Murder By Committee

by Veronica Heley

  ‘And your daughter?’

  He glanced down at his hand, made a fist, stretched out the fingers. Not to avoid her eye, but because this bit was painful. ‘She takes after me in looks. She's almost as anxious and insecure as her mother. She's a home-loving girl who's never really had a home. She devotes herself to looking after her husband and her mother. She married a man who promised to buy back the family house for her and her mother. He's restored it after a fashion, but Anne never got to live there. She's too far gone with the drink, you see. She's in a home now. My daughter pays the bills out of the allowance her husband makes her. I've offered to pay, but she refuses. She won't meet me or even accept birthday presents. She leads an isolated life, has no friends. And her husband does not value her.’

  He examined his fingernails, looking anywhere but at Ellie. Ellie might not be able to read complicated balance sheets, but she could read people, and now she added up this fact and that. And came to a conclusion which surely must be wrong. ‘Felicity is your daughter?’

  He nodded.

  Ellie blinked. If Felicity was Chris Talbot's daughter, had Sir Arthur married her out of spite? Oh, surely not. That would be extremely nasty. Though perhaps not out of character. Ellie shivered.

  She said, ‘You're worried about your daughter?’

  ‘I don't know who poisoned the dog, but someone certainly did. It gives me the shivers to think that Felicity might well have been the person to take the pizza in and eat it. Kingsley had an autopsy done on the dog, and discovered enough sleeping pills to kill a man, let alone a dog.’

  Ellie shook her head. ‘Poison would not be your weapon of choice.’

  ‘No.’ A brief smile.

  ‘But Sir Arthur thinks you did it. What will he do? Poison you? Sue you for damages? He can't prove anything, if you didn't do it. Or … no. He'll try to get back at you in some other way.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  ‘What do you think I can do? Surely the police …?’

  He shook his head. ‘No police.’

  Ellie did her sums again. ‘You don't want the police because you think that your daughter might have been responsible. You think she tried to kill her husband, but got the dog instead?’

  Colour flared in his cheeks. Yes, Felicity was his weak spot. ‘I didn't say so.’

  ‘That's what you're afraid of, isn't it?’

  He tried to laugh. ‘She loved that dog. She was the one who looked after it, groomed it, took it for walks. He regarded the dog as just another disposable asset. He liked to be seen with it because it reflected well on him to own a dog with a good pedigree, especially in the country. The dog was afraid of him, but loved Felicity. And she loved him. She'd never have risked his eating something which might kill him.’

  Ellie thought, You're not entirely sure about that, are you?

  He said, ‘Arthur takes the dog to the country with him at weekends and that's when Felicity goes to see her mother. Arthur came back before Felicity and found the pizza on the doorstep. By the time she returned, it was too late.’

  ‘You know all this because …?’

  ‘There's a woman who goes in to help clean the house. She's on my payroll.’

  Ellie nodded. ‘I didn't think it would be the gardener-cum-driver.’

  ‘He's hired help, not brains. Have you come across Sir Arthur's PA? A man called Martinez? Looks rather like a snake and thinks like one too.’

  She shook her head. ‘Suppose I can't find out who sent the pizza? It sounds as if everyone he ever met would have a motive.’

  ‘When Gwyn said he was arranging for Kate to get some woman detective on the case, I was very doubtful that it would do any good. I agreed to meet you because Kate told me you were good with people. Now I've met you …’

  ‘And tested me?’

  ‘Yes, and tested you, I see she was right. I don't know whether or not you can discover who sent the poisoned pizza, but it occurs to me that you might help Felicity, befriend her. It would relieve my mind a great deal if I knew she could call on someone like you if ever she needs help. Will you do it?’

  Ellie thought of her busy life, of everything she had going on, looking after little Frank, seeing her friends, meeting her friend next week for lunch, worrying about Diana and Aunt Drusilla, and all the problems at church with Roy always wanting more of her company than she had time to give and … and … and … yes, she'd forgotten she'd promised to help serve coffee and tea at the church Autumn Fair on the morrow.

  She stood up. ‘I don't know whether I can help or not. But I will try.’

  Sir Arthur's mobile rang. He noted that it was Martinez calling, excused himself from the restaurant table and took the call in the foyer. What he heard did not please him. ‘That is not what I wanted to hear. Surely you could have found someone who can connect him with the delivery? Oh, very well. No, you've wasted enough time on it. Move on to plan B. Yes, today. But make sure there's no way they can trace-’

  The phone quacked.

  Sir Arthur smiled. ‘That's good. I like that. Let me know when it's done.’

  Mr Talbot's driver delivered Ellie safely back home. Her garden was untouched and Midge was asleep in the conservatory at the back of the house. There was a flurry of mail on the doormat, but no threatening letters. Perhaps she was too insignificant a person for Sir Arthur to bother with. She changed her good suit - she still wasn't sure that lavender was exactly her colour - for a comfortable warm blue skirt and brushed wool shirt. Then she sat down to consult the phone book.

  Ever since Roy had unburdened himself to her last night, Ellie had been worrying about Mrs Anderson, the architect's wife. Ellie knew how difficult it was to cope when your husband died suddenly, and according to Roy, Mr Anderson had killed himself. It didn't sound as if he'd been paid for the work he'd done for Sir Arthur, and Ellie didn't like to think of the poor woman in financial trouble. She found his number, introduced herself as a friend of Roy's and asked if she might pop in for a few minutes on a business matter connected with her husband's work.

  She also phoned her aunt, hoping to kill two birds with one stone. Aunt Drusilla was nippier on the Internet than many half her age, and was delighted to be asked to dig up some dirt - if there were any - on Sir Arthur Kingsley and Chris Talbot.

  That done, Ellie set out to visit Mrs Anderson. Her house was an ordinary 1930s semi-d, but the small garden in front had been landscaped with unusual plants. Ellie was stooping to inspect a shrub she didn't recognize, when the door opened and Mrs Anderson welcomed her inside.

  Ellie had been expecting someone pallid from crying, and neglectful of her appearance, but Mrs Anderson was gorgeous. She was a big, vibrant, thirty-year-old with flashing brown eyes, and a bush of probably dyed blonde hair, dressed in emerald green and black. Possibly there had been some African ancestry a couple of generations back?

  ‘Pretty, isn't it?’ said Mrs Anderson. ‘It's what I do for a living. Garden design and maintenance. Do come in. Mind the kids' bikes.’

  Ellie went in, adjusting her ideas of Mrs Anderson.

  ‘Coffee? I don't, when I'm working, but I've got some herbal tea somewhere. No? It's about the work my husband was doing for Sir Arthur Kingsley? Mind the train set. The children like to play with it as soon as they get home from school, and it's easier to leave it out all the time.’

  The interior was slightly shabby but comfortable, with one or two unusual watercolours on the wall - possibly from the hand of a good amateur. A conservatory had been built on to the back of the house, overlooking a garden rich in interest. The conservatory was fitted up as an office, with computers and printers.

  Ellie apologized for coming. ‘From what Roy told me, I was afraid you might be in trouble after your husband's death, and - I'm doing this very badly - there's a local fund for emergency use …’

  ‘Gracious!’ The girl threw herself back on to the settee, and ran her fingers back through her mop of hair. On the wall above her was a framed co
lour photograph of her, two young children, and a man with fair hair and anxious eyes. Her husband? ‘I wouldn't mind if you paid last quarter's gas bill for me, but, honest, we can manage.’

  ‘Are you sure? Because when I was widowed, I couldn't even work out which day of the week it was. Also, I heard you'd had trouble with Sir Arthur Kingsley, and were pressing his new architect for some money.’

  Mrs Anderson sat upright. She had a decisive manner, and Ellie could well imagine that whatever career she'd chosen, she'd meet with success.

  ‘That wasn't my idea. The new architect sounded nice. Was Sir Arthur putting pressure on him, in order to get money for me? Sweet of him! Not that I'd have seen any of it.’ She studied Ellie. ‘Look, I did blame Sir Arthur for Pete's death, and yes, he was partly responsible, but the account's been settled. If you've got a minute, I'll tell you about it, and you can decide then if you want to pay the gas bill for me or not.’

  Mrs Anderson gestured to the picture on the wall. ‘Pete was a fine architect working for a local practice till he was in a car accident. After that his nerves were shot to pieces and he couldn't work. He lost his job. The finances worried him, so we put the house in my name and I took over paying the bills. Towards the end, everything worried him: the children, their noise, me. Don't get me wrong, we were still good friends, and I'd settled for that, but … well, it was hard sometimes, remembering what he'd been like when we first met.

  ‘Then came the offer of work from Sir Arthur. I think now that Sir Arthur chose Pete because he could get him cheap. At the time Pete was ecstatic. We thought he'd turned the corner, because he was doing really good work, and sticking at it, too. He planned to take us all on holiday to New Zealand. Then everything went wrong. Sir Arthur wanted changes, but whatever alterations Pete made failed to please. He became depressed. The night Sir Arthur told him he wanted yet more changes, Pete walked over to the park and drowned himself in the river.’

  Her face lengthened, her hands clenched. Slowly, in controlled fashion, she spread out her fingers again. ‘I miss him terribly. The kids don't miss him so much. They can't remember him as he used to be, only as he has been the last couple of years. In a way, I'm glad about that.’

  Ellie said, ‘You said you made Sir Arthur pay for it?’

  The girl laughed. ‘It was a bit naughty of me. I registered a website for him, and emailed details of the website to everyone I thought might be interested, anyone who knew him.’

  Ellie began to appreciate the ruse. ‘What did you put on the website?’

  The girl grinned. ‘Caricatures of Sir Arthur's head on animal figures dancing and eating too much, and oh, you know the sort of thing.’

  It was Ellie's turn to laugh. ‘You made him pay you to close down the site? Wasn't he furious? Didn't he threaten you?’

  ‘I suppose he might have done, if so many people hadn't known about the site and been amused by it. As it was, he paid up like a lamb. So I don't expect any more money from him or his new architect, and I really don't need any help with the gas bill.’

  ‘Worth it,’ said Ellie. ‘Give it to me, I'll see it gets paid, and I'll tell the architect that he can forget pleasing Sir Arthur to help you.’

  ‘Trying it on someone else now, is he? It almost makes me wish I'd kept the website.’

  They parted on excellent terms, and Ellie was still smiling when she arrived at her aunt Drusilla's.

  Six

  The large Victorian house which was currently occupied by Miss Drusilla Quicke and Rose actually belonged to Ellie, though few people knew it, and Ellie would never turn the older lady out. Ellie was happy in the three-bedroomed semi-d in which she'd spent nearly all her married life. She was also very fond of her aunt.

  Miss Drusilla Quicke was in her late seventies but still ruled an empire of houses and flats to let. She'd never married but had welcomed the reappearance of her long-lost son Roy. She'd been happy to go into partnership with him to develop a site on the Green, while forming no great opinion of his financial ability. As she'd said to Ellie, ‘Roy sees the broad picture, but is careless about detail.’

  Roy was fond of the ‘old dear', as he called her, but, if the truth be known, was also a trifle afraid of her. It was Roy who'd recently drawn the plans to modernize the large Victorian house; providing separate living quarters for Rose, and converting the old coach house into living quarters and an office for himself.

  This morning Ellie noticed that Roy's car was absent. Had he confessed ‘all' to his mother yet? Or had he shirked it? Ellie liked Roy but was not blind to his faults. He'd probably shirked it.

  She let herself into the big house and went through the hall into the high-ceilinged drawing room at the back. You couldn't describe it as a ‘lounge', because there was no piece of furniture in it made later than 1910. On this fine day, the French windows stood open on to the conservatory beyond, where Aunt Drusilla was leaning on her stick, looking at a plant which Rose was showing her.

  ‘Ah, there you are at last, Ellie,’ said Aunt Drusilla, allowing Ellie to kiss her cheek. ‘Just in time, or Rose would have kept me here to admire every single plant in her conservatory.’

  Ellie laughed and kissed Rose too. ‘A fine example of a Manypeeplia upside-downia, isn't it, Rose?’

  Rose giggled. ‘Many-peep …? Oh, you are funny, Ellie. Where did you get that from? It's a Jerusalem Cherry, Miss Quicke, and it should give us a nice crop of cheerful red berries all through the winter, if only I can keep the whitefly off it. Home-made soup and a ham salad do you both? I'd bring it out here for you to eat, sitting here in the sun - it's been just like summer - but I think Miss Quicke would rather get back to her chair.’

  Ellie knew better than to offer her aunt her arm, but watched anxiously as the elderly lady made her painful way to her highbacked chair by the fireplace. Rose had already laid for lunch on a Queen Anne card table nearby, and now chattered herself away to fetch the soup.

  Ellie held back a wince as Aunt Drusilla carefully lowered herself into her chair.

  ‘Don't pull faces,’ said Miss Quicke. ‘If the wind changes, your face will set like that.’

  Ellie stiffened her back. ‘Someone's got to say it. If you won't go to the doctor's-’

  ‘Silly old fool. I've known him too long to listen to what he says.’

  ‘Then you should see a specialist. Shall I ask my doctor who she'd recommend?’

  ‘Women shouldn't set up as doctors.’

  ‘Come on. There were women practising as doctors before you were born.’

  ‘More fools they. And don't think I don't know you're talking for the sake of talking. What's up with Roy?’

  Ellie hesitated. ‘I think he ought to tell you himself.’

  ‘He's told you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Grimly. ‘He wanted me to pull his irons out of the fire for him. Which I did, more fool me. It's something you'd want to know about, but you may have to bully him a bit to get him to open up.’

  Rose wafted in bowls of soup. ‘Carrot and coriander, with a touch of curry powder. Eat up while it's hot.’

  They ate. Rose was an accomplished cook.

  Ellie said, ‘You're worrying the life out of Rose. She can see you're in pain, and it's upsetting her.’

  ‘I don't pay her to nursemaid me.’

  ‘You invited her to stay as a friend and companion, and she has chosen to cook and housekeep for you. You pay her for that, but she'd still cook and housekeep for you if you didn't pay her a penny.’

  ‘The more fool her.’

  Rose brought in slices of home-cooked ham on plates, plus a bowl of mixed salad stuffs. Her home-made salad dressing was a triumph. Ellie said, ‘Ah, Rose, I wish you could write down the recipe.’

  ‘It's a bit of this and a touch of that. I'm not really sure what goes into it.’

  Rose wafted herself away.

  Miss Quicke pushed her plate aside, uneaten. ‘What you're trying to say is that I'm a selfish old woman, scared of having an o
peration on my hip at my age.’ She waited for Ellie to deny the charge, but Ellie kept her mouth for eating. Miss Quicke said, ‘I'm well over seventy, you know. They don't like operating on people my age.’

  ‘With the heart of a young woman, and the brains of a Nobel Prize winner.’

  Miss Quicke snorted. ‘Brains don't get you a new hip.’

  ‘Money does. Specialists do. Would you like me to make an appointment for you to see someone good?’

  ‘I'm perfectly capable of lifting the phone if I want to make an appointment.’

  ‘Which you will do?’

  ‘I'm not going to be messed around with at my age.’ Miss Quicke speared a piece of ham on her fork, ate it, and took another. She ate slowly, but with relish. Rose had given Miss Quicke half of the amount she'd given Ellie. Both cleared their plates.

  ‘Now,’ said Miss Quicke, making as if to struggle to her feet, ‘I found some useful information for you on the Internet and ran it off, but I left it on the table in the other room.’

  ‘I'll fetch it,’ said Ellie. ‘I'd like to know what I've got myself into.’

  Miss Quicke rarely used the dining room for eating. Half the long mahogany dining table was her office, and today the very latest of equipment lay on it, ready to spring into life at the touch of a button. A neat pile of paper lay on the laser printer, which Ellie took through to her aunt. ‘Is this what you want?’

  ‘Of course. Now, as you can see …’

  ‘Aunt Drusilla, you know very well that I can't make head nor tail of balance sheets and company reports.’

  ‘Give them to your friend Kate to interpret for you.’

  ‘Can't you give me the highlights?’

  ‘There's not a pin to choose between Talbot and Kingsley as regards the amount of money they've made. Perhaps Talbot has been slightly more successful at avoiding investigation by the Fraud Squad.’

  ‘Is Chris Talbot really a bad apple? I liked him.’

  ‘I expect he flattered your ego. You don't get to be president of this and that, and consultant to a dozen quangos, without stroking someone's ego along the line.’