“Found more than his art to her liking, I daresay,” Jamie murmured.
Jane raised a book and flung it at her husband. He caught it deftly.
“First cricket eleven at my school.” He grinned at Tom, then glanced at the title. “The Heath Government: 1970–1974: A Reappraisal,” he recited, grin turned grimace. “Looks like heavy wading. Hector does read some wretched stuff.”
Jamie proffered the book to Jane, who shook her head and indicated a side table. “What do you think is the relationship between Roberto and Marve? Are they, you know …?”
“Is it important?” Jane asked.
“No, I expect not. It does seem a bit … unnatural.”
“Says Farmer Jamie.” Jane regarded her husband wryly. “And if the shoe were on the other foot, on the male foot, what would you say?”
“I would say, lucky old male foot.”
“Double standard.”
“Help me out, Tom,” Jamie moaned. “Men with younger women—it has history. But women with younger men—much younger—well, it’s not really the done thing, is it?”
Tom felt a blush creeping up his neck, a riotous reimagining of his own nighttime coupling with a younger woman, more than a decade younger. “I think I should keep well out of this discussion.”
Jamie grunted. “Dominic thinks he’s gay.”
“Roberto?” Jane frowned, rising from her chair and moving towards the library table. “I don’t think so. Tom?”
Tom shrugged. “Oliver hinted as much to Dominic. I happened to overhear. But—”
“Wishful thinking on Dominic’s part, I expect. Where is Hector? We were going to look at his plans for a micro-hydro system for the estate. Perhaps he’s still in the dining room.” Jamie glanced towards the door to the corridor. His face fell. “That was a bit of a cheerless gathering, wasn’t it? The nosh was very good, though. Yet again. We’ve had some wonderful meals here, haven’t we, Jane? Georgie’s certainly struck lucky with Mrs. Gaunt.” He paused. “That is your housekeeper, isn’t it, Tom? Serving last night on the terrace? I glimpsed her through the door to the dining room this lunch.”
“She went to cookery school in London with Ellen Gaunt. She’s here for a visit.”
“More a busman’s holiday, I should think.”
“Oh, Mrs. Prowse is in her element, very much enjoying herself.”
“I wish I could say the same.” Jamie’s face fell. “I was thinking at lunch that of the three great friends at school, at Shrewsbury, all are gone well before their time—Boysie, my brother,” he clarified for Tom, “Kamran Arouzi, who died—by his own hand—just before our wedding, remember, Jane? The three of them had that scheme to open a nightclub in Villiers Street then. Icarus. Still there, isn’t it?”
“You can tell we don’t get out much, darling. Icarus is the most popular dance club in London—has been for a dozen years. And Olly was planning to expand—didn’t you know? It was in the news. Versions in Berlin and Amsterdam and New York and such.”
“Sorry, yes, Olly did mention some business scheme when we lunched at the Pilgrims on Friday. The Icarii. Seemed awfully ambitious in this economic climate, I thought. It’s not easy getting the banks to loan you money for anything.” Jamie turned to look at his wife. “That won’t come to pass with Oliver gone. It’s all terribly sad.”
“Yes, it is,” Jane agreed, sifting through the literature on the library table.
“You seem a bit restless, darling.”
“Do I? It’s just the waiting, I suppose. A death in the family seems to suspend time.”
“And speaking of family, there’s my parents to consider.”
“Jamie, you haven’t phoned Tullochbrae yet?”
“You wouldn’t care to, would you? My father’s having a slow recovery from his stroke,” Jamie explained to Tom. “This will be a bit of a blow.”
“Probably best coming from you, Jamie. Your mother can tell your father. She won’t know what’s happened here yet, I’m sure. She’ll have the TV and radio off and the kids’ computers under lock and key—particularly on Sunday. My mother-in-law is a fresh-air fiend,” Jane added for Tom’s benefit. “Particularly at Tullochbrae. But, Jamie, better let her know before she hears it from one of the staff.”
“It may be a while before we can rescue our little darlings.” Jamie rose from the chair and reached into his pocket, pulling out his mobile.
“Wait! Before you go …” Jane glanced up from the newspaper on the table before her. “At Tullochbrae years ago, when I first knew you, wasn’t there a boy named David who was mentally challenged?”
“Yes, David Corlett, the land agent’s son. Why?”
“Oh, Corlett.” Jane’s disappointment was audible. “Never mind. I was just glancing at this story. What is this paper?” She turned back a page. “Local. South Devon Herald. There’s a story about an inquest next week into the death of a David Phillips who shared a cottage in Abbotswick with his sister, Anna. Hit and run. Near Buckfastleigh. According to this, he was mentally challenged. Lived in a Steiner community.”
Jamie turned back. “Does it give an age?”
Jane glanced at the paper. “Twenty-seven.”
“That would be … about right, I think. Photo?”
“No.”
Jamie moved to look over Jane’s shoulder. “But the sister’s Christian name isn’t right, either. David’s sister was Ree to us. Ree Corlett. Attractive girl. Very bright. Had to be mother to the boy, really. Her own mother died years earlier, of what I’m not sure. I was too young to remember.” He frowned. “Not quite the lead one would like, do you think, darling?”
“Just a minute.” Jane’s voice grew excited. “Look at this, Jamie. It mentions Anna’s partner—John!”
Jamie leaned down as Jane held up the paper for his scrutiny. “It says ‘John Phillips.’ ”
“But isn’t that odd? Don’t you think so, Jamie? If he’s her partner—not her husband—why would they have the same last name? And if John and Anna are a married couple, her brother’s unlikely to share her husband’s last name, yes?”
Jamie was silent a moment. “Perhaps … though, honestly, darling, John is an awfully common name, and so is Phillips, come to that. They might be disparate Phillipses that somehow came together.”
“Jamie!”
“I’m sorry, Jane. I simply don’t wish to have my hopes dashed again. It all seems too much of a coincidence.”
“Tom?” Jane lowered the newspaper and cast him beseeching eyes.
“Well, I think things that seem like coincidence are often more … oh, how can I put it?… more often confluences of shared circumstances and shared interests and shared people and the like. Quite natural in a way, so—”
“Yes!” Jane interrupted. “Jamie, I remember you telling me that John was always very kind to David, who wasn’t easy to handle. And mightn’t John have been attracted to Ree? Isn’t it possible? Teenagers? Around the same age? They would have at least known each other. And don’t forget that Tom said in an email last year that his housekeeper saw John on Dartmoor.”
“It was a woman in the village who thought she saw him,” Tom reminded her, “and told Mrs. Prowse who told me—”
“It’s all a bit straw-grasping, darling,” Jamie interrupted. “We’re still faced with the fact that this woman’s name is Anna.”
Jane looked unconvinced. “But it’s reasonable. John—Sebastian, as Tom knows him—disappeared from Thornford over a year ago when that poor girl was found dead in that Japanese drum. He could have gone anywhere—”
“I can’t think how!” Jamie interjected. “He seems to have no passport, no driving licence, no bank cards. And don’t think we haven’t looked into it.” He glanced meaningfully at Tom.
“But the point, my darling, is that John may not have gone far. Not if he knew someone nearby, someone who could help him—Anna! Though why she’d change her name …” Jane trailed off, frowning. “Mr. Corlett died, didn’t he? Around
the time of John’s trial.”
“Heart attack, much too young. Tragedy all around in those months. Ree and David left Tullochbrae soon after. Too much a place of sorrow, I expect. I have no idea where they pitched up.”
“In Abbotswick!”
“Darling, really.”
“What seems like coincidence, isn’t. It’s a natural … Tom?”
“Confluence.”
“More of a miracle, I would say.” Jamie glanced at his watch. “And I thought those went out with loaves and fishes.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Tom raised an eyebrow.
“We’ve got to talk to this Anna Phillips, Jamie.”
“Wouldn’t we be intruding on her grief?”
“I think you’ll have a time getting into Abbotswick,” Tom said. “The police wouldn’t let Father Downes in, and they’re not going to let anyone leave, at least for some while.”
When Tom returned to Eggescombe Hall from the stables with Jane, Marguerite, and the children, the police were already a palpable presence on the estate. Various specialist vehicles were visible at a distance hugging the edge of the drive nearest the Labyrinth, with assorted uniformed people in purposeful movement. With a little dismay, he noted behind the other vehicles in the circular sweep of gravel in front of the Hall a familiar red Astra, glinting fiercely in the noon sun. As he approached, the equally familiar figures of Detective Inspector Derek Bliss and Detective Sergeant Colin Blessing of Totnes CID emerged, ushered forth by Gaunt, immaculate in his suit, his face in the open door’s half shadow unreadable. DI Bliss stepped into the sunshine and waggled a finger at Tom as the others slipped back into the Hall.
“I understood you’d dropped in,” he barked without apparent irony, casting him a baleful glance. DS Blessing looked at his cast boot.
“As long as I’m not dropped in it,” Tom countered, struggling for levity. Bliss and Blessing, he’d discovered through previous encounters, were always a bit of rough sailing. Bliss, the younger of the pair, though senior in rank, was a twitchy sort, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin, while Blessing had skin that was uncomfortable, at least to look at, as the man had a face battered—Tom figured—from a virulent case of teenage acne.
Bliss grunted at Tom’s bon mot, ascertained that Tom had indeed, as PC Widger had already informed him, found Lord Morborne’s body in the Labyrinth. Their conversation was perfunctory: Tom gave them a précis of the sunrise circumstances, including his dew path excursion, for which he received a ticking-off for disturbing a crime scene, and was invited in no uncertain terms to remain as Lord Fairhaven’s guest for the time being. He wasn’t completely forthcoming with the inspector about the morning, however. Two things about those early hours in the Labyrinth disturbed him, but he didn’t want to say anything unless he determined himself they were consequential.
“I can’t bear having to stay put when John may be somewhere on the other side of the Gatehouse,” Jane said now. “I wonder if the police would let me—”
“I think they would sense a wild goose chase in the offing,” Jamie interrupted.
“It’s neither ‘wild’ nor ‘goose.’ ”
“Gander, then. I’m going to root Hector out. I can sense your little grey cells on the march, darling. Better I get out of the way. Try not to be a nuisance to the vicar.”
“Don’t forget to phone your mother,” Jane called after him, adding to Tom: “My husband is very sweet, but he can be a bit incurious. I do know he’s more affected by Oliver’s death than he’s letting on, though.” She paused. “I guess you’ll have to make other arrangements, too.”
“I had thought Miranda and I might get to London by train this afternoon and leave the car with Mrs. Prowse, but I guess that’s off. I’ll have to phone my mothers shortly, as well.”
“By the way,” Jane began in a low voice, after the sound of Jamie’s footfalls along the corridor had faded, “did you tell the inspector what you told me about Hector? About your finding him looking for something on Oliver’s body?”
Tom shook his head. He had crossed Hector’s path outside Eggescombe’s great hall after his brief exchange with Bliss and Blessing and received a glance that he could only describe as wary. An attempt to enter into dialogue was rebuffed: Hector claimed important work to attend to.
“No, I didn’t think it fair to say anything,” he replied to Jane’s question. “I must speak to Hector privately first.”
“That’s very fair.”
“Jane …” He had another thought.
She glanced at him expectantly.
“Jane,” he began again, “had you walked the Labyrinth before?”
“You mean before this morning? Yes, Jamie and I walked it the evening of the day we arrived.”
“And did you get a good look at the statue of Mary?”
“Yes. Well, sort of. It’s very good.”
“And had you met Roberto before?”
“Only when you did—last evening when Marve brought him to the barbecue. He works all the time, as I mentioned earlier, and I’m sure he’s figured out that Hector doesn’t approve of him.” She refolded the newspaper in front of her. “May I ask where this is leading?”
“I’m not entirely sure. It may be nothing, but last evening Roberto seemed quite insistent that Oliver view his creation, view the statue at the centre of the Labyrinth, almost as if …” He hesitated. “… almost as if he were enticing, tempting, challenging?—I’m not certain which word would do—Oliver in some fashion.”
“Setting him up, in a way.”
“Yes—ugly as that sounds.”
A shadow crossed Jane’s face. “Marve chimed in a bit, didn’t she.”
“The face of the Virgin is exquisite, finely wrought. When I studied it this morning I thought how highly individuated the features were, how distinctive the brow, the nose, the chin. And then, later this morning, when we were with Roberto in his studio, something about his features, his—”
“Of course!” Jane interrupted. “There’s a resemblance. It’s like—”
“A feminine version of Roberto’s face. A smaller chin, a less robust nose, but—”
“But not Roberto feminised.”
“No, not some narcissistic replication. The statue has a living model—had, rather. I’m sure it’s Roberto’s sister, Alessa, idealised as the Virgin Mother.”
“Recognisable to anyone who knew Alessa well—like Oliver.”
“But there’s more, Jane. That white cat, Fred Astaire—very much the wrong name for such a fat cat—that has attached itself to Roberto—”
“That Marve says follows him around, yes.”
“It crossed my path in the Labyrinth this morning.”
Eggescombe Hall
7 AUGUST
Dear Mum,
I can’t remember writing twice in one day before, but what a difference a few hours can make! I’m just returned to the Gatehouse from the Hall, having helped poor Ellen and Mick with Sunday lunch for Lord Fairhaven and his guests, and I can see police cars and all sorts in the gardens if I look out my west window and people standing about in the forecourt of the Gatehouse if I look out my east. And the big gate itself has been shut. A PC was pushing it across the entrance when I was returning from the Hall just now and it sounded so ominious ominous as it rolled across the track! It made me feel we were soon to repel a Norman invasion, but the PC, who had trouble latching the gate (I showed him how!), said it was to keep out the riffraff while there’s a criminal investigation. You must know what I’m talking about, as it will be all over the papers and TV by the time you get this. One of the Leaping Lords was found dead in the Labyrinth early this morning. Mr. Christmas came across him, as it happens. Poor Mr. C. He’s already gone and sprained his ankle, and now this! He and Miranda won’t be going up to London this weekend, I’m sure. Mum, I met the Marquess of Morborne yesterday! The one who died. I should have said earlier. Hard to believe he’s gone today. He cut quite the figure, now I think
on it. Not a big man, but dressed in a fancy shirt and wearing a funny cap which made him stand out. I was serving the nibbles on the terrace last night and he was telling some roaring joke when I passed by with the tray. Wish I could remember what it was now. I had to keep my po face on, of course, but afterwards I had to laugh. He seemed like good company, but then I remembered things I’ve read in the papers about him. Done the dirty on business partners. And all those women! Some of them other men’s wives, too! But then I think the For fforde-Becketts have been cock cuckholds and rooays roues and blaggards and such forever. Look what his father did—divorce his wife and steal his brother’s. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife here, what with all the For fforde-Becketts down for the weekend. Not much love lost, I must say! And didn’t the father—the VERY late Lord Morborne, not the recently late—lose pots of money on some casino hotel scheme in the West Indies before he died playing tennis? And the grandfather was shot dead in Kenya because he was misbehaving with someone’s wife, I think. And then there was that scandal a few years ago when that girl who was the recently late L. Morborne’s girlfriend drowned. It’s all very exciting interesting quite shocking! I won’t go on. I’m sure the Mail or the Mirror is dredging it all up and you reading it this very minute. Anyway, I knew none of what was going on for the longest time this morning. After I finished my first letter to you, I went down for a bite. Ellen and Mick had gone up to the Big House, but as I was eating I could see out the window this young man tearing up the road on foot half dressed as a policeman and I did wonder. But as it’s a holiday, I thought I’d go into Abbotswick and post your letter (though there is a letter box built into the wall right by the Gatehouse—so handy!—though I wonder if anyone will let me out to post THIS letter?) and view the Holne Abbey ruin and go to the Morning Service at St. Swithun’s. The ruin is quite nice, but it did look much more romantic in that Tess of the Derby D’Urbervilles series on telly a few years ago—do you remember? Where the hero places Tess in an empty stone coffin then nods off? Anyway, there wasn’t much doing in the village. I saw Dowager Lady Fairhaven pop out of one of the cottages (doing good works?) and I attended the service, which was a bit down the candle, I must say (the sermon was VERY dull), but when I got back to the Gatehouse, I could sense something was off. I could see a lot of vans up the drive towards the house, for one. And then when I went into the Gatehouse I could hear someone making the oddest noises above me, which I thought peculiar as I expected Ellen and Mick to be at the Big House most of the day. I was a bit unnerved, but intrepdily intrepidly I followed the sound up to Ellen and Mick’s to find Mick rummaging around in a drawer in the bureau in their bedroom, but absolutely convulsed in sobs as if some damn dam had burst. I was quite rooted to the spot for all of a moment it was so disturbing, but then I thought—Lord God, something has happened to Ellen! I went to him, and oh dear, I did surprise the poor man and he tried to cover, as they do. You know what men are like. But it took a very anxious moment (for me!) before he could speak and tell me that it wasn’t Ellen, but Lord Morborne. I was quite surprised that he would take His Lordship’s death so hard. I couldn’t think they would know each other, though I do remember Ellen saying that she and Mick, in their early days together, were staff to Lord Morborne’s uncle, Lord Anthony fforde-Beckett, the younger one who lost his wife to his older brother. Anyway, everyone reacts differently to death, and of course this is a murder, so it makes it all the more worrying. I thought I might lend a hand to Ellen in this troubled time and said so, so I left Mick to recover his sensibilities while I went up to the Hall to help her with Sunday lunch. Poor Ellen, she was suffering in her own way. Gone all white and stiff. “Say your prayers when meeting a red-haired man, since he is not to be trusted,” she said which startled me a bit as Lord Morborne was the victim and I said so, but Ellen wasn’t having any of it. She said he used to hang about when she and Mick were in service to the Arouzis and she didn’t trust him then and she didn’t trust him now, though she didn’t really say why other than to disapprove of the way he dressed. And of course the Arouzi boy took his own life some years ago and that was the last Ellen and Mick saw of Lord Morborne until this weekend. As ye sew, so shall ye reap, she went on a bit. Sometimes I feel that the Ellen I knew at Leiths has gone missing, but I was able to jolly her out of her mood a bit, recalling the time when we were cooking partners at school and she made me evizera debone a duck as she was too squeamish. She’s quite capable of all that now, of course. We cooked roast chicken with courgettes for lunch and served for pudding an apple and marmalade tart. (The same recipe we learned at Leiths!) Quite like the old days, I thought, as we worked together. Eggescombe has a brilliant modern kitchen, carved out of the old servants’ hall. However, Mum, I think I know now why Ellen really went all funny this morning—and why we lost touch—and it’s so very tragic, really. Years ago, about 25 years or so (hard to imagine!), her younger sister Kimberly was killed by some wretch. All of 15 she was, interfered with in the woodland on The Wrekin. And she was strangled, like Lord Morborne! So that’s brought it all back for Ellen, poor woman. When her sister was killed, she couldn’t bear to write about it to any of her friends, hence the silence. (I can’t think what I was doing 25 years ago that I didn’t see it in the papers!) Oddly enough, in a roundabout way, it was Kimberly’s death that brought Ellen and Mick together. Ellen was putting flowers on her sister’s grave in the churchyard at Telford and Mick was doing the same for his mother. Love among the gravestones, it turns out. Married 20 years next year, Ellen said. No kiddies, though. I haven’t liked to ask. Well, I must crack on, Mum. I don’t know what the next hours will bring. I thought I might look at the gardens, as the Labyrinth is sealed off as a crime scene, or walk up onto the moor, as it’s such a nice day, but perhaps I best hang about. Love to Aunt Gwen! (I already said that once today!)
Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) Page 15
