Design for Murder

by Nancy Buckingham

  “You’d be surprised what can be picked up in a village pub,” Neil said equably. “Would I have discovered in any other way that Sir Robert and Lady Medway had the very dickens of a quarrel on Wednesday morning?”

  “Oh? What about?”

  “Regrettably, the details weren’t forthcoming. Are they in the habit of quarrelling?”

  “I’m not on close enough terms with them to know about that.”

  “But you sounded very surprised. Did Oliver Medway ever discuss his father and stepmother with you?”

  “Not what you’d call discuss, just the odd comment about them from tune to time.”

  “What sort of things did he have to say?”

  I shrugged. “He was a bit tickled at the idea of his father taking a wife more than twenty years younger than himself. He used to make rather coarse jokes about it.

  “But I never heard anything to suggest that she and Sir Robert don’t get along reasonably well. I suppose that explains the curious atmosphere between them after the news of Oliver’s death.”

  “Atmosphere?”

  “They seemed so cold and distant with each other. Not at all as you’d expect a husband and wife to be after hearing such dreadful news. And it doesn’t look,” I continued, “as if their quarrel has been made up, either, because Sir Robert hadn’t said anything to her about my staying on at the Design Studio. It was clearly news to Lady Medway when I mentioned it to her yesterday.”

  “Perhaps,” suggested Neil, “he’s the sort of old-fashioned husband who doesn’t like to discuss business affairs with his wife?’

  “No, I wouldn’t have thought Sir Robert was like that. And besides, Lady Medway was obviously livid at not knowing.”

  After a brief pause, Neil asked, “How did Lady Medway get or with Oliver?”

  “So-so. He used to consider it a huge joke the way his stepmother puts on airs and tries to queen it with the locals. But I doubt if he actually said anything to her face. I don’t really know what Lady Medway thought of him. She was very pleased, though, with the way Oliver redesigned her boudoir and some other rooms at the Hall when she first came here.”

  “And her other stepson, Sebastian? What was their relationship like?”

  “According to Oliver, they don’t like each other much. It’s understandable, I suppose. Sir Robert taking a third wife can’t have pleased Sebastian. He probably lives in fear that she will bear Sir Robert other children. And another son—or a daughter, come to that—in the bloodline, might jeopardize his position somewhat.”

  “Could be.”

  I asked, “How did you come to learn about Sir Robert and Lady Medway having quarrelled that morning? I mean, who was talking about it in the pub?”

  “I’m sorry, Tracy, but I’m not prepared to tell you that.”

  “In which case,” I said frostily, “aren’t you taking a big risk in disclosing even this much information to me?”

  “Why?” He threw me a very stern look. “Do you intend to pass it on to someone else?”

  I flushed, knowing that he meant Tim.

  “There are one or two other bits and pieces we’ve come across that you might be able to comment on,” Neil continued. “For instance, that the stable-hand at Haslop Hall had no great liking for Oliver Medway.”

  “Oliver was a bit withering with him sometimes, that’s all. Billy Moon is an inoffensive old man who never harmed anyone.” Even as I spoke I knew that I’d reacted too swiftly in Billy’s defence, so I added as a counterweight, “He’s an oddball character, and he’s apt to take sudden dislikes to people.”

  “Oh? Who else, for example?”

  I lifted my shoulders to show how totally without significance it was. “Well, for some weird reason he seems anti-Tim Baxter at the moment.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Goodness knows. I can’t imagine Tim’s ever having done anything to upset him.”

  Neil didn’t pursue that, to my relief. Instead, he said, “About the owner of the What-Not Shop ... Mrs. Ursula Kemp. What was Oliver Medway’s attitude towards her?”

  “His liked her, and they seemed to get on well together. Now and again we used to buy things from her shop.”

  “Like the fertility god statuette? Did that come from her, by any chance?”

  “It did, as a matter of fact.”

  “It’s rather unlikely, wouldn’t you say, that Mrs. Kemp would have purchased such an object to put on display in her shop window? More likely she saw it at a sale somewhere and bought it because it was just the sort of thing to amuse her friend Oliver Medway.”

  He was dead right. I said, “So what?”

  “It suggests that they were on close terms. Very close terms, perhaps.”

  “Oh, come off it. Ursula must be nearly fifteen years older than Oliver was.”

  “Would that have prevented her from hoping? She’s an attractive, well-preserved widow. Oliver Medway, by all accounts, was the kind of man that women pursue. Did Ursula Kemp pursue him, d’you imagine?”

  “No, I can’t buy that,” I said emphatically. “And as for Oliver, he found her amusing company.”

  “So he’d drop in there quite often ... to look over her stock and enjoy a bit of chit-chat?”

  “But that’s all it ever was,” I said. “I’m quite positive. You’re not seriously suggesting that Ursula might have killed him?”

  “I’m suggesting nothing. At present she rates no higher as a suspect than a number of other people.”

  “Including me?”

  Neil was unperturbed. “We always have to look for motive, Tracy, as well as opportunity. Now what would your motive have been—assuming it’s true, as you so vehemently insist, that there was no ‘relationship’ between you and Oliver.”

  “I had no motive. I didn’t kill him.”

  “On the other hand,” he suggested, “if you two had been having an affair...”

  “But we weren’t,” I said shrilly. “Why won’t you believe that?”

  “If only I could, Tracy, without the tiny reservation I’m obliged to keep in a corner of my mind.”

  Why wouldn’t he go away and leave me alone, I thought desperately. But first there was something I wanted to know from him.

  “What was the outcome of your interview with Ralph Ebborn?” I asked. “I haven’t heard from Ralph since.”

  “I’m not surprised that he’s keeping a low profile,” Neil commented. “He was a thoroughly chastened man when I’d finished with him.”

  “And Sebastian Medway?”

  “What about Sebastian Medway?”

  “You said he had some explaining to do,” I reminded him.

  “Which he has now done.”

  “So Sebastian is in the clear, just as Ralph said? All the big fuss you made was over nothing.”

  “I didn’t say that he was in the clear,” Neil pointed out. “I merely said that he has given me an explanation for his presence in this area on Wednesday morning. It’s been checked on and—as far as it goes—it holds water. But it doesn’t mean that he couldn’t also have killed his stepbrother.”

  “Then Sebastian is still a suspect?”

  Neil smiled grimly. “You see what I mean about murky waters, Tracy?”

  He had the nerve to suggest that I provide him with coffee once again. And I was weak enough to agree—though I was anxious to see the back of him. Tim and I had planned to go out for the day, taking a picnic lunch, and I’d got things to do before he arrived.

  I hurried with the coffee, and as we were finishing it, Neil said, “Do you take the magazine Cotswold Illustrated?”

  I nodded. “As a regular advertiser, the Design Studio gets sent a voucher copy each month.”

  “Then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to glance at the June issue.”

  “But I haven’t got it here, Neil. It’s at the studio.”

  “I see. Could we go over there now, do you think?”

  “What, now?”

  “It’s rat
her important,” he said. “It won’t take long.”

  I glanced surreptitiously at the kitchen clock. Tim was due in twenty minutes.

  “All right, then,” I agreed grudgingly.

  Outside, it was obvious that Neil expected to drive me to the Coach House. But I didn’t want that, because then he would have to bring me back again and there’d be the danger that he and Tim would meet at the front gate.

  “I’ll take my own car and follow you,” I said, and ad-libbed when Neil looked at me questioningly, “I might decide to stay on at the studio and do a bit of work.”

  To my relief, Neil didn’t hang about at the studio. When I’d found the copy of the magazine he wanted, he riffled through the pages quickly and handed it back to me with a smile.

  “Okay, Tracy, that’s fine. I’ll be seeing you.”

  Chapter 8

  The Coroner’s Court, a small, square room in Gilchester’s municipal offices, was jam-packed. Naturally enough, the violent death of a member of a prominent local family had aroused great interest. Yet the proceedings themselves held no surprises. After a few desultory questions put to the witnesses, Tim and myself, the pathologist, and a police representative, the verdict was murder by person or persons unknown.

  In that stuffy, overcrowded little courtroom, I sat beside Tim and watched the faces around me. Sir Robert Medway, looking desperately ill ... and Lady Medway. Though seated next to her husband, she seemed distant from him in spirit. Was it because the quarrel had been so bitter they’d still not made it up? Or were they both frozen in mutual fear of something that threatened them equally? Did the clue lie in Sebastian, sitting on the other side of his adoptive father, looking thoroughly frightened? Were Sir Robert and Lady Medway aware that the police had been questioning Sebastian and had reservations about his alibi? Could it be that they knew for certain something that the police were only guessing at?

  I swivelled my eyes along the rows. Apart from the Ebborns, the estate staff had kept away—out of deference to Sir Robert’s feelings, no doubt. Grace and Ralph had acknowledged me coolly as we came in. I wished I could justify myself by pointing out that Ralph was wrong in believing that Sebastian’s explanation—whatever it was—had completely cleared him of all suspicion. But that, I felt, would be a breach of Neil’s confidence, so I could only hope that time would heal the rift between us.

  Near the back of the courtroom I picked out Ursula Kemp. She sat bolt upright on the bench, tense, alert to every word that was said. When the murder weapon was produced, she closed her eyes and even at this distance I saw her shudder. The little joke between her and Oliver had tragically misfired.

  The coroner wound up by expressing his sympathy with the bereaved family, and it was all over. There was uncertainty and much shuffling about the order of departure. When we were outside on the steps, Tim said, “Do I see you this evening, Tracy?”

  “I... I’m not sure.”

  Our outing yesterday hadn’t been a success. Quite why, I didn’t know. But somehow the session with Neil had depressed me and I was left feeling uneasy. Around tea time I’d suggested calling it a day. I’d wheeled out the hoary old headache excuse, and Tim had pretended to believe it.

  He seemed to understand that my mood was still fragile.

  “I’ll ring you later on, then,” he said, “and we’ll see how you feel.”

  Our attention was caught by the sound of a fiercely revving engine. A small green car was being jerkily manoeuvred from the mass of vehicles parked on the cobbled forecourt. As we watched, its offside front wing narrowly missed scraping the paintwork of a gleaming new Rover. The driver was Ursula Kemp.

  “The woman must be crazy,” Tim muttered.

  It had struck me, watching Ursula in the courtroom, that Oliver’s friendship must have meant a great deal to her. She didn’t seem to have many friends. I still felt convinced that Oliver had never been her lover—and that Ursula had never wanted him to be—but that didn’t mean she mightn’t have been deeply fond of him.

  At last Ursula got her car disentangled. With an ill-judged swerve, she turned out into the flow of traffic.

  “I can’t imagine why she came here this morning,” Tim remarked, as she drove off along the main road. “It’s just sheer bloody morbid curiosity.”

  “She and Oliver were very good friends,” I remonstrated.

  “For God’s sake, Medway would never have been interested in a woman her age.”

  “You’re like everyone else,” I said bitterly. “You automatically assume that if Oliver was friendly with a woman, there had to be sex between them.” I threw him a dangerous, challenging look.

  Tim didn’t meet my eyes. With a glance at his wristwatch, he said, “I must get back ... I’m in the middle of spraying. Having to come here has taken a big chunk out of my day. I’ll be in touch when you’re in a better mood.”

  As I watched his lanky figure striding off I regretted my snappiness. I was of two minds whether to call him back and apologise.

  A voice behind me, sounding rather pleased, remarked, “You two had a tiff?” I greeted him without enthusiasm.

  “I’m glad I caught you before you left, Tracy. I wanted a chat.”

  “You’re always wanting a chat.”

  Neil’s grin was unamused. “How about a drink? Like me, I expect you could do with one after that courtroom.”

  “I’ve got to get home,” I said. “Anyway, I’m driving.”

  “Just one drink. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  Curiosity won, and we walked together to a nearby pub, the Coach and Horses.

  The lounge bar, ceilinged with oak beams and furnished with high-backed benches, was very crowded. Not at all the place for a confidential conversation. So Neil and I carried our drinks outside to the pub’s garden which backed onto the canal. Two swans were gliding by, and across the water an old man was fishing from some steps. We sat down on a bench beside a buddleia bush that was alive with tortoise-shell butterflies.

  Neil took a long swig of his beer, then set the tankard down on a sawn-off tree stump. “About that anonymous letter, Tracy.”

  “You mean you’ve discovered who sent it?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. But we have discovered an interesting fact. All the words and letters that were used to make up the message had been clipped from the same magazine—last month’s issue of Cotswold Illustrated”

  I stared at him in bewilderment. “For pity’s sake, if you were checking to see if my own copy had been cut up ... that’s crazy. I’d hardly send the police an accusing letter about myself.”

  “From our standpoint, that’s too simplistic a view of human nature,” said Neil with a sigh. “People have been known to do the strangest things. Besides, someone else might have got hold of your copy, so we had to check. Mind you, we don’t actually expect to find the cut-about copy. The sender of that letter is unlikely to have left the evidence lying around for anyone to find.”

  “How do you know which particular magazine was used?” I asked him. “And how can you be sure that all the clippings came from the same issue?”

  Neil looked a bit smug. “We observed that the clipped-out pieces were all on art paper, the sort used for the glossy monthlies. Furthermore, the type faces, whether large or small, roman or italic, were confined to just two styles.”

  “I suppose by ‘we,’ you really mean yourself,” I commented, a trifle acidly.

  “It was, I admit, used rather in the royal sense. So then we got the laboratory to lift the clippings off the sheet of paper they’d been stuck to, so as to see what printing was on the reverse side of them. On one of the larger pieces, there was a little silhouette logo of a man reading a book, and it struck us. .”

  “You, again?”

  “It struck me that this is used regularly to head the book page in Cotswold Illustrated. I sent out for a copy, which confirmed this. But nothing in the current issue seemed to match up with the printing on the cuttings, front and
back. Then it further struck me that probably a back number of the magazine had been used. A young detective-constable was forthwith dispatched to the public library, and lo and behold ... every single clipping could be matched on both sides in last month’s issue.”

  “So what did you do next—that is, apart from coming to look at my copy?”

  “Next we asked the publishers of Cotswold Illustrated, a firm in Gloucester, for a list of postal subscribers and advertisers in the Steeple Haslop area—we had to dig someone out on Saturday afternoon to do that. And in addition, we asked the village store for the names of those customers who have a regular order. As you might expect, the two lists together produced a fairly up-market collection of people. We then set about making discreet enquiries.”

  “And what emerged?”

  “Nothing conclusive, I’m afraid. But then, we hardly expected that. Of those within the inner circle of the murder case, so to speak, we had the following. First, Haslop Hall— an annual postal subscription. When the magazine arrives each month, it is placed on a table in the library and the previous issue removed. The manservant there ... what’s his name?”

  “Grainger.”

  “Yes, Grainger. He was a little coy about it, but eventually admitted that he sends the magazine to his daughter in Canada each month, to keep her in touch with home.”

  “So that copy is ruled out as a possible?”

  “No, that’s the odd thing. Apparently the previous issue wasn’t there when Grainger went to make the usual switch the other day, and he didn’t like to make a point of asking the family about it. He grumbled that he would have to fork out his own money for another copy, when he next goes into Gilchester, because he knows that his daughter is following a series of articles they’re running on Cotswold villages.”

  “So that means ...” I burst out eagerly. But before I could say another word, Neil cut across me, his tone severe.

  “It means this, no more and no less ... just possibly the Haslop Hall copy was the one used to compose the anonymous letter. Beyond that, there’s nothing to go on.”

  “Are you saying that all this investigating of yours hasn’t really helped at all?”