by Amy Myers
‘Only one problem, dearest. The friend says he never saw Giovanni that day, and Giovanni was very late in returning to Frogs Hill. I didn’t hear him come in.’
‘This,’ she said gloomily, ‘is not looking good.’
‘Someone else could have been involved. Giovanni isn’t my idea of a subtle game player,’ I tried to reassure her, ‘so he wouldn’t see a set-up if it hit him in the face. Someone could have faked the murder in the barn and carried out the real murder. Or perhaps someone else did that,’ I added, aware that I was hardly convincing myself, let alone her. I was trussed up tighter than a turkey at Christmas.
‘A plot with a hole. Difficult to play, Jack,’ Louise warned me.
I groaned. ‘Time to rewrite the scene.’
How though? I looked round the garden and thought how peaceful it was, with Louise at my side, summer roses leaping into bloom and every flower that could squeeze an inch or two of space looking its bountiful best. It was a scene far removed from the world of the Alfa Romeo, so lovingly built by Enzo Ferrari and his team over seventy years ago.
‘How about this, Madame?’ I continued. ‘Someone set up the fake, someone else the murder. Neither of them Giovanni.’
‘A Moriarty pulling the strings, do you mean?’
‘Could be. He’d have to be close at hand.’
‘George Makepeace organizing his troops?’
‘I don’t see it. He might have come in after the barn episode, but for the barn set-up the Comptons must surely have been involved.’
‘Agreed. Shouldn’t you begin with where Hugh was during those few days, wounded or not? Off on a cruise maybe?’
‘He was probably not far away, despite the wide search.’
She nodded. ‘If – and only if – there was a fake set-up, Hugh must have known about it.’
My turn to gaze at her as I speedily leapt on to this promising bandwagon. ‘And someone – not necessarily one of the Compton family – knew where he was hiding and stepped in to murder him. Louise, if you ever get sick of the stage we’ll have to become one of those private sleuth partnerships.’
‘No,’ she retorted.
We were both content. Light-heartedness is a good balm for bad times, even though it cures nothing. Even here in the garden at twilight, with the sweet smell of lavender and roses in the air, I was fully aware that tomorrow life would become all too real once again. I had a role to play in that, but at least I had an inkling of where it might be leading me.
Once I’d recovered from the sheer shock of having to take my own words seriously, I began to think them through. If there was a grain of truth in this fantastic notion, then surely the Comptons must be its originators. But why on earth would they set such a thing up? Just give me one good reason, I told myself. The part of my brain responsible for producing rational thought, however, seemed to be taking a temporary holiday at the moment. It might be Sunday and the beginning of June but that didn’t mean it was licensed to have time off. I tried again.
Was a fake murder a double bluff on the Comptons’ part, so that a few days later they could really murder Hugh? That was surely out because Hugh had to be part of the conspiracy if it was going to work. If Hugh had been their intended victim and they had planned to entrap Giovanni, how could they be sure that he would be released from custody in time for him to apparently commit the real murder – unless of course they had hoped to kill him in earnest that same night and something had gone wrong? No, I couldn’t go with that. On the other hand, if they didn’t plan to entrap Giovanni, why on earth bother with such an elaborate hoax?
Nonsense. I realized this was sheer fantasy. Hugh was Peter and Hazel’s son, Bronte’s father and Stephanie’s brother. Passionate feelings might be involved, but not calm, calculated murder.
‘Hoax, Louise,’ I demanded of her at breakfast. ‘What does that mean to you?’ I’d feared that, Sunday or not, she might be rushing off in the small hours to dance in the dawn dew on a film set, but blessedly she was still here.
Unlike Maria. I realized I had not heard her return last night, and she was usually down in the kitchen at her post before anyone else. She must still be with Len, but I would ring after breakfast to check.
‘Weren’t hoaxes quite a thing in the early 1900s?’ Louise replied. ‘Virginia Woolf? She had this friend – Horace something? – who specialized in hoaxes. They travelled to Weymouth masquerading as Abyssinian royalty for a formal inspection of His Majesty’s Ship Dreadnought. Everyone fell for it.’
‘What made them do it?’ I asked curiously.
‘To see if they could fool everyone.’
Would anyone fake a murder just to see if it worked? Hardly. For a start, in this case Hugh would have to be involved in it as his blood was going to be used. One can’t fake that. Back to square one then, as the only alternative would be that he had been wounded and left to die. No way. Hugh appeared to have been a decent enough man, not one who would stir up such antagonism that it led to murder – not by design at least. Now that was a good line of thinking. Was he killed for who he was, not what he was?
I clung on to that as I scooped half a banana on to my muesli. His family knew who he was, as well as what, so why initiate his murder either faked or real at this particular time? Because of the Alfa Romeo and Giovanni? Was the family united over the Alfa Romeo? Stephanie and Paul stood to gain from Hugh’s death if Bronte was excluded. Could Bronte have her own agenda? And what about Hazel? Something clicked neatly into place. Blood, I thought, and Hazel had been a nurse. Nurses knew how to take blood, how much and which drugs to knock someone out. Then the theory clicked right out again. Hazel was Hugh’s mother. No way would she have connived at his murder. If that had been planned, it looked as if I was back at the village development issue as a motive.
‘Why are you staring at that banana?’ Louise enquired politely, reaching for the coffee.
‘Thinking.’
‘Breakfast comes between waking up and thinking,’ Louise said. ‘I emphasize the between.’
I obediently took the point. Nevertheless, I went on thinking. I only had half the banana in this story. No point grabbing at the other half until I had eaten this piece. Another half-eaten banana was Maria and her whereabouts and so after breakfast I duly rang Len. Maria wasn’t there.
‘Said she was going to some friend of Giovanni’s,’ he told me. ‘Up near Eynsford somewhere.’
This friend near Eynsford was beginning to sound like Oscar Wilde’s fictional sick friend Bunbury. Anyway, Maria would have to wait, now I had satisfied myself that she had left Frogs Hill.
More trouble promptly arrived on Monday morning. I had just turned round from waving Louise goodbye in her silver-blue Focus when an ancient jalopy roared through the gates, narrowly missing her. What had I done to deserve Pen Roxton so early in the morning?
‘Time to come clean, Jack!’ she yelled out at me.
‘Time your engine did too, Pen,’ I retorted savagely.
‘I’ll get round to it. More important things.’
‘Such as?’ I asked warily.
‘I’m on the trail. We’re mates, remember? Brother Giovanni, man of honour. Look into it.’
‘Pen, what are you on about? You make him sound like a member of the brotherhood.’
‘So?’
‘It’s far too early for daft theories.’ Even as I said it, I remembered Stephanie’s reference to Mafioso Giovanni. If I wasn’t careful this absurdity would be round the world in no time, courtesy of social media and Pen. Think quickly.
‘I’ve a sensible line that won’t land you in court,’ I offered.
She made a face. ‘Pity. What is it? Not the old village witch story?’
Pen was good, I’ll say that for her. ‘No, not Nan,’ I cried in mock alarm. That would instantly get Pen on her toes. ‘Much better. The Comptons have turned down the development offer.’ I’d misplayed my hand. Even to my ears it sounded a dud story for Pen. She agreed.
‘What are you hiding, Jack?’ she asked suspiciously.
Thank heavens for my usual get-out line – my work for the police. ‘Can’t say. You’ll be the first to know.’
‘One-sided so far, Jack, this collaboration of ours. What have you really got for me?’
I was reasonably safe with this. ‘Two things, Pen. Where was Hugh Compton between Wednesday night and that weekend? Close to home in my view.’
A nose twitched. ‘At the manor?’ she asked eagerly.
‘The police searched the whole estate.’ But perhaps not again.
‘So?’ Pen was still suspicious.
‘He was close. Perhaps he was injured and tried to find help. Escape his attacker.’
‘Sanctuary,’ she breathed, clearly seeing the headline. ‘Missing man sought sanctuary in the church.’
‘Something like that, perhaps,’ I said encouragingly.
‘Second point?’
‘Ask the white witch to look in her crystal ball.’
I’d meant it as a joke, but she was on to it.
‘His crystal ball, Jack.’
Poor Nan. I reckoned he could cope though.
Half an hour later I was well on my way to Plumshaw with the church on my list. Pen wouldn’t be heading there today as she had another story to follow up and press day was tomorrow, for Wednesday publication. I didn’t really think there was much mileage in ‘sanctuary’ but I needed some idea of where Hugh might have been hiding, whether in captivity or of his own volition, assuming he hadn’t died on the Wednesday night. It had to be a good place because of the police search.
Every village used to have an ancient ritual whereby all those fit enough beat the bounds of the parish according to the established markers, following them through every stream, field, bog and woodland, thus establishing their right to their territory for another year. Maybe some villages still do, and I certainly felt I was beating the bounds as I toured both halves of Plumshaw.
I reasoned that if Hugh had hidden of his own free will, he wouldn’t have chosen new Plumshaw, but if in captivity he would have had no choice. That meant he could have been in one of perhaps 200 houses. Just walking round new Plumshaw wasn’t going to give me any answers, but at least it might kindle ideas. The Larches Hotel would hardly prove a good hideaway and neither did Martin’s garage offer a solution. George Makepeace and his wife lived in a large modern house not far from the garage and Jamie lived with his parents further back in the estate. None of them was likely to have held Hugh captive. Short of demanding entry to the rest of the homes, I was no further forward.
Immediately after I crossed the road into the narrow lane leading back to the church and into old Plumshaw I grew more hopeful. The lane, although tarmacked, was little more than a farm track, which suggested less populated areas. I passed a farm entrance, then cottages, an all-purpose shop and the church. Any one of them might have sheltered Hugh Compton, as the larger gardens and the screening trees meant no one was too close to his neighbour.
St Michael’s church was an impressive medieval building which gave no sign that its influence over the village was lessening. Mindful of Pen’s sanctuary quip, I went into the porch to see if the church was open. It wasn’t but as I turned back, a polite female voice asked if she could be of assistance. Although clad in tunic and jeans, she was clearly connected with the church so I explained that I was beating the bounds of both parts of Plumshaw and had heard about the rift between the two sections.
‘God hasn’t quite decided which side he’s on,’ she replied cheerfully, ‘so we keep impartial in St Michael’s. As his mere vicar, I couldn’t possibly speak for him anyway.’
I then showed her my police ID and asked her whether there was any chance that Hugh had been hiding out anywhere near here, including in the church.
‘Ah, that is a terrible business. We had the police round here several times, but I doubt if he was here. He wasn’t hiding in the bell tower or the vestry or the vicarage if that’s what you’re thinking. There’s something weird about the whole story, though.’ She smiled at me. ‘I’m glad I’m not a detective. I deal in certainties.’
‘Did you know Hugh?’
‘Everyone did. He was squire to all intents and purposes, given his father’s age.’
‘Popular?’
‘Yes, except for his views on Plumshaw.’
She urged me to attend the coming village fête and then I carried on down the lane until it reached the main village road. On the corner was a cottage advertising teas and, realizing I was close to Puddledock Cottage, I wondered again whether Hugh had been hiding there for those few days. The Comptons were his landlords, so it was possible Nan might have obliged by sheltering him. The cottage was far enough away for Hugh to have escaped notice and the woods were close enough to provide an escape route if there was a search.
The pond was near Nan’s cottage. I couldn’t get away from that. Had Hugh’s murderer found him there and Nan returned to find him missing? No, that would not work. He had been in the water for two or three days, and Nan would have raised the alarm. As for Nan himself, I still could think of no reason that he would have wanted to kill Hugh.
It was with a sense of unease, however, that I continued beating my own particular bounds through the woods to the manor and then to the Hop and Harry. The pub was not yet open so I wandered round to the car park at its side, which stretched back some way. Behind Lucy’s garden, I could see a number of chalets set in a strip of woodland with fields beyond.
There, I thought, was a real possibility. They weren’t much overlooked from the fields and would escape attention from the car park. This was Compton territory, near enough to be accessible to the manor and secluded enough to escape too much attention. Provided Hugh kept himself to himself (and was fed from time to time) he could have stayed here unobserved. Cleaners? Easy enough to avoid given notice. The chalets would undoubtedly have been searched when Hugh was declared missing but with prior notice he could have hidden himself elsewhere. Andrew and Lucy must have been involved of course. Lucy would have looked after him well, although I bore in mind that Andrew was ambivalent about the Comptons despite the fact that Peter was his landlord.
‘We’re not open yet.’ Andrew appeared as if in a puff of smoke from the kitchens facing the car park and he didn’t look pleased.
‘Get many visitors here, do you?’ I nodded towards the line of chalets.
‘Thinking of making an offer for the place?’
‘Do you need one? I thought you were doing well.’
That stopped him. ‘We are,’ he snapped.
‘You seemed sorry that the Comptons won’t sell though.’
He glared at me. ‘All the same to me. Doing well here, but I can get a job anywhere.’
I doubted that. The food I’d had here was good, but hardly Michelin standard. ‘But Lucy seems happy here,’ I commented.
He didn’t reply. He seemed to have an urgent call on his mobile to answer – at least he clasped the phone to his ear as a subtle hint and strode off. I returned to my Polo to put through a call to Brandon’s team to see if they had checked the chalets. They had. They’d searched all of them on the Thursday morning and all had been empty of signs of occupancy. But they hadn’t checked them again.
With the manor being so close and probably accessible through the fields, these chalets were a real possibility. I had to be careful not to overplay my hand, though. The Comptons were determined people and were not going to give the game away without being convinced that I had winning cards in my hand – and that I was prepared to play them.
In fact I had precious few cards at all. Nevertheless I thought through my line of attack and prepared to tackle the manor. The days of magisterial butlers being over, Hazel answered the doorbell again. I couldn’t have been her favourite visitor but she betrayed no signs of that, just waited for my first move.
Should that be as pawn or queen on this particular chessboard? Queen, I decided. ‘Where was
your son hiding after his faked murder, Mrs Compton?’
Hazel had style. She studied me for a moment, and merely said, ‘Come in.’
Without another word, she led me to the same room as before. Peter was sitting in the same armchair with Paul at his side and Stephanie opposite. There was no sign of Bronte, however. Whatever it was that the family meeting was discussing, Hazel’s announcement changed it.
‘Jack,’ she declared, ‘has some strange idea that Hugh was not murdered on the night that Italian artist dined with us, but concealed himself locally while the police were searching high and low all around Challock and Plumshaw village.’
No one seemed surprised and no one commented. They only looked at me as though I were an interesting specimen of insect life. Obviously the news of my presence had already travelled round the village, and thus the subject of the family meeting was now clear.
‘I should make it plain,’ I began more confidently than I felt, ‘that either I hear the full story now or the police will be fully primed and request your presence at Charing HQ. If you tell me the story first, I might – just might – see angles that could mean they take a more lenient view, especially with the loss of your son so recent.’
No one spoke.
At last Peter took the lead, looking even more Pickwickian than at our first meeting and surprisingly unruffled. ‘Hugh was concealed in the grounds of the Hop and Harry.’
‘The chalets at the rear?’
‘Yes,’ Hazel replied for him. ‘You refer to a faked murder, Jack. Might I point out that our son was murdered?’
‘But not at the time or in the way the police believe Giovanni Donati killed him.’ I was appalled at the comparative calm with which they were taking this.
‘Immaterial,’ Stephanie shot back. ‘He did murder my brother, albeit later than the police believed at first.’
‘My daughter is right. There has been no miscarriage of justice, Jack.’ Peter was looking tired now.
So that was their line. ‘Your theory is therefore that although you faked Hugh’s murder in the barn, Giovanni realized what had happened, deduced where Hugh was hiding and killed him for real.’
