by Eric Brown
‘Of course,’ Maria said, smiling at the dowager. ‘And I’m sure the police know that and have crossed you off their list.’
Lady Cecelia murmured her thanks to Maria. ‘But it does make one feel terribly guilty, doesn’t it, with all these policemen buzzing about the place?’
‘They’ve more or less packed up now,’ Pandora said. ‘The ambulance carted the body off last night, and the forensic chap left this morning.’
‘Even so,’ Lady Cecelia’s voice quavered, ‘whatever would my friends in London think if they found out that I was present at the scene of a crime?’
Pandora shrugged. ‘Well, they’re bound to find out sooner or later, once the press get wind of the Great Man’s murder.’
Lady Cecelia’s eyes grew enormous with alarm. ‘Do you really think …?’
‘It’s only a matter of time before the gutter press drag all our names through the mire, mark my word. The publicity might even help me shift some paintings. You never know.’
Charles said, ‘I think you’re being unnecessarily alarmist, Miss Jade.’
But the damage had been done, and Lady Cecelia rose unsteadily from the table, smiled falteringly at the others and stumbled from the room.
To her credit, Pandora had the good grace to look sheepish. ‘Put my foot right in it, didn’t I?’ She flung down her napkin. ‘I’d better go and tell her I was speaking through my hat.’
She left the table and hurried after the dowager.
‘That woman,’ Charles said, ‘is either obtuse or uncaring.’
‘The latter, I think,’ Langham said. ‘She doesn’t give a fiddler’s damn about what anyone thinks about her.’
They finished breakfast and Langham suggested a turn around the garden.
As they were leaving the room, two figures entered the house through the front door, though with the dazzling sunlight filling the aperture it was impossible to make out their identity. Not until they were halfway up the carved oak staircase did Langham recognize Annabelle Connaught and her uncle; Monty Connaught had his arm around her shoulders and was murmuring something to her.
Maria said to Charles, ‘That was Annabelle, Connaught’s daughter.’
‘The poor child,’ Charles murmured as they stepped outside.
They strolled past the parked cars and across the sloping lawn to the tussock-fringed cliff edge. In the distance, the skylight on the conical roof of the late novelist’s study reflected the morning sunlight.
Langham wondered at the luxury of being able to afford a study that turned to follow the sun: there were, he thought, other things he would indulge in first.
Charles was saying, ‘I read a little of Connaught’s manuscript yesterday, my dears, and I was struck anew at the fact of his passing. He was a truly talented novelist, and no one deserves to die before their time, and in so horrific a fashion.’
‘You were going to forgive him, weren’t you, Charles?’ Maria said.
‘I had resolved to accept his apology, yes – for my own peace of mind, I must say, as much as for his. And that is another tragic aspect of the whole affair: that he died bearing such a burden of guilt, for I am sure he was genuine in his remorse.’
A racing green Humber rolled up the drive and came to a sedate halt beside the Lagonda. Detective Sergeant Greaves climbed from the passenger seat, and from behind the wheel emerged the tall, broad figure of Jeff Mallory. The Scotland Yard man followed Greaves into the house.
‘Excellent,’ Langham said. ‘Jeff swung it with his superiors.’
They strolled along the clifftop; Charles wondered aloud when they might be allowed to leave Connaught House. ‘Not that I don’t doubt that Molly is holding the fort with aplomb,’ he said. ‘But I do want to get back behind the desk.’
‘It’ll be a few days yet,’ Langham said. ‘Thursday or Friday at the earliest. We’ll be grilled a few times yet before we’re let off the hook.’
Charles sighed. ‘Well, I suppose there are worst places to be stranded.’
The French windows to the drawing room opened, winking in the sunlight, and Jeff Mallory stepped through. He made a beeline for them, raising a hand in greeting.
‘Don! Good to see you. Maria, you’re looking wonderful. Married life suiting you?’
‘Marvellously!’
‘I trust you’re keeping this reprobate in his place?’
‘As if any woman could do that,’ she laughed.
Jeff shook hands with Charles. ‘We met, briefly, at one of your excellent garden parties,’ the detective inspector said.
‘I well recall,’ Charles said. ‘You regaled me with an account of your rugby-playing days in Durban.’
‘Long gone and far away, I’m afraid,’ the South African said.
Maria linked arms with Charles. ‘And now, I suspect, Donald and Jeff wish to talk shop. Shall we leave them to it?’
Langham watched them stroll towards the walled garden and then turned to his friend. ‘I’m glad you could make it.’
‘I was on the blower to Harper in Plymouth first thing, and he filled me in. I’ll be working on the case with the local man, young Greaves. He seems eager enough, unlike Harper. Greaves is rounding up the guests for a session of interviews this afternoon, but I’d like to hear what you know before that.’
Langham indicated a bench looking out over the open sea; they crossed to it and sat down.
He told Mallory about being hired by Annabelle Connaught to look into the movements of Wilson Royce, whom she suspected was up to no good.
‘And what do you think?’
‘Ralph’s working on that end of things in London. It looks as if Royce might be dealing in stolen paintings.’
‘Not linked to this business?’
‘Well, not directly, as far as I can make out.’
He described his fellow guests, one by one, and the fact that Denbigh Connaught had known them all many years ago and wished to apologize to them for past misdemeanours.
‘Apologize?’
‘They’re keeping pretty tight-lipped about whatever happened back then. All apart from Charles, that is.’ He told Jeff about what had passed between Charles Elder and Connaught while at school.
‘Harper interviewed everyone last night,’ Mallory said, ‘but none of them said a thing about Connaught’s wanting to apologize.’ He paused, staring out at the brilliant blue sea. ‘Not all that surprising, when you come to think about it.’
‘There wasn’t much love lost between Connaught and his guests,’ Langham said, ‘at least before he apologized on Saturday. Colonel Haxby is on record as wanting to shoot him, and Pandora Jade made no bones about hating his guts.’
Mallory eyed him. ‘Serious?’
‘No. All just so much hot air, in my opinion. Oh – I had an encounter with the colonel on Saturday, and he mentioned something about Connaught, back in the thirties: he claimed he’d killed a man, back then. It must be said, though, that Haxby was the worse for drink at the time.’
‘He said Connaught had killed a man?’
Langham described the dialogue on the cliff path. ‘It’s something we need to look into,’ he said.
‘So … it appears that there were a few people present who resented Connaught, to put it mildly?’
‘That’s right,’ Langham said. ‘But, to be honest, I doubt that any one of them could have overcome Connaught. He was a big man, and they’re all pretty much lightweights.’ He paused. ‘So my money, for what it’s worth, is on an outsider.’
Mallory swore. ‘Dammit. And here I was, thinking that with a gallery of captive suspects it’d be an open-and-shut case and I could put my feet up for a day or two and enjoy the scenery.’
‘Afraid not, old boy,’ Langham laughed, filling his pipe.
‘Oh, who was the attractive popsy I saw in the house just now?’
‘Daisy the cook? Isn’t she a bit old for you, Jeff?’
‘The cook? You duffer! No, this girl was tall, auburn-haired, a bit of a stunner.’
/>
Langham smiled. ‘Brains and beauty, Jeff. Out of your league, I’m afraid. That’s Annabelle, Denbigh Connaught’s daughter. A medical doctor.’
‘Where was she when …?’
‘With Maria and me. She took us out in her boat from around noon yesterday until five. So that puts all three of us in the clear.’
Mallory smiled. ‘According to Harper, forensics are certain that Connaught died between two o’clock and four.’
Langham nodded. ‘That’s roughly what I surmised.’
Mallory shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun and squinted across the lawn at the novelist’s study. ‘So that’s where it happened? Should we take a mosey across?’
They were about to set off when Langham saw a figure walk around the box hedge and approach them across the lawn. ‘Annabelle,’ he said to Mallory.
The two men stood, and Langham suppressed a smile as he noticed Mallory straighten his tie and run a quick hand through his thinning mop of fair hair. Just a month ago, at Langham’s wedding, Jeff had been drunkenly bewailing his lack of success on the romance front of late.
‘Gentlemen,’ Annabelle said, smiling from Langham to Mallory. ‘I’ve just seen Detective Sergeant Greaves, and he tells me Scotland Yard has been drafted in. That’s gratifying to know.’
Langham made the introductions; Mallory and Annabelle shook hands. ‘I’m terribly sorry …’ Mallory said.
Annabelle murmured, ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ She turned to Langham. ‘I’ve decided to stay here for the time being. I couldn’t face staying in the cottage by myself. And anyway, I need to go through my father’s papers.’
Mallory nodded. ‘Wise move.’
She stared out to sea. ‘Your colleagues called on me last night, Inspector,’ she murmured. ‘The odd thing was that, as soon as I saw the car pull up outside, I knew something dreadful had happened. I knew. Isn’t that odd?’ She smiled from Langham to Mallory, then continued, ‘So when the constable told me, it didn’t come as that much of a shock. It was later, in the early hours when I couldn’t sleep, that it really hit me. And then it wasn’t so much the shock that my father was dead, but that someone had hated him so much that they were prepared to kill him.’ She paused. ‘The constable said that my father had been strangled, and I must admit that that was a surprise. For some reason, I assumed the killer would shoot him.’
Mallory said, ‘Why was that?’
Annabelle shrugged. ‘I don’t honestly know. But strangled …? My father is a big man … was a big man. It would take considerable force, I would have thought, to overcome him.’
‘Do you know if your father had anything to do with the locals which might have led to this?’ Langham asked.
‘My father rarely ventured into the village. He kept very much to himself. Other than his dealings with Watkins and Daisy, I doubt he knew anyone in the area.’
Mallory indicated Connaught’s study. ‘I’ll be interviewing everyone a little later,’ he said, ‘but first I’d like to take a shufty at your father’s study. I quite understand if you’d rather not.’
‘No.’ Annabelle smiled charmingly. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to see where it happened. I firmly believe in facing down one’s fears.’
‘An admirable attitude,’ Mallory said. ‘After you.’
They strolled across the lawn.
A police constable was stationed before the entrance on the far side of the study. He opened the door and stepped aside as they approached. Mallory led the way inside.
Langham watched Annabelle as she paused just beyond the threshold and took a deep breath. She looked at him. ‘Where was my father found, Donald?’
He indicated the piano. ‘Just behind there. I suspect he was facing away from the door, perhaps chatting with his … with whoever had entered. There was no sign of a struggle.’
She flashed him a look. ‘Are you saying that he knew his killer?’
‘It would appear so, yes.’
She nodded. ‘I don’t know whether I find that reassuring or even more … horrific.’
Langham was relieved to see that the parquet had been cleaned, though flecks of the sawdust that had been used to soak up the blood still remained. Annabelle moved to a window and stared out in silence.
Mallory knelt, examining the floor. Langham gazed around the study, looking for anything he might have missed on the first occasion. He stepped over to the portable typewriter on the coffee table and examined the sheet of quarto wound into the machine. There were no words typed on the paper: the novelist’s archetypal blank page.
Annabelle moved to the door. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll return to the house.’ She smiled at the men. ‘I think I need a drink.’
Mallory stood. ‘Not at all.’
‘I’ll be there if you need to interview me,’ she said.
‘I’ll get the others over and done with first,’ Mallory said, ‘and then we’ll just cover the basics with you. I’d like to build up a picture of the kind of man your father was.’
Annabelle hesitated at the door. ‘To be perfectly honest, Inspector, my father wasn’t a very nice man – as you’ll no doubt find out. He didn’t like his fellow humans, and didn’t expect to be liked in return. I found him a somewhat frightening figure during my childhood. He showed me no affection, and, of course, asked for none in return. I sometimes wonder if he resented me – resented my presence, in lieu of that of my mother.’
‘And yet you returned here to start a medical practice,’ Langham said.
‘As I said the other day, the attraction was the locality, not my father. It’s a beautiful part of the world. I missed it, living in London.’
Mallory asked, ‘How would you describe your relationship with him more recently?’
Annabelle thought about that. ‘We rubbed along. He admired me for what I’d achieved as a GP; it was at his insistence that I trained for the medical profession, after all. I had little say in the matter. Now, if that will be all …’
‘Of course.’
She gave Mallory a dazzling smile, nodded to Langham, and stepped from the study.
‘Well,’ Langham said when they were alone, ‘I think you’ve made an impression there.’
Mallory looked dubious. ‘You think so?’
‘Play your cards right, bag Connaught’s killer, and you’ll have her eating out of your hand in gratitude.’
‘I should cocoa,’ Mallory murmured. He moved to the piano and gazed down at where the body had lain. ‘So between two and four,’ he said, ‘the killer comes along and is let in by Connaught, who is sufficiently at his ease to turn his back on whoever it was and walk behind the piano.’
Langham looked at him. ‘What for?’
‘Come again.’
Langham regarded the space behind the piano. ‘It’s just occurred to me, Jeff. Why would he walk behind the piano? It’s a narrow gap. There’s nothing behind it. Why might Connaught have walked between it and the window?’
‘Now you come to mention it,’ Mallory said, ‘it does seem strange. Perhaps he wasn’t behind the piano when the killer looped the wire around his neck and throttled him. Perhaps the ensuing struggle took him there.’
‘But the wire would have drawn blood pretty damned fast, so there’d be evidence of it somewhere other than where it was, in a great pool around his head. And I found not so much as a splash anywhere else.’
‘And nor did the forensic boys,’ Mallory said.
‘So he must have been standing just behind the piano when the killer struck,’ Langham went on. ‘But, as I say, why?’
‘That’s one to keep in mind, Don,’ Mallory said. He took one last look around the study. ‘Right, shall we go and get the interviews out of the way?’
Langham followed him out into the sunlight.
EIGHTEEN
Mallory sank into an armchair and looked around him. ‘Well, this is certainly the most sumptuous room I’ve ever conducted an interview in.’
‘Bit different from the cells at Scotland Yard, sir?’ Detective Sergeant Greaves said, taking the armchair next to Mallory. Langham thought that Greaves was a little in awe of Mallory. Not that the Scotland Yard man was at all overbearing or made a display of his authority; his manner was deceptively quiet and easy-going.
Langham seated himself on a dining chair before the window, crossed his legs and opened his notebook on his lap.
Greaves said, ‘I’ve had everyone gather in the library, sir.’
‘Very good.’ Mallory consulted his notebook. ‘Let’s have Lady Cecelia Albrighton along first, shall we?’
Greaves left the room and closed the door behind him.
‘Of everyone Connaught summoned here for the weekend,’ Langham said, ‘Lady Cee is the only one who didn’t seem to bear him any grudge. Apparently, they had an affair during the war, and Connaught wanted to apologize for something.’
‘We need to find out what that was, then,’ Mallory said, and looked up as Lady Cecelia entered the room, followed by Greaves. The dowager looked even frailer and greyer today; she smiled at the men and lowered herself slowly into the armchair indicated by Mallory.
‘I’d like to assure you that this is a mere formality,’ he began. ‘I’m sure you understand that I must follow a protocol and speak to everyone present at the time of the incident.’
‘I understand entirely, Inspector, and I’ll do my best to assist you in any way possible.’
She looked across at Langham, clearly puzzled by his presence, and Mallory explained. ‘Donald is assisting me in his official capacity as a private investigator, Lady Cecelia.’
She smiled. ‘I did wonder at some of your earlier questions, young man,’ she said.
Mallory looked down at his notebook. ‘Now, I understand that you knew Denbigh Connaught during the war.’
‘That is correct,’ she said. ‘With my husband, I ran an estate in south Lincolnshire, and we gave over a considerable amount of our land to the war effort.’
‘And Connaught was drafted in, as a conscientious objector, to work on the land?’
‘He and a dozen other men and women.’ She paused, looked up and gazed beyond the inspector, her watery grey eyes distant. ‘He was a little different from the others: older, for one thing – perhaps forty at the time. And he was very well educated – and by that I mean he was exceptionally well read. He read the Greeks in the original and was a published novelist. If I am to be honest, Inspector, at the time I felt I was somewhat culturally sequestered up there in Lincolnshire. I had been married ten years, and my husband was of a practical mindset. He managed the estate, hunted to hounds and shot pheasant, and that was the extent of his interests. I must admit that the county set bored me terribly.’
