinner party?"
44 Yes, she did. Fulton attacked you." Markby eyed Merle curiously. Something had entered his expression, a hint of malicious glee which called to mind Meredith's misgivings about the man. 4 'Perhaps you could show us where the incident took place?"
4 "Certainly." Merle led them from the study, followed by Markby, Chirk bearing the Remington in his arms like a baby and with the two Filipinos sullenly bringing up the rear.
In the dining room Merle indicated the ceremonial daggers on the wall. 44 He threatened me with that one with the filigree handle."
Markby moved towards the display and lifted his hand. But before he could touch it, the maid spoke unexpectedly.
44 You not touch. Mrs. Fulton not let anyone touch. Knife very sharp. I only dust with little brush."
Markby turned to her. 44 How long have you worked here?"
44 Five years." It was the husband, Raul, who spoke now. 44 We have work permit, all in order."
44 Yes, I'm not worried about that. But you were here during Mrs. Fulton's previous marriage? When she was Mrs. Keller?"
They were nodding in unison. 44 Mr. Keller very nice gentleman."
44 And these knives? Do they belong to Mr. Fulton, Mrs. Fulton or were they Mr. Keller's?"
44 Mr. Keller, he collect all things military. Mrs. Fulton, she not like them. She say, nowhere in house, only in here. She say, knives unlucky." Raul pointed at Chirk. "You take away typewriter?"
44 Yes, that's right. I'll give you a receipt."
44 I can telephone Mrs. Fulton now?"
44 When we've left. But I shall be seeing Mr. Fulton."
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44 You tell him it not our fault you come in house and take typewriter?"
"Yes, I'll tell him. And you tell him," Markby smiled genially at Merle, "you tell Mr. Fulton that Dr. Merle was in the house at the time and can verify everything."
Merle gave him a very dirty look. Markby ignored it and moved over to the window, beckoning to the two Filipinos to follow him. There, out of Merle's line of sight, he took a magazine clipping from his pocket.
"Just answer 'yes' or 'no,' understand?" They nodded. "Good. Has this person ever visited this house?"
They stared nervously at the picture in the clipping but both answered quickly, "Yes!" Dolores adding, "Many time."
"Thank you," said Markby, slipping the picture of Eric Schuhmacher he had cut from Springwood Hall's brochure back in his pocket. "We'll be leaving now."
As he walked towards the door, Merle started after him. "Just a moment, Chief Inspector! That letter of mine ... obviously its contents might be misconstrued if any unauthorised person read it! You will be discreet?"
"Rest assured, Dr. Merle."
Merle looked neither assured nor likely to get much rest.
"Yes, I see..." said Superintendent McVeigh. He spread out on his desk the three sheets of paper, the letter received by Ellen
Bryant, the letter sent by Denis Fulton to Paul Danby and the unfinished letter by Merle. "Even to my untutored eye, these all seem to have been typed on the same machine."
"They were, and so was this one." Markby produced another. "It's by me. I tried out the machine when we got it back to the office. And I've had an expert look it over. He says all the letters were typed on it. It's a very old machine and several letters are distinctively worn. If you look, you'll notice the s,t,n,e and r. And alignment is out. The full stop drops below the line and the 4 and
dollar sign are slightly above it. Denis doesn't like his new word processor. His wife told Miss Mitchell so and he tells anyone who cares to listen. For short letters he obviously still turns to his trusty old Remington/'
"And you believe he wrote this to lure Ellen Bryant to a meeting in the cellars where he killed her with a knife filched earlier from the hotel kitchens, taking only a matter of minutes to commit the crime?"
"He could have done it. He was absent from the drinks party on the lawn for a few minutes at least once. Miss Mitchell noticed. And in the general crowd and confusion, he had ample opportunity to slip away more than once. It was quick kill. He could have been lurking in the recess by the wine racks waiting for Ellen. She walked in and before she had time to realise it, he jumped out and—" Markby made a graphic gesture.
"Hmn. So what do you want to do?"
"I want to bring him in and hold him for twenty-four hours. I'm sure he can tell us more. I believe he'll crack. He's edgy. Scared."
"You're more likely to find his solicitor there within the hour, protesting his client's right to silence!" growled McVeigh. "And he is a well-known personality. The press will get hold of it."
Markby leaned forward. "He had motive. Ellen Bryant could have exposed him as a bigamist. She was blackmailing him. He admits it. We have their marriage certificate. We have the letter written on his typewriter. He's a panicky chap, given to sudden outbursts. He attacked Dr. Merle with a knife because he thought Merle was having an affair with Leah Fulton. Denis is passionately in love with Leah. But he's got a chip on his shoulder the size of a pit-prop. There is nothing he wouldn't do to save his marriage—his second marriage, I mean, calling it that for the want of anything else even though it was—is—bigamous. I mean, he's a widower now. But the marriage to Leah is invalid. Also his public reputation would be shot to pieces if it were known he was a bigamist. No more TV shows. No more invitations
