The Art of Murder (Harriet Quigley Mystery)

by Nicola Slade

  ‘This is my husband, George,’ the woman’s voice with its built-in whinge was annoying Sam decided as he shook hands with the other man. He caught himself up at the lack of Christian charity in his snap judgement, annoyed that Harriet’s reaction to the newcomer must have prejudiced him.

  ‘It’s a long time since I left Winchester.’ There was reproof in her voice. ‘I’ve been Mrs George Yarrow for nearly 20 years. We lived in Wales until George retired last spring and we decided to move back to Hampshire.’ She looked round the room, staring at the other members of the party and Harriet wondered why the woman’s mouth was puckered in such a sulky fashion. ‘Nobody forced you to sign up for the weekend,’ she found herself snapping silently. ‘Now you’re here, the least you can do is try to be pleasant.’

  Damn, the woman always had that effect on her – you found yourself reverting to playground manners. She heard a tinkling laugh from Linzi Bray who was just outside in the hall.

  ‘Oh look,’ she was speaking to Fiona, her voice audible to Harriet, ‘it’s my neighbours, what a surprise. She twitches the curtains and snoops all the time and George is a total nuisance about his garden, screams at me if a weed dares to creep under the fence. He’s one of those ghastly men you get in the papers: chops down your tree if a solitary leaf falls in his garden. You know? Manicures his lawn with nail scissors, that kind of thing.’

  With another laugh she turned away but not before Harriet realised, with sharp sympathy, that George Yarrow had heard every word.

  *

  Harriet’s eyes glazed over as she listened to Clare, whose conversation took the form of complaints about people whom she had thought of as friends but who had turned out to be unworthy.

  ‘So many times, Harriet,’ she leaned in, seeming not to notice Harriet’s instinctive recoil, ‘I’m always very supportive myself, but I’ve been let down so often after I’ve put myself out for friends, only to discover that they were uncaring and ungrateful.’ She breathed heavily through her mouth and Harriet shot Sam a pleading glance.

  Right on cue he came to the rescue. ‘I was brought up next door to Harriet,’ he ventured. ‘I expect I’d moved away before you arrived.’

  ‘You had.’ Harriet made an effort. ‘Clare’s parents lived two doors down and I met them when I used to visit most weekends after Dad died. They’d moved away by the time I gave up my London school and got a job locally to keep an eye on Mother. That would be more than 20 years ago, after she had a stroke and couldn’t cope on her own.’

  ‘I believe you’ve come here from Wales? My late wife had relatives near Caerleon.’ Sam gallantly took up the conversational reins. ‘We often visited them and I’m particularly fond of the Roman ruins. Did you live anywhere near there, Clare?’ To Sam’s affectionate eye it was clear that Harriet was desperately trying to sidle away from her former neighbour. He could see why; the woman’s mouth turned down in a permanently dissatisfied expression. He tuned out as she droned on about the way house prices in Winchester had risen so sharply that she and George had not been able to buy a house like her parents’ former home.

  ‘No, we lived in mid-Wales, in the back of beyond. It was George’s choice.’ Her tone was dismissive. ‘I moved back with my parents when my first husband died.’ Sam made sympathetic noises. ‘He left me very badly off but I consoled myself that my parents’ house would ultimately provide for me. However, when it was sold the market was at rock bottom and my elder sister insisted on taking half,’ she sniffed. ‘She married money so she really should have let me have it all. Still, when I think how much the house would have made a few years later I could spit.’ She directed a glare at Harriet. ‘I suppose you sold your family home for plenty, didn’t you, Harriet?’

  ‘Squillions,’ Harriet lied, with a bright, malicious smile. ‘Absolutely squillions, so I’m rolling in it. Sam, can I drag you away? Something I meant to discuss with you.’

  ‘Phew,’ he breathed a sigh of relief. ‘So why have I never heard about all these millions of yours? And who on earth is that depressing female? I try not to be judgemental, but wasn’t there some woman who told Winston Churchill she’d give him poison if he were her husband and he said “If you were my wife, madam, I’d take it?” I’d want to chuck myself in the river if I had to take much of her.’

  ‘I know,’ Harriet moved towards the bay window. ‘Here, I think we should be safe till conscience makes us mingle again. I didn’t make millions, as you well know, but the house did fetch a good price, so let her fester about it. She was always jealous of everyone.

  ‘You know how Mother used to look for the good in people? Even she gave up on Clare. Nothing is ever right; people always let her down; life has treated her badly – it’s always the same old song.’ Harriet made a face. ‘She worked briefly for our dentist as a hygienist and I always made appointments when she was off-duty. I wonder what her husband is like; he doesn’t look particularly happy.’

  *

  George Yarrow felt no happier than he looked, as he informed Harriet when she unwisely strayed near him. ‘This is a waste of time and money, this whole ridiculous weekend,’ he muttered as he irritably tapped a fingernail against his teeth. ‘I’m seriously into model engineering, you know,’ he griped, ‘and I could have made a real start on the1/48th scale all-metal Spitfire F Mk XIV.’ He droned on, ignoring Harriet’s glazed expression. ‘That’s rather advanced, you know, but I’m quite up to the challenge and I’m really looking forward to getting into metal modelling. It’s quite a change of direction for me and I’ve no idea why Clare wants to get involved in this nonsense. She’s not artistic, I’m not artistic, and the only reason I’ve tagged along is to see the garden. It’s supposed to be something special.’

  *

  It had been the previous Sunday afternoon, he recalled, barely noticing when Harriet smiled politely and slipped away. Clare had arrived home from Sainsbury’s after lurking round the chiller cabinets looking for last-minute reductions.

  ‘I’ve signed us up for a weekend painting course,’ she had announced. ‘Nonsense, George, of course you’ll come. It’s an art group in Locksley and I rang up to say I wanted to join. To cut a long story short …’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ George had muttered but he subsided and let her get on with it. No point trying to put her off; she had the persistence of a woodpecker and a voice to match.

  ‘… the woman I spoke to, Fiona something, told me they had vacancies on this course so I said we’d be delighted to join.’

  George had spent the last few days alternating between heavy-duty sulking and a reluctant curiosity. Clare was never impulsive, so what was behind this sudden incursion into the world of art? She had paid up-front for the course using money from the joint account and although George was furious, he had every intention of getting his money’s worth.

  As the Yarrows entered Tadema Lodge by the imposing front door, he’d caught a glimpse of a familiar face. To Clare’s constant disgruntlement, Linzi Bray’s house was large and modern while the Yarrows’ Victorian lodge was cramped and dingy. Clare’s only consolation for what she regarded as her misfortune and her neighbour’s probably undeserved good luck, was that their house was at a higher elevation so she could spend hours snooping.

  And now, George thought, here was their neighbour, Linzi Bray. Knowing his wife as he did, he was quite sure this was no coincidence and he wondered suddenly about Clare’s suspicions regarding him and Linzi. He smirked briefly but his temper, already inflamed by his continuing dislike of his wife, was ready to boil over after he heard Linzi’s dismissive comments about him.

  *

  Fiona whispered in passing that the only other male present was Donald Ramson, the visiting art teacher. He was a gaunt-looking, balding man whose remaining ginger-and-white hair reminded Harriet of her neighbour’s cat. A mournful moustache drooped over his top lip and Harriet wondered why he bothered, while a straggling beard dangled limply from his chin, probably a cherished relic
of his student days. He looked – unloved – she thought suddenly, and looked again. A jazz fan, she guessed, with that T-shirt featuring a silhouette of Louis Armstrong playing the trumpet, and he’d probably worn his hair in a ponytail back in the day. He’d made an effort; he wore a black jacket that looked too big for his bony frame, and perched on the back of his head was a small, round hat, also black. She was touched when she realised he’d taken the trouble to press the jacket and even his jeans, but despite this, she thought he looked threadbare and forlorn.

  Harriet watched thoughtfully as he reached in his pocket for a tissue, blew his nose, and glanced round the room. His hand was shaking. It didn’t bode well she thought; surely an artist ought to have a steady hand? Harriet watched him, hands on hips, out-thrust jaw, and brown eyes that peered over his wire-rimmed glasses as he thirstily scanned the bottles and decanters on the sideboard.

  *

  Donald thrust both hands in his pockets to hide the shakes. ‘Bloody hell,’ he groused, shivering. ‘I can’t do it. I’ll never get through it. What am I doing here?’ It had seemed possible. Perhaps, he had thought with a glimmer of something like optimism, there might be the potential to open up new horizons, despite that woman with her fake smile and her light, sweet voice. He could hear her now, saying ‘Oh, no, Donald, the group will generously pay expenses and board and lodging for the weekend, but you’ll hardly expect a fee. I’m only too happy to give you a last chance; just try not to let me down.’

  Cow! I wouldn’t put it past her to spike my drink, just to make me fail at this. He averted his eyes from the bottles and prayed. Don’t let me fail, God, don’t let me cock this up. If they like me, I could drag my self-esteem back up from the gutter and they might even take me on as resident teacher to their group.

  Just don’t let that bloody woman wind me up or I swear I’ll strangle her.

  *

  ‘There are only three men apart from you,’ Harriet murmured as Sam wandered back to her side. ‘Fiona explained that besides you and me there are eight women on this residential course, plus the three men, though the actual membership list is up to 20-something now. This lot were the only ones who could make the weekend, though I suspect it’s the cost as much as the short notice. I told you it was Linzi Thingy’s idea and she tanked over any objections. Apparently a number of people on the list have already fallen foul of her so there weren’t many willing to be trapped with her for a weekend.

  ‘Fiona said she just phoned down the list so a couple of attendees are complete newcomers. She’s planning to get a constitution written up that will ensure major decisions are ratified by the whole group in future.’ She sighed. ‘I must say, it’s not an inspiring bunch from what I’ve seen so far. What do you think?’

  ‘Have to agree,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘I’m sticking to you like a burr, so for heaven’s sake don’t let me get sandwiched between Bonnie and Linzi, charming as she is. I might be flattering myself but she seemed to be showing an interest—’

  Harriet grinned at him. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, you can laugh,’ he said, with a defensive shrug. ‘Don’t forget I’ve been hunted before; the dog-collar brings ’em out in droves.’ She cast a pointed look at his open-necked blue shirt. ‘I know, I know, but I’m not running any risks, however big-headed that might sound. It’s never easy to extricate yourself without causing offence. Avril used to do it for me.’ He caught her eye and they both smiled fondly as they remembered his determined wife firmly seeing off a predator. ‘As for Linzi … I’m under no illusions about these high-maintenance women so I’m keeping out of her way.’

  Harriet dropped her teasing. Linzi’s interest looked more like a reflex response to any personable and prosperous man, rather than a personal attraction, but Sam might as well hang on to his illusions. She looked up as he murmured: ‘I recognise the woman who volunteers in the village shop, and the teacher is vaguely familiar, though I can’t place him just now.’

  Harriet nodded thoughtfully as she glanced again at Donald. She straightened up as Fiona, leading the way back into the drawing room, was elbowed out of the way by Linzi who wore a plaintive expression. Harriet narrowed her eyes but wasn’t close enough to discern whether the woman had had work done, as Nina, the treasurer, had asserted. There was certainly an illusion of youthfulness about the brown eyes and arresting cheekbones.

  Linzi turned to the meek woman from the village with a martyred smile. ‘Oh, Madeleine, would you be an angel and fetch my pashmina? I did ask you, if you remember, and I really must have it to hand as I feel the draught so badly. My reading glasses too.’

  ‘What did your last slave die of?’ Despite the bell-like sweetness of the voice, it was an order and Harriet pursed her lips as she stared in disapproval. Linzi’s apparently willing henchwoman wore a defeated look as she trailed obediently out of the room.

  Harriet sighed and considered Linzi. Any woman who was being stalked would be jittery and jumpy – if she was being stalked. Unaware of being watched, Linzi let down her guard for a moment and looked, Harriet thought – with a pang of reluctant sympathy – at least ten years older. The expertly applied blusher stood out against an unhealthy pallor. A sudden idea struck Harriet. This fall that Linzi had suffered the other night, was it really an accident? She had volunteered no particulars and brushed aside the odd sympathetic query. Was it connected with the stalker business?

  While Harriet was watching her, Linzi straightened her shoulders and switched on the charm, dimpling at George Yarrow, surely a lost cause; he responded with only a sour grunt. Sam got the hundred-watt treatment and evidently delighted Linzi with his response, a gallant bow, though he didn’t spot his cousin’s sardonic expression as he ambled back in her direction, smugly flattered.

  After her short time in Linzi’s room Fiona Christie was looking ruffled, which was unlike her, and Madeleine from the shop now wordlessly handed over the pashmina with an anxious frown on her pale face.

  ‘You know what this reminds me of, Sam, this bunch of ill-assorted people in a big house?’ Harriet’s murmur was accompanied by a sudden shiver. ‘Remember that convalescent place I stayed in last year?’

  Sam looked dismayed. ‘You mean the one with hot and cold running corpses?’ He made a face. ‘That’s not a reassuring comparison by any stretch of the imagination.’

  ‘Pay no attention. I expect I’m just being fanciful.’ She summoned up a smile that faded as she met his gaze. His usual good-humoured twinkle vanished and a frown creased his forehead.

  He stared at her for a moment then shook his head. ‘But you’re not the fanciful type, Harriet. You’re not hiding something from me, are you?’ He looked suspicious so she hastened to reassure him, and he cast a covert glance round the room. ‘I know you’ve had your moments lately and I have to admit you’ve been right a couple of times, but as a rule you don’t go in for wild conjecture. I really wish, though, that you hadn’t reminded me about the other place.’ He still looked perturbed. ‘I’d say this situation is nothing like it, yet I can’t deny that the company seems mismatched.’

  ‘Don’t you think, though, that there’s a sense of anxiety, a frisson perhaps?’ Harriet pursed her lips wishing she could tell Sam about the stalker business. ‘I thought it was all okay, but some of the guests looked distinctly edgy when Linzi arrived, and one or two are quite nervy now she’s back in the room. I know she’s supposed to be a disruptive influence in the art group so I can see how that might upset Fiona and her friends, but surely some of these people are strangers to Linzi?’

  Under cover of admiring the ornate plaster-work, Sam looked round at their fellow guests and shrugged.

  ‘They’re certainly strangers to Fiona,’ Harriet sighed. ‘I told you she just went through the list of people who’d signed up for the art group. I’ve no idea why some of them looked startled when Linzi walked in, but they did. Bonnie Thingy looked shaken, and so did Clare’s husband, plus the pretty younger woman in the corner. As for
Tim, the solicitor, he swore when he saw her, but did a U-turn and insisted he’d mistaken her for someone else.

  ‘I don’t know, Sam, it’s not just the newcomers. It strikes me they’re all on edge.’

  He gave her a sharp nudge with his elbow as he pulled out a chair for her to join the rest, all taking seats in the drawing room at Fiona’s request. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, I’m sorry I even bothered to listen to you. Stop fretting, Hat. Everything will turn out fine,’ he murmured, exasperated affection in his voice. ‘This is just a weekend course and we needn’t see any of them again except to nod to the locals, so you’re not to start making something out of nothing. If some of these people have a problem with the organiser that’s their business, so for heaven’s sake don’t go poking into any festering sores. Just sit back and try to enjoy yourself.’

  Harriet’s eyebrows met in a frown. She was going to have to tell Sam about the Linzi business and he was going to hit the roof because Fiona had involved her, so she crossed her fingers. Everyone now gathered round in a rough circle, on chairs, sofas and stools, to listen as Fiona outlined the evening’s activities.

  ‘Tomorrow’s dinner is included in the overall cost of the weekend but for tonight we’ve done a deal with a local pub,’ Fiona announced. ‘Winchester’s full of pubs and this one is excellent. It’s not far and it’s all on level ground, so there shouldn’t be any difficulty. Linzi, what about your sore leg, will you want a lift? No? Very well, the table is booked for 7pm so I suggest we meet here 15 minutes earlier and set out a group. It’s a lovely evening for a gentle stroll.’ She consulted her notes. ‘We’ll be eating in a private room and the scheme is that we all order what we want and pay individually; they’ve promised a good discount. Everyone clear?’ She glanced at a note and looked at them. ‘I nearly forgot. Eve says the wasps are really bad this year; they’ve had to deal with several nests recently so you’d better keep your windows closed.’