There did not seem to be a Mrs Arnold around. No smell of lunch cooking. Perhaps that’s why he was dying of boredom. Tim Arnold was big and bulky but not intimidating. I could cope with him. He seemed lonely. Careful, Jordan. You have enough lame ducks on your Christmas list. Give him a bottle of anti-dandruff shampoo.
I sipped the beer. ‘I have to explain that my investigations concern Mr Steel’s garden at Denbury Court, Updown Hill. I wondered if anything unusual had been happening in your garden? This is the house where Mr Steel used to live, and maybe you are also experiencing something strange?’
Tim Arnold took a big gulp of beer. ‘No, not now, no more. I’m not experiencing anything unusual in my garden now. But, Miss Lacey, it all happened before I moved in. They took everything from the garden. Every bush, shrub, plant, bulb. Now that’s unusual, isn’t it? It was a terrible shock.’
It was not the answer I expected. Every bush, every shrub? But who would want them? Second-hand bushes do not have a market value. Or had I missed something?
‘Who took them?’
‘The former owners, of course, the Steels. They moved everything movable from the garden. It was a lovely garden and that was one of the reasons that I bought the house. It was a picture, put thousands on the place. But when I moved in, I could not believe my eyes. Everything had gone. It was a desert, a wasteland, completely derelict. It’s a wonder that they left the grass.’
‘Did you ask Mr Steel what had happened to the plants?’
‘Yes, of course. I phoned him. He said they were not included in the sale and that they were plants that Mrs Steel was very fond of. Tell me, Miss Lacey, how does one become fond of a plant?’
‘A little odd,’ I agreed.
‘I was devastated. The garden was a moonscape, just holes. They’d taken the lot. I’ve planted shrubs and flowers since, but it’s not the same. They took mature, well-established growth. They ransacked the garden. It’s taking years to replace it all and I’m not as fit as I was. I’ve got diabetes.’
‘Does your anger go as far as ruining their present garden with, say, something like weedkiller? Retaliation perhaps. Forgive me for asking, although somehow, I don’t think you’re that kind of person, Mr Arnold.’
‘No, Miss Lacey. I would not know how to go about it, even if the anger was in my heart. I bought this house because of the beautiful garden and some personal associations, but they dug up the plants, taking them to their new property. I’ll never forgive them.’ He looked morose, as if remembering the glory of the former garden.
‘Have you thought of suing them?’
‘Don’t believe in suing. Money in the lawyers’ pockets.’
‘And you spoke to Mr Steel?’
‘Frequently. But it was no use. He insisted that the plants were not included in the sale. I eventually gave up. I hope he’s enjoying his beautiful garden.’
‘Not at the moment,’ I said, coughing on the cold beer. ‘Their garden has been vandalized. Someone has been spraying it to death with weedkiller. Everything is dying.’
Mr Arnold looked genuinely amazed. The amazement reached his receding hairline. He shook his head. Then he grinned, puckering his eyebrows.
‘Serves them right. They deserve it. Well, I didn’t do it though I’ve got plenty of motive. And I’ve got enough weedkiller. It’s in the shed, Miss Lacey, save you looking for it.’ He drank back his beer. ‘Want another?’
‘Er, no, thank you.’ It was my turn to be amazed. If Mr Arnold had done it, then he was putting on a pretty good act for an amateur. I don’t have a portable lie-detector but I felt he was telling the truth.
‘Have you ever visited the Steels at Updown Hill?’
‘Never. I don’t even know where it is.’
I wrote my mobile number on my card. ‘If you think of anything, however small or insignificant, please let me know.’
‘Sure, Miss Lacey. I know the Steels must be devastated but I can’t help feeling that they deserved it. Life works in mysterious ways. I’ll let you know if anything happens here.’
‘Thank you. And thank you for the beer.’
‘Come round anytime. There’s always plenty of beer. I see you’ve finished my cashews.’
‘Sorry. I needed the protein.’
*
Who else should I visit chainwise? The people who left Denbury Court and sold it on to Samuel Steel. They might be harbouring bad karma. They might be feeling that they were forced out of Denbury Court or sold it undervalued. I’m not surprised at anything these days.
Samuel Steel had given me their address, too. Mr and Mrs Carlton, St John’s Court. I found the place. It was out at Sompting and quite something. I stood looking at the building before knocking on the heavy oak door in the oval porch and introducing myself. I don’t often go to church.
‘Please come in,’ said Mrs Carlton. ‘If you will excuse my husband. He has to rest quite a lot.’
The Carltons lived in a converted former chapel. It was quite extraordinary. The building still had its original ecclesiastical windows, door surrounds and wooden ceiling. I was relieved I was not asked to sit in a pew.
The ground floor was one vast room with random sofas and desks and bookcases, polished black tiles strewn with worn rugs. All very homely. The rugs worried me in case they were placed over flagstones of ancient graves but I could hardly ask. Mrs Carlton made a pot of tea in a flowered teapot and produced hefty wedges of chocolate cake with soft butter icing.
‘This is quite different to Denbury Court,’ I began, trying to take my eyes off the cake.
‘We were relieved to leave Denbury Court,’ said Mrs Carlton, pouring, it was a drain on our resources and took a lot of upkeep. This is quite big enough. Milk, sugar?’
She was a comely woman, once a beauty, eyes like green globes. Time had taken its usual devastating price on her skin and hair. I wondered what I would look like at her age. I was glad it was a long way off.
‘Weak tea, please. Milk. Thank you.’
‘Denbury Court had become a financial burden. We couldn’t cope with the house or the garden. My husband is retired and his pension is not generous. But we are very happy here. There’s a new kitchen out the back in what used to be the chapel study, and two bedrooms upstairs reached by a spiral staircase behind the organ screen.’
‘It’s been cleverly converted,’ I said, sipping my tea. Beer, now tea. I was awash with liquid. Any minute now I would have to ask if there was a bathroom. It would be stacked with old hymn books and parish magazines.
A tremor of old fear gripped my guts. I was remembering the hermit’s cell, the smell of damp decay. A killer had trapped me in the cell with only hymn books for company. DI James had found me but I could have died. I had not seen James for days. An ache flooded my bones. How could he detach himself so completely from me? Sometimes I felt we were joined at the hip but that he hadn’t noticed it.
‘Did you mind leaving the garden?’ I asked.
‘Not really. It was too much work. My husband … he’s not that well and we couldn’t employ anyone on a regular basis. At first we had a gardener, Bert his name was, but then we had to let him go. He never seemed to achieve much. Every time I took out his coffee, he was smoking in the shed.’
‘Shed? Is there a shed?’
‘Not now. It got burnt down. It was quite scary. All those flames licking the wood.’
‘How did the fire start?’
‘A cigarette end, I expect. There were always a lot of oily rags about to clean the lawnmower and old newspapers that Bert used for starting bonfires. It’s a wonder it didn’t burn down before.’
‘Do you know where this Bert works now?’
‘No, I’m sorry. I’ve no idea. We knew very little about him. I think he answered an advertisement we put in a village shop.’
‘Can you describe Bert?’
‘Not very well. Big, bony, red hands. Tallish, stocky. I’m sorry. I can only remember his hands.’
I c
ould not resist the chocolate cake. I knew it was laden with calories but my food chain was in a twist. I was not eating sensibly. These last few days had been chaos for my digestion. Shopping list: carrots, iceberg lettuce, mushrooms, radishes, cottage cheese and celery.
Chocolate cake, properly made with dark chocolate, is perfection. I’m not talking about factory line cakes, full of air and sugar and synthetic flavouring. This cake was the real rich chocolate taste.
‘Mrs Carlton,’ I said, my mouth full. ‘This cake is wonderful. Where did you get the recipe?’
‘It’s mine. I used to be on television. I had my own show, Sandra Carlton Cooks,’ she said, smiling. ‘A long time ago. Before your time, before the cult of Delia Smith and years before Nigella Lawson. You soon get forgotten.’
‘Did you commercialize this cake? Did you market it as Carlton’s Succulent Real Chocolate Cake?’
‘We didn’t do that sort of thing in those days. We hoped to encourage people to cook at home but we didn’t do spin-offs. It was simply a love of cooking.’ Mrs Carlton was still smiling to herself. ‘People watch cooking programmes these days but it doesn’t mean that they cook. They still go out to the supermarket and buy ready-made dinners and bags of pre-shredded lettuce.’
She was right, of course. I dragged my mind back to gardens. ‘When you left Denbury Court, the garden was in good condition?’
She look surprised. ‘Yes, as far as I am aware. My husband was already unwell. A few weeds, perhaps. The Steels were very taken with the garden. They loved it.’
‘And your garden here?’
She laughed. ‘What garden?’
It was true. The former chapel was fringed with overgrown trees and shrubs. Their garden was no more than a few flower beds flanking the steps to the front porch and some hanging baskets full of nasturtiums.
‘Thank you, Mrs Carlton. I’m sorry to have taken your time but not sorry to have eaten your cake. It is truly perfection.’
I’ll wrap up some slices in cling film for you to take home. You look as if you need feeding up. Please come back, Miss Lacey, if you ever have time. It’s nice to have someone to talk to.’
So many lonely people. Mrs Carlton with a husband who was unwell. Tim Arnold, as lonely as hell. Not her type, of course, but one of the many, linked by a property chain. There was nothing I could do. No point in throwing a Tupperware party.
But I remembered my beach BBQ party, no exact date yet, but in the planning channel. I could do something.
I thanked Mrs Carlton for the wrapped slices and left. It was more than I deserved. I’d even looked under a rug while she was in the kitchen. No gravestones. There had been no sign of Mr Carlton, still resting somewhere. I drove home, my phone on the passenger seat. It began to ring.
I pulled over in a lay-by. There’s a law about driving and phoning. Not many people know that yet. I didn’t want a £30 fine slapped on me.
‘Yes?’
‘Jordan? Where are you?’
‘On the road coming back from Sompting. Not driving. You can’t get me. I’ve pulled over.’ I knew the voice just from four words. ‘And I’m working.’
‘Can you come back to the station? Right away.’ It was DI James. As usual, his voice was impatient and without any civilized consideration for my work. ‘It’s important. Something has happened and I think you were there at the time.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You’ll soon find out.’
‘Oh yes, I know what you’re talking about,’ I said with enthusiasm. ‘You’re talking about the time you asked me out to dinner, wining and dining. I was definitely there at the time.’
He took no notice as I knew he would. But I enjoyed saying it. I liked winding him up.
‘I’ll wait here for half an hour,’ he said. ‘But that’s all. I’ve got some questions to ask you.’
That was ominous. I didn’t like the sound of it. I never enjoy being asked questions.
Ten
The journey was only short but it seemed one of the longest drives in my life. I did not want bad news. I was starting to sweat. I knew from James’s voice that I would not like what had happened. He had a way of telling me things without telling me.
And I was there, he’d said. Where had I been? To a revue in Brighton. A cold thought struck me. The woman was suing me for spraying her with soda water. Her dress was ruined. Humiliation in front of her friends.
That was it. I was in the sin bin again. Pass me the bread and water. Stale bread. Make it granary.
My phone rang again. I pulled over and switched it on. The lay-bys were beginning to know me.
‘I’m coming,’ I said quickly.
‘Sorry. You’re coming where?’ It was Samuel Steel. He sounded agitated. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Sorry. I thought you were someone else,’ I said. ‘It was an urgent call that I was expecting.’
‘This is an urgent call,’ said Mr Steel. ‘Can you come and see me now, right away? It’s about my wife, Anne. I have found some information I want you to have. It’s really important.’
‘Can’t you tell me over the phone?’
‘No. You have to see these things. Please say you can come, Jordan. I believe you are still working for me … ’
‘Yes, of course, Mr Steel. I’m still on your case and I think I have a lead. A slender one but something to follow. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’
I turned the car but did not phone DI James to explain. My work came first. He didn’t employ me. I had done nothing wrong in my scale of ethics. What’s a drop of clean water?
Everything was changing. I could feel it in the air. The year was dying. Its hot bloom was over. Leaves were sucking the last sap from the branches before they withered and fell. I felt the same kind of falling. Birds were singing flat notes. Something was amiss and I was acutely aware of the change. It was intangible, like a cobweb brushing against a face.
The garden at Denbury Court was looking awful. Millions of blades of grass were curling brown with decay, leaves rotting. I could understand Mr Steel’s agitation and now his wife had died in tragic circumstances. But she was not my case. DI James was in charge of homicide investigations.
I stopped in the drive, trying to think when I had last been here. The last few days were a fog. This was a severe case of work overload.
But it was a fading late summer, the moment before autumn returned. A hint of warmth lingered in the air, like a woman’s touch. Any minute now a chilling easterly wind would remind us that winter was round the corner. And Latching could be cold.
Samuel Steel did not come out to meet me. This was different. He had usually been waiting in the porch, always a welcoming host. My welcome was on hold.
The front door was ajar so I pushed it open and went inside Denbury Court. I knew my way around now. Samuel Steel was in his study. He was poring over paperwork, a tumbler of a golden brown mall at his elbow. He looked up, his face gaunt with worry.
‘Jordan, thank goodness. Thank goodness you have come. I don’t understand what is happening. You have got to help me. I’m at my wit’s end.’
‘I’ll try. Tell me what has been happening.’
‘Come in, sit down. I just don’t understand anything anymore. Why should someone kill my Anne? My sweetest and dearest wife. She’s done nothing to anyone. The garden is beyond help. I don’t care about it anymore. But Anne … ’
‘It’s one of the cruelties of life. Sometimes there’s no answer and no reason. Are you thinking there is a connection?’
‘I don’t know what to think.’
‘Try to tell me from the beginning. Take your time. I want to know what you have discovered.’ I could not get any sense out of the man. Then he made a great effort and seemed to calm down. I hoped it was my presence.
Samuel Steel sat in a chair, reaching for his glass of malted comfort. His hand was trembling. ‘I’ve found all this stuff in Anne’s bedroom. I can’t believe it. I’m not showi
ng any of it to the police. They don’t have to know, do they?’
‘It depends. They are investigating Anne’s death.’ It was hard to say the word, if so, then you should turn over anything that’s relevant to them. It might contain clues.’
‘No way, Jordan, I refuse. No one is going to see any of this. It’s strictly private. I’m adamant. You are the only person that I can trust. You promise me, now?’
Samuel was losing weight. The days had etched sorrow on to his face. He was quite different from the debonair man who had first met me, concerned about a few plants withering. His shirt was crumpled and there was a cuff button missing.
‘I am so sorry about your wife,’ I said. ‘Have they given you any news?’
‘No. Nothing yet. I was expecting something from the post-mortem. Not that I want to know any details about her death, really. It’s all too awful.’
His voice quivered as he said the word. It is never a nice thought. It is hard to separate the spirit from the body, the body of a loved one. His wife had gone, to wherever one chose to believe. The husk left behind could reveal clues as to what had happened. And it would be wrong to ignore those possible clues.
He reached down to the floor beside his desk and lifted up a briefcase. It was a smart black leather case with digital locking device. Surely not the kind of briefcase used by a butcher, even a millionaire wholesale butcher?
‘This is Anne’s. I found it in her bedroom at the back of a wardrobe. I didn’t know she had a briefcase. I’ve never seen it before. She’s not a businesswoman. Her life was bridge, shopping, coffee mornings, yoga. And she liked cooking and gardening. She was a wonderful cook. Her curries were perfection.’ He pushed the briefcase towards me. I pulled it across the desk. I did not have the right to look into it. Anne Steel had been murdered. I was not a police officer.
‘I want you to look in it,’ he said, sensing my reticence. ‘I’m giving you permission.’
‘It needs a 4-digit code punching into the lock.’
‘I’ve found the code.’ He smiled for the first time. ‘It didn’t take long to work out. She used something simple, so simple. It’s her birthday and month. The nineteenth of October. 1910.’ I punched in the number and the catch on the lid released. I opened the lid. The briefcase was crammed with computer spreadsheets, small, used notebooks and a great deal of money, the notes in wads and contained within rubber bands. The money was in notes of twenty and ten denominations, new and used. There were a few other odds and ends. I tried not to touch anything.
Jest and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 5) Page 10
