‘He was right not to let you come into the morgue,’ Bunny said, his face grim. ‘It’s no place for you, or for any woman.’
The sun’s hard glare after the gloomy building as they stepped outside made Flora shield her eyes with a hand. ‘I’ll debate the role of women within the medical profession with you another time. Now if you’ll tell me what you saw in there.’
He exhaled a long breath before he answered. ‘I believe the good doctor missed something.’ He slowed to a leisurely stroll as they sauntered to the Sandford Road tram stop.
‘That’s hardly surprising. Did you see how thick those lenses were and that pronounced squint? I doubt he would recognize either of us from twenty feet,’ Flora said, partly to delay what he was about to tell her.
Despite her quest for the truth, now it came to it she asked herself if she really wanted to know. However he died, her father wasn’t coming back.
‘I’m sorry I made you do this,’ she said on impulse, aware she had forced his hand where this visit was concerned. Bunny had only accompanied her to prevent Mr McCallum doing so. ‘I really appreciate that you didn’t simply take a brief look so you could say everything was as expected.’
‘I forgive you.’ He took her hand in his. ‘If you’ll forgive me for treating your instincts as emotional imaginings.’
‘Of course, always.’
‘Only I’m now convinced your father was murdered.’
15
Despite the heat of the afternoon, a chill entered Flora’s veins and spread through her limbs like ice water. The busy street tilted around her and she hardly noticed the arrival of the tram, submitting without a murmur when Bunny ushered her onto the platform and into a seat on the tramcar. She waited until the conductor rang the bell and the carriage set off before she could trust herself to speak.
‘Tell me what you saw, Bunny,’ she forced the words though a dry throat.
‘I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that, I’m so sorry. You turned so pale just now I thought you were about to faint.’ His hand crept into her lap and grasped hers.
‘I know I’ve been pushing everyone to give me answers, but deep down I wanted to be proved wrong, that this really was a random accident. Now I have to face the fact someone deliberately hurt my father, possibly someone he knew, dealt with every day of his life. Someone who professed to be his friend.’
The word ‘murdered’ repeated in her head as the tram’s familiar whine accompanied its steady progress through town.
‘Are you sure you are ready to hear the details?’ Bunny said.
‘Not really, but I must.’ She gripped his hand hard and gestured for him to continue.
‘Everything Dr Fairbrother said was true.’ He bent toward her so the other passengers scattered on the row of seats on either side of them could not hear. ‘An open head injury and impact damage to his chest. Three days of lying in a cold room enabled the bruises to come out, so the hoof prints showed up more clearly.’
Flora squeezed her eyes shut against sudden dizziness. Never had she imagined they would discussing her own father in such a cold, dispassionate way. It felt like a betrayal.
‘Some of the hoof prints were smaller than others.’ Bunny drew his finger in circles on the pad at the base of her thumb. ‘The difference was small but plain to see. The larger ones looked careless, the others were sharper, more even.’
‘And that means what?’ She was sure she knew, but needed him to say it aloud.
‘That he was trampled. Deliberately.’
‘I thought horses wouldn’t stamp on a body on the ground if they could help it,’ Flora’s voice rose slightly with the burn of tears in her throat.
‘Not as a rule, although I’ve known a badly disciplined horse can be aggressive enough to hurt a man. An ill-treated one might also behave that way.’
‘Diabolus isn’t aggressive and he’s been well schooled.’
‘Flora, two horses made those marks. One to get away and the other—’ He laced his fingers with hers and squeezed.
Someone was with Father when he died, and who had probably killed him.
‘Did you put that to Dr Fairbrother?’
‘I tried, but he stands by his professional opinion, that Mr Maguire’s horse caused the injuries.’
‘How can he say that?’ Several curious looks turned her way and she lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘If the hoof prints were different sizes?’
‘He thinks it’s open to interpretation. He’s a stubborn man, I’m afraid.’
‘If I become ill while we are here, do not summon that man to examine me,’ she snapped, then inhaled slowly as blood coursed through her thighs into her stomach, turning the sudden chill into an uncomfortable heat. ‘In fact, if I so much as cut my finger, I forbid you to call him.’ She could feel her hysteria rising.
‘Understood.’ A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth which faded when he examined her face. ‘I’m so sorry to bring this to you, but you aren’t a coward, Flora. I know you wanted the truth above all.’
‘And now I have it. Serves me right for being so stubborn because there’s nothing I can do to bring him back.’ Father was murdered. Someone deliberately trampled him - it was the only explanation that made sense. She scrambled for a handkerchief and dabbed at her wet eyes. ‘He’s been taken from me, Bunny. He shouldn’t be dead, it wasn’t his time.’
‘What do you want to do now?’ He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
‘I’m not sure what we can do.’ She leaned her head against him, dislodging her straw hat. ‘Dr Fairbrother will simply give his blinkered opinion at the inquest and the whole matter will be forgotten.’ She slanted a sideways look up at him. ‘Could we get another medical opinion?’
‘Possibly, but not before the inquest.’ She started to protest and he pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Coroner’s verdicts can be overturned with new evidence.’
That was some sort of consolation, though not much.
They had reached the Prestbury Road and its uniform terrace of tall, square houses with ironwork balconies. The neat gardens with their multi-coloured flowers in boxes and beds blurred into a kaleidoscope of colour as tears continued to spill onto her cheeks.
Whoever killed Riordan Maguire would pay for what they did. She would make sure of that.
*
Flora barely spoke during the two-hundred-yard walk back to the Abbey from the tram stop, where the entire town lay out below them like toy bricks scattered on a blanket. When the gates came into view, memory returned and she clamped a hand on Bunny’s arm and jerked him backwards. ‘The cottage!’
‘What cottage?’ He peered at her over his spectacles.
‘I had completely forgotten. I found the cottage from my dream. It’s right here, on the estate.’
‘Are you sure?’ He frowned, then his face instantly cleared. ‘I’m sorry, of course you are. Is it close by?’
‘Yes, and no.’ Flora increased her stride along the drive back to the house so he had to hurry to keep up with her. ‘It’s on the far side of the stables down a rarely used lane. Well, rarely used by me anyway. Tom said it was a shortcut when he drove us back from Bailey Wood. I’d take you there now, but we ought to get back and change for dinner.’
‘I would like to see it, especially if you think you once lived there when you were small.’
‘I can’t be sure.’ Flora gave this some thought as they climbed the front steps and pushed open the main door. ‘I was certain when I saw it that it had once been home, but I cannot find anything else out about it. Jocasta wasn’t much help. I know something happened there which affected me enough to recur in my dreams for all these years.’
‘You would think someone here at the Abbey must know what happened.’ Bunny retrieved a letter from the hall table as they passed, their climb up to the second floor accompanied by the sonorous clang of the dressing bell in the hall below.
‘Someone must. I just have to find out who.’ Flora’s
mouth watered at the thought of dinner and she hoped she could last another hour without her stomach grumbling.
Before entering the bedroom, Flora paused in her father’s sitting room and rested a hand on the backrest of the right hand wing chair set before the tiny iron fireplace. Her father’s chair. A clear memory returned of the thousands of times he had sat with his head tilted back against the upholstery. He had always been such a gentle man, self-contained and firm, but without a malicious bone in him. Who would want to murder him? And why?
‘We’ll find out what happened, Flora,’ Bunny said, guessing her thoughts, his eyes sad but determined. He stood at the open bedroom door and shrugged out of his jacket.
‘I hate to think someone on the estate might be responsible. I lived here all my life. Suppose it’s someone I know?’ Flora took a deep breath and removed her hand from the chair, then went to join him. ‘No matter how unsavoury, we have to find out the truth.’ She turned her back to him so he could undo the row of buttons on her dress.
‘The alternative is that we ignore those newspaper clippings and write off the second set of hoof prints. Neither of which I can see you agreeing to.’
He replaced his glasses, tore open the letter he had collected in the hallway and gave the pages a brief scan and frowned.
She came to stand behind him, her hands on his shoulders. ‘Is your mother well?’ she asked, recognizing her mother-in-law’s bold script on the discarded envelope.
He sighed. ‘I think so, although she has listed several complaints here about the hotel. It seems the food is cold by the time it reaches her room.’
‘Then why doesn’t she eat in the dining room?’ Flora rolled her eyes as she turned to select a gown from the wardrobe. More black, but she could endure it when she remembered she wore it in respect for Riordan.
‘And mix with the hoi polloy?’ He slanted a look up, one sartorial eyebrow raised. ‘At least she makes no mention of moving to another hotel.’ He read on in silence for a few heartbeats. ‘The kitchens will have to be rebuilt, though there was no structural damage to the house itself. She says the soot and charred stench has permeated almost every room, which I rather think is her excuse to have the house redecorated from the attics downwards.’
‘Considering you arranged all the work before we left, I feel that’s a bit harsh.’ Flora’s cheeks burned with righteous indignation as she changed out of her petticoat. She always made an effort not to exhibit resentment that Beatrice’s comfort was always Bunny’s first thought, reminding herself she would be an old woman herself one day, and if Bunny treated her with half as much care, she would be fortunate.
‘You know Mother. Nothing is too trivial not to make a drama out of.’ He dragged a chair up to the bureau beneath the dormer window and sat. ‘I’ll reply to this before we go down to dinner.’
Flora was about to add she hoped Beatrice’s plans did not include their bedroom, but in the face of Bunny’s pensive frown she changed her mind. She dropped a kiss behind his right ear and set to combing out her hair. The thick tresses often resisted her efforts to curl and fix to her head without sliding down her back again. Life would certainly be easier with a lady’s maid to help.
With nothing more to do to her ensemble, she picked up a magazine and settled in the twin of the wing chairs beside the fireplace. She couldn’t concentrate and discarded the magazine after a few pages, then repeated the action with a brochure for current events scheduled for the Winter Gardens.
‘The White Viennese Band is due to play on the thirteenth,’ Flora read aloud. ‘And there’s to be a Municipal entertainment to include a cinematograph show of the coronation procession in Montpellier Gardens at the end of the month. I forgot how lively this town is. Comes of living so close to London, one forgets other places have their own cultural pursuits.’
Bunny’s response was a distracted mumble, but he did not lift his head from the desk.
Flora sighed, tossed the magazine aside and came to stand behind his chair, admiring his neat, uniform writing that covered two pages of the thick notepaper. She caressed his shoulder and trailed the other hand through the soft hair at his nape. ‘I can’t concentrate on anything. And you need a haircut.’
‘I know,’ he murmured, a smile in his voice. ‘About the haircut. Perhaps I’ll go into town tomorrow.’ He reached back and covered her hand on his shoulder with his own. ‘Why don’t you go down? I’ll finish this and join you in a few moments.’
‘All right, but you might mention to your mother that I’m not over fond of the colour soil brown.’ She escaped the room before he could respond.
*
‘Her ladyship has a guest to dinner this evening, Mrs Harrington,’ Scrivens said, his gaze fixed on a point over her shoulder. ‘Lady Vaughn, Mr Osborne and Mrs Mountjoy are in the sitting room taking pre-dinner drinks with Lady Jocasta.’
‘Thank you, Scrivens.’ Flora refused to meet his eye as she let herself into the sitting room. Though curious as to the identity of this guest she chose not to ask the butler in case her enquiry was met with contrived ignorance, or worse a blank stare. She was never fond of bullies, and this one always smirked when he looked at her. Maybe he thought it beneath him to treat the daughter of a butler as his superior? Well he would have to accept it, as she refused to be intimidated.
‘Good evening, everyone,’ Flora proceeded to greet each of the company in turn, her brow rising at the sight of Caroline Mountjoy who sat immodestly close to William on a sofa large enough for four people.
William stood when she entered and his greeting delivered, he eased away from Caroline when he sat down again, but she closed the space between them and stroked his forearm with one hand.
Flora suspected it would only take him five minutes to find a reason to extricate himself.
‘I do hope you’ve had a productive day,’ Caroline addressed Flora.
‘I have, thank you.’ Her bland response was in stark contrast to the fact her day had consisted of interrogating a doctor and discovering her father was murdered. Then the thought struck her that there might be a murderer in the house, maybe this room.
‘How are you, Flora?’ William asked. ‘This must be a difficult time for you.’
‘It is, but everyone has been very kind.’ Though tempted, she wasn’t prepared to let Mrs Mountjoy know what she had been doing.
Caroline shifted closer to William, as if reminding him she was there. ‘While you’ve been enjoying the delights of the town, Venetia has been working on your behalf. Go on, Venetia, dear, do tell her.’
‘Er, well I wasn’t going to mention it until later.’ Lady Venetia flushed a deep red. ‘But as you’ve broached the subject, Caroline.’ She cleared her throat and began. ‘Flora dear, you remember Mr Cripps, our minister? Well, he’s agreed to hold the service of committal for Maguire and has reserved a place for him in the graveyard. Right near the rea wall, where he’ll have a view of the hill he loved so much.’
Flora was about to remind her that Maguire would never have a view of anything, ever again, but she checked herself. There was no need to be uncharitable.
‘That’s, um, thoughtful of you, Lady Venetia.’ A footman paused in front of Flora with a tray and she automatically accepted a glass of sherry, though she didn’t want one. Silently she chastised herself for procrastinating, torn between annoyance that Lady Venetia had pre-empted her, and gratitude that she evidently thought Flora was too upset to make the arrangements herself. How would she react if Flora told her she had delayed arranging the funeral because she wanted to find out who had killed her father first?
‘I thought, well, as it isn’t possible to have him laid to rest beside your mother, the place where he spent his life would be the next best thing?’ Lady Venetia’s triumphant smile dissolved at Flora’s lack of reaction. ‘Did I do wrong, my dear?’
‘Of course you didn’t.’ Caroline’s shrill laugh made Flora wince. ‘It was very kind of you, Venetia. Wasn’t it, Flora?’
<
br /> ‘Er yes, most considerate.’ Flora fidgeted on her chair, annoyed with herself at her procrastination, which was because she could not face never seeing her father again. Organizing his burial was too stark, too finale. She wasn’t ready.
‘Perhaps you could submit a list of hymns and a few bible verses for Mr Cripps to peruse in the meantime?’ Lady Venetia suggested.
‘An Anglican service, Mama?’ Jocasta pushed away from her artfully arranged pose beside the French doors that stood open onto the garden. ‘Wasn’t Maguire a Presbyterian?’ She swept a glass of sherry from the tray the footman had left on the sideboard before he withdrew, then took the vacant space next to Flora.
‘Oh dear, that didn’t occur to me.’ Lady Venetia stared round the room stricken.
‘He was, yes,’ Flora said gently. ‘Please don’t concern yourself, Lady Venetia. Father would hardly expect a service conducted according to the Westminster Directory of Public Worship. St Jude’s will be more than acceptable. I’ll call at the vicarage tomorrow and talk to Mr Cripps.’
‘Another drink anyone?’ William slapped his thighs, rose and headed for the sideboard. Left abandoned on the sofa, Caroline pouted.
‘Not for me, thank you,’ Flora held up her untouched glass, then murmured to Jocasta, ‘two minutes.’
‘Beg pardon?’ Jocasta asked, sotto voice.
‘I gave William five minutes to find a reason to remove himself from Mrs Mountjoy. It seems I underestimated him.’
Jocasta’s subsequent fit of suppressed giggles was observed by Caroline with an expression that bordered on hostility. Or was it for Flora’s benefit alone? She couldn’t tell.
Bunny paused in the door frame, a, ‘what-have-you-done-now?’ look in his eyes as he took his seat beside Flora, who gestured she would explain later.
Then her father’s wry smile jumped into her mind in appreciation of a good joke and her composure returned.
William replenished his sherry glass, then held up the decanter in enquiry to the rest of the room. When no one accepted he returned it to the tray.
Murder at Cleeve Abbey Page 17
