Patrick grabbed a stray hand and wrung it. ‘God bless America, sir. Now, do go and carry on having a good time.’
‘Gosh, thanks.’
We discovered at a later date that he was a senior diplomat with the Canadian Embassy.
‘Shall I drive?’ I offered.
‘You usually say that when you want to go somewhere I might not.’
‘I reckon he’s panicked and gone to The Chantry.’
Patrick pulled a wry face. ‘Ingrid, that really is a shot in the dark. But if you’re right, is he the kind of man to do that?’
‘No, not normally, but his judgement’s affected by alcohol and you’re bloody scary.’
‘I’ll drive,’ he decided.
Seventeen
Kettering-Huxley had been clearly unfit to drive and I expected at any moment to see flashing blue lights ahead at the scene of an accident involving his car. But nothing like that occurred and a little over an hour later, after a fast journey on comparatively clear roads – it was farther than I had thought – we approached the village of Beech Hanger. Patrick cut the headlights as we neared the Giddings residence and parked in a lay-by some fifty yards from the end of the drive.
‘I reckon we’re only about ten minutes behind him,’ he observed. ‘That’s if he’s here.’
‘We forgot to book somewhere to stay,’ I said.
‘It won’t be the first time we’ve slept in the car.’
The sky was lightly overcast, the moon nowhere to be seen but clearly in a phase that meant that the sky was not wholly dark. The trunks of the group of birches just inside the gateway of The Chantry stood out like white poles and we paused among them for a few moments in order to scan our surroundings. It was impossible to see any parked cars from here: the house was concealed by more trees. Moving over to the right to walk in the darker shadow beneath a hedge, we carried on. I stayed a short distance to the rear of the one-time special-services soldier: my role now was to follow and remain as silent and alert as possible, the latter mainly because he would sometimes stop without warning to listen and scent the air like an animal. Then we heard a car. It was slowing.
‘Down!’ Patrick whispered.
The twin beams of the headlights swung over our heads as we crouched low by the hedge and then picked out the ornate brick chimneys of the house as the car came over the slight rise at the entrance to the drive. The vehicle sped on and out of sight, and almost immediately the front of the house was lit up, presumably by security lights.
‘Any idea who that might be?’ Patrick said as we cautiously stood upright again. ‘Impossible to tell what colour it was in this light – or get the reg. Was it a Clio?’
I said, ‘There was a yellow Clio parked outside the apartments where du Norde lives.’
‘But they’re girlie cars.’
‘And your point …?’
He chuckled softly and we moved off again.
Only a matter of a few yards farther on we had again to dive low as a car approached.
‘God, it’s Kettering-Huxley,’ Patrick said. ‘He must have used side roads, hoping not to be stopped and breathalyzed.’
We carried on along by the hedge and quickly came to where the trees and shrubs screened and sheltered the house. Bending low we went through and between them, pausing before emerging on to the gravelled area at the front.
It is difficult to walk on gravel without making any noise and we had no intention of doing so, if at all possible. Nor did we wish to cross the brightly illuminated open space before us. Backing a little into the greenery, Patrick then led off, again to the right, until we came to a boundary wall. With me still in his wake we followed it. The cover petered out into a fernery, but by this time we were just past the corner of the house, out of sight of the front windows.
By a quick flash of Patrick’s little torch we saw that the gravel here, a narrow path, was more compacted than that at the front, with moss growing on it in places. Slowly and carefully we went on, the boundary wall a high blackness on one side, the house on the other. We came to a lighted window and bent low so as not to be seen. All within the house was silent – not even the muted sound of a radio or TV.
‘Does Honor live here on her own now, do you know?’ I whispered when we paused for a few seconds.
‘No idea.’
No, I should not have broken his concentration. I bit my tongue hard, repressing a giggle – definitely one of my MI5 failings.
Then, unmistakably, somewhere inside the house a door slammed. Patrick stopped again, fractionally, and then went on. We came to a widening of the path which split into two, one branch going off sharply around to the left, the other, in another quick flash with the torch, seen to lead into a courtyard with outbuildings.
Cautiously rounding a large shrub of some kind, we saw before us a sunroom extension. It seemed to stretch along most of the rear of the building and was lit by several table lamps. No one appeared to be occupying it. Presumably there was a door to the garden, but it was not visible from where we were standing.
‘Voices,’ Patrick breathed, ‘– raised voices.’
I listened and could indeed hear a man shouting – but well inside the house, not in an adjacent room. He sounded ferociously angry. Was anyone indoors in actual danger? Did we have grounds to enter? Patrick moved off again and I rather took it that we had.
Openly, we approached the sunroom, immediately seeing that the doors to it did lead straight out into the garden but had been hidden from our view by long curtains. A quick glance through one of the windows showed that nobody was in sight. A flight of three steps led up to the sliding doors and, as it was now the early hours of the morning, surely, I thought, they would be locked.
They were, but this was not a modern construction and the lock was a simple affair. Patrick peered through the keyhole to see if the key had been left on the other side, but apparently not, and it was a matter of a few seconds’ work with a strong wrist and his set of skeleton keys to open it. The door slid open easily without squeaking.
Parting the curtains we went in, closing the door behind us. We could now hear every word of what was being said, or rather yelled, but those involved were not in the next room but somewhere nearer the front of the house. We stood quite still, positioning ourselves one on each side of the door that led into the next room, a rapid peep revealing a square hall with a low, beamed ceiling and a carved wooden staircase. I guessed that this was part of the original, oldest part of the building.
‘For the last time will you get out!’ a male voice shouted, almost certainly Kettering-Huxley’s. ‘We don’t need you here. You’re a complete pain in the arse – always have been – and I couldn’t care a bloody toss if you’re hanged, drawn and quartered tomorrow. Sort out your own grubby dealings with small-time gangsters.’
‘I just thought that if I could stay here for a few days the police might not—’
There was no mistaking those honking tones.
‘Are you deaf? Go! Get out before I throw you out!’
‘Quentin …’Honor’s voice began.
‘I know what you’re going to say, Honor. Diddums has a broken nose. By his own admission a woman hit him. That lady must pack quite a punch. She deserves a medal and if I meet her one day I’ll give her one.’
‘She knocks around with the cop who interviewed me at home,’ du Norde went on grimly. ‘He rang me tonight and wanted to know where Fiona lives. That’s—’
‘And you told him, I suppose.’
The hooting went up an octave. ‘Did I have a choice? You haven’t met this man. He’d have come round again and taken me apart. But I did tell him that there was the party at your place tonight and he wasn’t to intrude.’
There was a short silence and then Kettering-Huxley said, ‘But, wait a minute. I have met him. That’s who it must have been who gatecrashed. He’d been in the house and grilled Fiona.’
‘So you drove all this way for what reason?’ Honor asked coldl
y.
‘Well, I suppose I panicked when he homed in to question me too. I decided you and I needed to talk.’
‘Your judgement being razor-sharp on account of having drunk a skinful of booze. You’re a damned fool to drive in this state. Just think what would have happened if you’d been stopped by the police. Your reputation would have been in ruins and I shouldn’t imagine Her Majesty would have wanted you to be her new surgeon then.’
‘That’s all you bloody well think of – climbing the social ladder.’
‘Quentin.’ Honor said warningly.
‘Oh, so you’re shacking up with him now,’ du Norde piped up, and I realized that he had been drinking too.
‘I am not shacking up with anyone, as you so revoltingly put it!’ Honor shrieked. ‘Do as he says and leave!’
‘Is that it?’ her son blared. ‘He divorces Fiona, you both get married and you’ve swapped a no-hoper back-bencher for someone who’ll soon be toadying at court. That would figure.’
‘Get out!’ Honor screamed.
‘And for all I know it was you who did Jason in. That would be your style of nasty temper too. I remember when you went for that cleaning woman with a knife once and cut her arm quite badly because she broke your favourite vase. It was all hushed up and she was given a hell of a lot of money to leave and keep quiet about it. So what was Jason doing to annoy you then? Or was he just in the way? God, the more I think about this the more it all fits.’
There was the sound of a scuffle.
‘A real scandal?’ du Norde carried on, struggling to speak. ‘An affair? Something a bit more sordid? Going back to one of his old boyfriends? Was that why he was in the park that night?’
More sounds of a struggle.
‘You know, I’ve a good mind to go and and find that cop and tell him what—’ Du Norde was forced to stop speaking again and there was a heavy thump.
I looked at Patrick questioningly. He nodded in agreement and we went into the house. It was not difficult to locate them and for a long moment neither of the men noticed our arrival. Honor had disappeared – I supposed out through another doorway in the room.
It seemed fairly obvious that Theodore du Norde had fallen backwards over a footstool as Kettering-Huxley had carried on manhandling him in an effort to physically eject him from the house. Du Norde, still lying flat on his back on the floor, took one look at us, scrabbled on to his knees and with a speed incredible for such a big, bulky man, crawled towards us.
‘For God’s sake help me,’ he babbled. ‘My mother’s having one of her tempers and she’s gone to –’ He glanced over towards the door and uttered a loud wail.
‘So she has,’ Patrick whispered. Then, louder, ‘Mrs Giddings, I strongly suggest you put down that knife.’
The woman appeared demented, her eyes glassy, her teeth bared in a terrible rictus like a silent snarl. In her right hand was a large stainless-steel carving knife.
‘Honor!’ Kettering-Huxley shouted. ‘What the hell’s got into you?’
‘Everything I plan for is ruined by idiots!’ she screamed. ‘My whole life has been ruined by idiots!’
‘She gets like this sometimes,’ du Norde moaned, scuttling on hands and knees to come and hide behind me. ‘Oh, God, she’ll kill me too!’
Honor advanced on the pair of us. ‘In answer to your question, Theo,’ she said in a low, dead voice, ‘Jason was about to go and live with one of his boyfriends, a particularly slimy individual who runs a chain of betting shops and whom I understand is a criminal. I don’t know in which particular sewer they met – I don’t care – and I damned well fixed it that he wouldn’t!’
‘You said you fixed it with a contract man!’ Kettering-Huxley said, staring at the knife, clearly appalled.
‘Well, I didn’t!’ Honor screamed. ‘I fixed him myself!’ She had turned the knife so the blade was now pointing towards her stomach, holding it two-handed.
‘Please calm down and give me the knife,’ Patrick said.
But Honor curled over slightly, straightening her arms before plunging the blade towards her body.
Patrick leapt forward and grasped both her wrists. My vision greyed when the woman shrieked, thinking he had been too late, and for a never-ending moment the two remained locked, as it were, in counter-effort. Then Honor’s legs gave way and with a dispairing cry she slumped to the floor. I still thought she had succeeded in seriously injuring herself and went to her.
‘Get away from me, you bitch!’ she yelled, getting to her feet, at which point any sympathy I had for her ran bone dry.
‘You’re under arrest,’ Patrick told her. He handed the knife to me and I took it and held it by the blade, hardly hearing the rest of it.
‘… to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in …’
‘Oh thank you,’ du Norde was burbling at me from the floor. ‘Thank you, thank you.’
I really thought that, had I tossed him a dog biscuit, he would have eaten it.
Eighteen
Had she really meant to kill herself? Perhaps we would never know, but the rages that she was prone to, and vented on others, a trait that had only manifested itself in the past five years or so, were not in doubt – something that would emerge during her and Kettering-Huxley’s trial. But no one would ever know what had possessed her that night to drive to the park, ostensibly to look for her husband, having fully prepared herself not with the tools of her trade but with that same kitchen knife, plus another smaller one, and butcher him. On her return to The Chantry the knives had been rinsed and placed in the dishwasher, the plastic anti-contamination suit, together with plastic bags she had worn over her shoes, screwed up tightly and burnt in a Swedish woodstove in the hall.
The two had already planned to do away with Giddings, with the help of a contract killer who would make it look like an accident. What had made Honor decide to kill him herself? It would transpire on the evidence of the housekeeper, Hilary, that her employer had been in a black mood all day. Also, Honor had discovered only twenty-four hours previously, from Jason himself, that he intended to leave her. But nothing could be proved as to whether he had indeed meant to leave her for a man and this was strongly denied by his parliamentary colleagues, a couple of whom did, however, know that he intended to seek divorce from Honor. Had he found out about the affair with her brother-in-law? I could imagine a situation where a man, at the end of his tether because of spiteful rages and adultery, would retaliate by shouting all kinds of outlandish things.
Discovery of all this was in the future, though, and after following the area car conveying Honor Giddings to Woodhill police station, where we completed the formalities of handing her over, we left. By this time it was three in the morning.
‘Just the hour to tell Brinkley, that renowned head of a branch of a branch, His Twigship, that we’ve solved his case for him,’ Patrick said, having consulted his watch.
‘You might be storing up trouble for yourself again,’ I warned.
‘The wise oracle speaketh,’ he murmured, punching in numbers on his phone and obviously on a high. ‘And the crazed fool heedeth her not and sinneth mightily. And lo, the heavens opened and bolts of fire were hurled upon him until just his boots, which smoketh and – Hello, John you old rogue. That was quick. Expecting a call were you? … Oh, just got to bed after a hellish night. Well, we both know how it is – never off the job …’
I strolled towards the car. As had previously occurred to me, this was going to run and run.
A few weeks later there was an article in the Sunday Telegraph’s supplement about a new project in Woodhill, at the Benfleet Centre. The gardens, which were far more historically important than I had realized, were now in the latter stages of being restored and, following publicity and work done by the Trust’s education officer, new applications for the allotments were being received, including for the first time some from ethnic minorities. People had ap
parently also been inspired to grow their own food by watching television gardening programmes and there were so many keen would-be vegetable growers that it had been decided to use part of an old meadow, at present still down to grass, in a new scheme.
‘That’s Esme!’ I exclaimed, seeing a photograph of some new allotment holders – ladies – posing with their forks and spades.
Patrick had just come into the living room and looked over my shoulder. ‘So it is.’
‘You had nothing to do with this – or did you?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘I don’t suppose Evian will want to dig and rake.’
‘He might be too tired. Sorry, it had slipped my mind. The first day I trawled around Woodhill with the mugshot of Brocklebank I got talking to the local vicar – there was always the chance that he’d seen him around the town. I asked him what was available for young people to do in the area and he told me that the diocese, together with various other organizations, was setting up a sports club, which was opening very shortly. I phoned Esme and asked if she wanted me to put Evian’s name down and he was mad keen and shot off to see all his friends where they lived before to get them involved as well.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I said.
He followed my gaze. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘I’ve been wondering if we could move that chest of drawers somewhere more private.’
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