by Faith Martin
The colonel’s wife and Lady Vee looked at one another without saying a word. No words were needed. A real cook, at last!
Then they smiled as the colonel, eyeing the delicious fare, said haltingly, ‘I say, that looks rather good. Perhaps I might just try one of those eggy flan things.’
Half an hour later only some Madeira cake remained on the table, and Meecham, retrieving the depleted tray, smiled happily. Miss Starling would be pleased.
‘How about a game of billiards, Bill?’ Avonsleigh asked, knowing his friend well, and the two men rose with some alacrity.
Lady Vee also rose. ‘It’s getting rather warm out here, Millie. Why don’t we . . . ?’ she murmured happily. As a group, and led by the impassive Meecham, they all trooped through the sunroom and back into the hall.
There it was Meecham who stopped first, and so abruptly that the colonel almost rear-ended him. ‘I say, Meecham old chap,’ he began, then stopped as he took a proper look at the man. The butler stood stock-still, staring up and to his left, his jaw literally dropping open. As a spectacle, it was unparalleled.
The colonel quickly followed the other man’s gaze, and blinked. His own jaw quickly followed Meecham’s example.
For on the wall, the jewelled dagger gleamed in the sunlight. But nobody, for once, was looking at its spectacular gems. Because, dripping from its blade and running in a small, ragged trail down the white wall, was a thin trickle of thick red liquid.
Lady Vee and Lord Avonsleigh gaped.
Mrs Attling also stared, and was the first to speak. ‘Why, it looks like blood,’ she said, the final word almost a whisper.
The grandfather clock boomed the half hour and broke the spell that had held them all in a frozen tableau of stiff-limbed, wide-eyed disbelief.
It also made everyone jump out of their collective skins. ‘Meecham, you’d better . . .’ his lordship paused, thought, and then said, more strongly, ‘Meecham, check the household. See if anyone is missing.’
Meecham, with some effort, pulled his glance away from the dagger, blinked once, and then pulled himself together. ‘Yes m’lord,’ he said quietly. ‘At once.’
‘Let’s go back into the sunroom,’ Lady Vee suggested, her booming voice for once subdued. ‘I suddenly feel rather chilly.’
The colonel went quickly to his wife and guided her inside, and the two men exchanged worried glances over the top of her head. It had looked like blood. Ridiculous of course. At Avonsleigh, of all places. And yet . . .
A few minutes later, Meecham returned. He looked deathly pale. His eyes were round and enormous. He cleared his throat, but his lordship was already on his feet.
‘I’m afraid, sir, that the tutor, Miss Simmons, is in the conservatory,’ Meecham said.
His words were so innocuous that for a moment George wanted to laugh. Then, seeing his butler sway slightly, he snapped sharply, ‘So what, man? She can be in the conservatory if she wants to be.’
‘Yes, m’lord, I know,’ Meecham said. ‘But she’s dead.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Detective Inspector John Bishop looked up as the castle loomed into view, and felt his mouth go slightly dry. By his side, Sergeant Myers concentrated on his driving. Behind them was a police van packed with forensic people and SOCOs.
‘Shall I pull into the castle proper, sir?’ Myers asked, and the inspector nodded.
‘Might as well.’
A moment later, they pulled up beside a rather handsome Bentley and stepped out. Immediately a pair of massive double doors swung open with what looked like surprising ease, and a butler stood there. He looked, the inspector thought, rather pale and wide-eyed, but apart from that he was the picture of an impeccable English manservant — surely a dying breed nowadays. He even coughed discreetly, just in case he had gone unnoticed.
Bishop and Myers approached, the SOCOs not far behind. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ Meecham addressed the taller, stockier man instinctively.
‘And you are?’ Bishop asked, not sharply, not softly.
‘Meecham, sir, the family’s butler. His lordship asked if he might see you right away. He and her ladyship are in the Turner lounge.’
Bishop felt his neck muscles stiffen. And so it begins, he thought miserably. The aristocracy asserting their power. Making sure that he knew he was only a humble copper, whilst they were the Avonsleighs, who were to be obeyed and waited upon, even by British officialdom.
He knew he’d have to cope with this inferiority complex of his, ever since the extraordinary call had come in to his office in Kidlington, where the Thames Valley Police had their headquarters. Not that they got calls like this every day. A killing at Avonsleigh Castle! He had barely put down the phone when his superior had called, demanding that he act with tact, discretion and the proper respect. All very well, Bishop thought. But just how did you treat a peer of the realm when someone had just bumped off their granddaughter’s governess in the conservatory? He felt as if he’d wandered into a game of Cluedo!
Well, respectful as he might be, Bishop thought grimly, they had to be included on the list of suspects at least, if not openly questioned as such. Damned if he knew how to go about it though. Still, he was a policeman, and the sooner he stamped his authority onto the scene, the better. ‘My sergeant and I will be glad to come, sir, but I want my men shown to the scene of the crime at once.’
Meecham merely nodded, and glanced behind him. ‘Gayle, can you take these gentlemen to the conservatory?’ As he spoke, a younger female version of himself stepped out of the shadows and appeared in the doorway behind him.
‘Certainly. Would you come this way please?’ Her voice was as cool and controlled as she herself looked.
Bishop, his sergeant and the butler stepped out of the way to allow the forensic boys through, and watched as the white-suited team followed the girl into the cavernous interior of the great hall. They made an odd, solemn procession, and for a moment Bishop felt as if he’d just stepped back a few centuries.
It was an eerie feeling.
‘This way, sirs,’ Meecham said, stepping back into the vast flagstone hall with its dominant chandelier, guarded by the empty suits of armour.
Bishop tried his best to be unaffected by all the history, but failed rather miserably. The castle, he knew, had stood for centuries, and the influence of the Avonsleighs was felt for miles around, in every circle of rural life. His lordship owned the village of Upper Caulcott, lock, stock and barrel. Farms for miles around occupied his land, and were worked by his tenants. He was a JP, and sat on practically every local influential committee there was going. His wife led the WI, was active in church circles, and was widely respected by all the local women. Their power was solid and ethereal — hard to define but impossible to deny.
By his side, Myers adjusted his tie, proof that not even he was immune to the atmosphere of might the castle seemed to ooze from its very walls. Here I am, the very heart of Britain, it seemed to say. So, watch your step, matey!
This slight sign of nervousness from his extremely dapper and usually cocksure sergeant made Bishop, perversely, relax just a little. Myers was such an able social animal that to see him discomforted was almost worth the wear and tear on his own nerves.
His amusement, however, was short-lived. The moment he stepped into the final room, after a warren-like maze had led him to the east wing of the castle, he knew why they called it the Turner lounge. There were nothing but original, striking, if minor Turners on every wall. Even he, who’d gained his knowledge of art from the Sunday newspaper supplements, knew priceless art when he saw it.
From a large pink sofa a man rose slowly, and both policemen felt his aura of unassuming power immediately. He had a thin figure, offset by a large nose and deep, penetrating eyes. In them, you could clearly see the bloodline of the Avonsleighs, and Bishop could well imagine this man transplanted to the Battle of Waterloo, giving Napoleon some stick. Or the Battle of Hastings, fighting alongside the doomed Harold.
&nb
sp; ‘The police, m’lord,’ Meecham said, and then realized that he’d failed to get their names. He cast a stricken and apologetic look to the older man that he read at once. Both Myers and Bishop noticed it too, of course, and wondered what his lordship would do next.
He walked forward and held out his hand. Bishop hastily shook it. ‘Inspector . . . ?’ George probed bluntly.
‘Bishop, sir. This is Sergeant Myers.’
From his advantage of a few inches, Lord Avonsleigh looked down at the sergeant, one eyebrow slightly lifting.
He was a rather unusual figure for a policeman, George thought, in that he was dressed in a good-quality suit, and wore a rather daringly coloured tie. His hair was jet black and brushed back in a rather foreign style, but his square, pugnacious face was so English it could have been stamped with the Union Jack.
‘Well, I think you’d better come in, have some tea, and listen to what’s been going on. Thank you, Meecham,’ he said, gently dismissing his somewhat fazed butler. Meecham left, with rather a little more speed than was strictly dignified.
‘My wife, Lady Avonsleigh, Colonel and Mrs Attling,’ he said, glancing at the remaining three people in the room. Bishop nodded.
The colonel looked every inch the retired officer he undoubtedly was. No doubt he regretted not being born when India was still a part of the British Empire. His wife looked as if she lived constantly, but quite contentedly, in his shadow. One of those quaint Englishwomen who had surprising reserves of iron beneath the blue-rinsed hairdo and flowery summer frock.
Her ladyship was quite simply formidable. She looked alert, capable and totally at ease. Her chins quivered as she leaned forward and poured suspiciously pale tea into two exquisite china cups.
Bishop took a chair unhappily, wincing as it creaked under him. It looked antique, and he only hoped it would hold. He was a large man, big-boned and heavy-set. He accepted the tea with a nervous start and an equally nervous smile as Lady Vee handed it over, and his nose twitched as the highly scented steam began rising from the cup. He knew it! One of those fancy, foul-tasting teas with an unpronounceable name.
He balanced the Royal Doulton cup in his massive hand, never intending to lift it to his lips. By his side, Myers drank with evident enjoyment. Since most of his salary went on clothes, he could rarely afford the rest of life’s finer offerings, and he obviously intended to make the most of it when one came his way.
‘Well, sir . . . I mean, your lordship,’ Bishop corrected himself quickly, trying to reassert some sense of authority. It was not easy, surrounded by masterpieces and the silent, watchful company of his powerful audience. ‘Perhaps you might explain, as concisely as possible, exactly what has happened?’
George nodded, but didn’t speak for several seconds, obviously composing his thoughts. It was a good sign.
‘Well, Inspector, it’s really rather simple. Colonel Attling and his wife arrived for a visit just before three o’clock. As usual, we paused by the sunroom hall to admire the Munjib dagger, a rather fine example of Indian jewelled weaponry. The grandfather clock had just struck three. We all went onto the terrace, where we enjoyed a light tea in the sun and some general pleasantries. About half an hour later, we left the terrace and went back inside, the colonel and myself to play billiards, the ladies to . . . er . . . enjoy some conversation.’
He hasn’t a clue what ladies get up to, Bishop thought with a tiny spark of amusement. His concentration, though, suffered not a whit, and he listened avidly as Lord Avonsleigh continued.
‘As we walked into the small hall, we noticed that Meecham had suddenly stopped dead. It was . . . er . . . very unlike him.’
I’ll bet, Bishop thought grimly.
‘Naturally, we all looked to see what had upset him so, and followed his gaze to the dagger and saw for ourselves that, well, at the risk of sounding overly dramatic, we saw that it was dripping with blood.’ He coughed, as if embarrassed by this statement. ‘The clock then struck half past three, which made me, for one, almost jump out of my skin. I asked Meecham to make a thorough check of the castle. The rest of us went back to the sunroom to wait. Some minutes later — I can’t say how long, I’m afraid — Meecham came back and informed me that Miss Simmons, my granddaughter’s governess, was in the conservatory. Dead. I immediately ordered him to post one of the servants outside, to let no one in or out, and to touch nothing, and then inform the police.’
At this point he glanced at the colonel to see if he had missed anything out, but his old friend smiled reassuringly.
Bishop nodded. ‘I see. Thank you, that’s very clear. Perhaps you could tell us who else was in the castle at the time?’
Lord Avonsleigh nodded, already anticipating the question. By his side, Myers had been taking notes in competent shorthand, but now changed to longhand to write down the list of names.
‘Of course. Well, there’s my granddaughter, Lady Roberta, and her art tutor, Mr Malcolm Powell-Brooks. There was Meecham, of course, and his daughter Gayle, who is maid to her ladyship and also a tour guide here at the castle. Janice Beale, parlour maid, Elsie Bingham, kitchen maid, and our new cook, Miss Starling.’
By his side, Myers suddenly dropped his pencil. Bishop, in particular, looked suddenly sick. Both Avonsleigh and the colonel stared at the stricken policemen in some surprise.
‘Miss Starling, did you say?’ Bishop finally asked, his voice just managing to rise above a rasping, appalled whisper.
Lady Vee’s eyes sharpened on the inspector.
‘Yes, Inspector. Miss Starling,’ his lordship confirmed briskly. ‘Dashed if I know her first name. Do you, Vee, old gal?’ He turned to his wife, aware of a slight loss of colour in her cheeks.
‘Eh? Oh no, I can’t remember if it was mentioned on her references,’ she murmured, her eyes never leaving the inspector’s face. Damn it all, don’t say there’s a problem with our cook as well, she silently wailed to herself. That really would be too much.
‘A small lady, is she?’ Myers spoke for the first time, his voice hopeful.
Lord Avonsleigh snorted. ‘Big as a horse, praise be. Fine figure of a woman, mind. Can’t trust a skinny cook, I always say.’ Then, aware of the dismayed look the two policemen exchanged, he moved very swiftly to the edge of his seat, his eyes narrowing. ‘Why do you ask?’ he demanded sharply.
Bishop managed a rather sickly smile. ‘It’s just that Miss Starling is rather well known in police circles, sir.’
‘Good grief!’ his lordship cried. ‘You don’t mean to say she did it?’
‘Not our cook!’ wailed Lady Vee forlornly, and so loudly that both policemen jumped. Quite visibly.
‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ Bishop hastened to reassure them, wondering what had suddenly set them off. And things had been going so well, too.
‘I think you’d better explain yourself, Inspector,’ his lordship said crisply, and Bishop felt his whole body snap to attention.
‘Yes, sir. I mean, your lordship. Miss Starling has, in the past, er, helped police with their inquiries. That is, she has been instrumental in helping us solve several murders.’
‘Several?’ Lady Vee echoed, her chins wobbling alarmingly.
‘Yes, m’lady. Well, to my own certain knowledge, Miss Starling helped police officers to . . . er . . .’ he trailed off, not quite sure how to put it.
‘She solved the murders for you, you mean?’ Lady Vee cut through the waffle ruthlessly, and Bishop, defeated, mumbled something vaguely affirmative.
‘Splendid,’ Lady Vee breathed with relief, the awful feeling in the pit of her stomach happily subsiding. In fact, she positively beamed. The next instant, she reached for a bell rope and pulled, and Bishop cast his sergeant an anxious look.
Now what?
A moment later Meecham promptly appeared, was asked to fetch Miss Starling at once, and promptly disappeared again.
‘What can you tell us about Miss Simmons, sir?’ the inspector asked, feeling a trickle of sweat run down h
is back. Murder at the castle was bad enough, but to have the infamous Jenny Starling in attendance as well — what had he done to deserve that?
He knew that his colleagues at other stations, namely an Inspector Mollineaux, thought very highly of the woman indeed, but he himself shared the view of the majority at his own station. Amateurs were a pain in the—
‘Well, she’s only been with us about a month,’ his lordship fortuitously interrupted his musings. ‘Her first name’s Ava, I believe. Her father owns the Giselle Gallery in Bicester — you may know it. She was brought in to teach Roberta, well, a little more refinement,’ he explained. And the indulgent twinkle in his eye as he contemplated his wayward granddaughter left neither policeman in any doubt that the little girl was the apple of his eye. ‘She was in her early thirties, I imagine. Quiet, competent. I liked her well enough. What else can I say?’
‘Did she have a boyfriend?’ Bishop probed delicately, but it was Lady Vee who answered. No doubt because she knew that her husband wouldn’t have a clue.
‘No, I don’t think so, Inspector. She kept herself very much to herself. Not that she was unattractive, of course,’ she added hastily. ‘But if she had a sweetheart, she was very discreet about it.’
‘I see,’ the inspector said gloomily. In many cases where young women were killed, it was usually a man friend who was responsible. Jealous or drunk, normally.
‘Could anyone else have gained access to the castle, my lord? This afternoon, I mean?’ Myers put in a question of his own.
Lord Avonsleigh scratched his head, and shrugged. ‘I imagine so, Inspector. There’s the gardening staff, and some of the local women who come in from the village to help Janice with the heavy work. We have tourists in during the summer, so there’s always lots of entrances and exits left open. But it’s not a visitors day today,’ he added, making the policemen fairly wilt in relief. ‘The doors are never locked during the day, but even so, I rather doubt that anyone could have just wandered in, stabbed our governess and wandered out again, do you? Not without being seen by somebody.’
