by J M Gregson
‘Nevertheless, Simmons went to some trouble to establish a bogus alibi, asking a snooker pal to lie on his behalf. And he was at Marton Towers on the Sunday evening when Cartwright died, on his own admission. Motive and opportunity, if the two of them fell out there. And he admits that he nearly throttled a man, twenty years ago. “A fight that got out of hand”, Derek Simmons called it. This might have been another one.’
‘I’d rather it was one of the women in the case.’ Lucy hastened to justify her prejudices. ‘The wronged wife and the lover. Always good candidates. Sally Cartwright seems singularly unaffected by her husband’s death. And she too had motive and ample opportunity.’
‘As did Michelle Naylor, if we posit that the lovers had fallen out. If, for instance, Cartwright had pretended the affair was going to be long-term when he had no intention that it should be more than an exciting interlude. That little spitfire wouldn’t have taken kindly to that.’
Lucy sought for some method of defending her sex against this clichéd approach, and found none. ‘In their different ways, both those women are very cool characters. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite so cool under questioning as Michelle Naylor. She’s certainly got the temperament to plan and carry out a murder.’
‘So has her husband, I would think. James Naylor wasn’t quite as calm under fire as his wife. But then he might have more reason to fear our investigation.’
‘He’s a chef. They’re not supposed to be good with words: it’s not part of their job description.’ Lucy remembered how she had at one point been sorry for James Naylor, as he faltered under the stress of Percy Peach’s interrogation.
‘Doesn’t mean they’re not good with their fists, does it? Or with a length of rope round a man’s neck.’ Percy stretched his legs out again, examined the shine on the leather toecaps of his shoes, and said reflectively, ‘Of course, it could still be the butler.’
‘Neville Holloway? He’s a smoothie, who obviously knew everything that was going on at the Towers. But he’s a fraudster, rather than a killer, to my mind. I think you only fancy him for this because he’s the butler. Or because you insist on calling him that to annoy Tommy Bloody Tucker.’
‘Holloway’s capable of killing, if he decided it was necessary to him.’ Percy brightened visibly. ‘But if he proves to have no connection with this, we could hire him to take charge of our wedding. I fancy taking over the Towers for the day and having a butler in charge of arrangements.’
Lucy hastened to be firm. ‘Well, I don’t! And I think Marton Towers will be sold and Holloway will be gone, long before we get wed!’
‘Your mum would like it to be at the Towers. Perhaps I should discuss it with her.’ Percy stared dreamily into space, a sure sign that he was at his most mischievous.
Lucy decided it was time for drastic diversion. She shuffled a little nearer to him on the sofa, took his hand, examined his immaculately groomed fingernails, and said, ‘I’m finding it difficult to sleep, with all these people to think about as suspects. I was rather hoping for an early night.’ She focused on the spot on the wall Percy seemed to be studying, and looked just as ruminative.
Percy turned and looked into those disturbing, humorous, aquamarine eyes. ‘You’re transparent, Lucy Blake. But I like it. Putty in your hands, I am.’
‘Oh dear! I was rather hoping that the bit I planned to handle wouldn’t be putty at all.’
‘Eeh, I luv it when tha talks dirty, lass. I might need careful treatment, though, an innocent lad like me. Tha’d better make sure to warm thy ’ands.’
Lucy led him swiftly into the pleasantly warm bedroom. The wedding talk had gone. And she liked being thee’d and thou’d, under the duvet.
It was a considerable time later, after an interval of high pleasure and a splendid spending of energy, that Percy Peach lay on his back and contentedly stared at the invisible ceiling of Lucy Blake’s comfortable bedroom. He wasn’t conscious that he was thinking of anything, just of being suffused in a warm glow of post-coital fulfilment. Yet the human brain is still more complex and certainly more unpredictable than any computer. For it was in that moment of delicious relaxation that the one significant fact which he had overlooked in the case struck him with stunning force.
Twenty-Two
Neville Holloway was glad to be conducting business in his familiar office. He felt in control again, as he hadn’t done since his employer and the important visitors had been arrested in that police raid nine days earlier. Things would certainly never be the same again, and the future was uncertain for him and for all of the employees at Marton Towers, but a measure of normality was being restored. Holloway had his remaining full-time members of staff with him in his office and they seemed as anxious as he was to be working again.
Richard Crouch, the owner of Marton Towers, had been charged with serious drug offences and was still in custody, but he had given permission for certain commercial developments at the Towers, which would help to keep the place going. Holloway and his skeleton staff were going to make the place available for wedding receptions and other functions, bringing in part-time help as they needed it. It was an obvious use of the place, to Holloway’s mind. Neville had drafted an advert for the local papers and for Lancashire Life; he was discussing it and some of the menus they might offer with James and Michelle Naylor and Sally Cartwright.
The chef and the two women were also glad to be back at work. Even if this catering represented merely a stay of execution on their employment, it would increase their reputations and experience. Even if the worst came to the worst and the Towers passed into new hands, this new work would look good on their CVs, and it was even possible that new owners might re-employ them, if they made a success of this.
The quartet passed a happy and productive hour discussing the facilities they could provide for weddings and similar celebratory functions, and the different demands which such work would make on them and the other staff at Marton Towers, such as cleaners and outside workers, who came in on a daily basis.
‘There will be more use of the public areas, such as the main lounge and the reception hall,’ said Neville. ‘Can you cope with that, Sally?’
Sally Cartwright smiled. ‘I’m sure that Michelle and I will be able to cope.’ It was a coded acknowledgement that she would need to work with her dead husband’s lover in the months to come, that the old era was behind them and she was determined to look forward.
Michelle Naylor said coolly, ‘Sally and I have worked efficiently together in the past. There is no reason why we shouldn’t do so in a new situation. We shall need part-time workers at different times, but we have a good list of people to call on. Sally and I both know reliable people who will be glad of the work.’
Holloway nodded. ‘The catering demands will also be very different. From serving very high-class food to a few people, we shall have to move to providing acceptable menus for perhaps a hundred people. Can that be done, James?’
James Naylor was ready for the question. ‘I think so. I’ve given it some thought, over the last few days, since you first came up with the idea. High-quality meals will be needed, especially in the early weeks, when we are creating our reputation. Word-of-mouth recommendations are more effective than all the advertising in the world, where food is concerned, and when you’re developing something new like this. I think the kitchen facilities here can cope with it, as long as we offer set menus and we know in advance the number of covers we have to provide.’
It was a long speech for this man of few words, one he had prepared in advance of this meeting. He blushed a little as he concluded it and saw the others nodding their approval.
Neville Holloway, normally so unemotional, found himself caught up in the prevailing enthusiasm. ‘The great advantage we have, the trump card in our hand, is the location. No one competing with us will be able to match the setting of Marton Towers. The photographers will love it, for a start. I can see them posing their wedding groups against our impress
ive entrance. And they’ll certainly want background shots of things like the lakes by the main drive and those two huge copper beeches.’
‘We’ll need people to maintain the estate, though, if it’s going to be such a feature. Everything’s going to start growing like mad in another month or so.’ Sally Cartwright spoke almost apologetically about these gaps in the team which had been headed by her dead husband, the absence in this gathering no one in the room wanted to declare.
Neville Holloway said hastily, ‘You’re right. Young Ben Freeman left us in the lurch, departing as suddenly as he did last week.’
Michelle Naylor said, ‘I hear he’s in hospital. Came off his bike on his way home from his new job at the golf club, apparently.’
If anyone in the room knew anything more accurate about what had happened to the young man who had so recently been their colleague, they didn’t reveal it. James Naylor made a comment about Ben Freeman and Derek Simmons, the dead man’s stepfather, being interviewed by the police about last week’s fire. The others all nodded gravely, as if they were totally unaware that a greater crime than arson was what was interesting the CID.
Neville Holloway said, ‘At the moment, I’ve got two gardeners coming in part-time, to ensure that things don’t get out of hand. If our new venture takes off and we become a little clearer about what the future holds for Marton Towers and for all of us, I might be able to consider a full-time employee for the estate work, but at present the funds won’t run to it.’
There followed a discussion of the kind of money they needed to raise from their new enterprise, which naturally interested all of them because their futures depended on it. It was Sally Cartwright who eventually raised the factor which none of them had chosen to mention. ‘We’ll be able to plan developments properly once we get the police off the site and we can think about restoring the stable block.’
They looked automatically towards that black-edged and ugly gap in the long, low regularity of the auxiliary building which had housed the recent dramas, and at the adjacent spot where the police had established what they called a Murder Room to accommodate their enquiry. Then, almost as if they were operated by one brain, the four pairs of eyes swung back towards the more cheering spectacle of the grandeur of the long drive up from the gatehouse, as it ran between the twin rectangular lakes, with their water-fowl and the water-lilies showing their first green of the season.
At that moment, as if answering a cue in a film, a police car turned in between the high, distant gates and moved steadily up the tarmac towards the mansion. They heard the sound of tyres on gravel in the sudden prevailing silence, watched DCI Peach and his driver, DS Blake, leave the vehicle, and exchange words with each other which the watchers could not hear.
Then, almost as if he knew they were assembled in Holloway’s office, Peach turned and raised his dark eyes in a long, unblinking look at the window beside the pillared entrance at the top of the steps.
He was with them in thirty seconds, during which no one spoke. As the detective stood in the high doorway of the panelled room, Holloway explained a little nervously, ‘We’ve been planning what we can do to raise revenue and secure our futures. To allow the public access to this wonderful site and do a little to return it to the community.’ He threw in a couple of phrases from the publicity brochure he was planning.
‘Admirable,’ was all that Peach said, in such a neutral and preoccupied tone that it was impossible to determine whether he was being ironic. ‘In the meantime, I need to have words with Mr Naylor.’
‘I do hope you’re not planning to deprive us of our chef,’ said Holloway with a smile and a return to something like his normal panache. ‘Mr Naylor is integral to our plans; we confidently expect him to be the star turn of many future wedding celebrations. But we’ve finished this morning’s meeting. You may have my office for your little talk with James, if you would like it.’
‘We’ll do it in the Murder Room, I think,’ said an unsmiling Peach. His tone permitted no discussion, and the others watched James Naylor leave the room with as good a grace as he could manage. They saw him crossing the gravel a few seconds later, moving unevenly as his trainers slid over the yielding surface, casting a last glance back towards the room he had left and his wife’s white face at the window.
The officers left Naylor on his own for a good five minutes with just a uniformed constable sitting silently in the corner of the room, knowing that an already nervous man would only become more edgy with the waiting.
Even when they came into the room, they positioned themselves unhurriedly opposite James Naylor, as he sat awkwardly on his hard-edged upright chair, and stared at him impassively for several seconds. Eventually, his nerve broke and he said, ‘Can we get this over with quickly, please? There are things in the mansion that I need to be getting on with.’
Peach gave him his predator’s smile. ‘How long this takes is very much in your hands, Mr Naylor.’
‘I – I don’t see how that can be.’
Peach waited for the eyes which were flashing their gaze wildly around the room to come back to his, as he knew they must do. ‘I mean simply that a confession would simplify matters, for you as well as for us.’
James Naylor tried desperately to stem the pulses he felt racing in his head. They couldn’t know anything they hadn’t known before, surely. No one would have shopped him, would they? Surely no one could have shopped him? The police hadn’t charged him with anything. They must surely be bluffing. He fancied he could feel the blood rushing into his face, then draining away, but that must surely be no more than an illusion. Chefs were used to the heat of the kitchen, lived with it all the time. But this was a greater heat than he had ever felt in his life.
He said, ‘I’m not going to confess. You’ve got the wrong person here.’ He wanted stronger words, but they would not come to him.
‘I don’t think so, Mr Naylor. You gave yourself away, you know.’
He knew it. He’d never in his life been confident with words, and now they’d let him down, in this, his greatest crisis. James Naylor felt in his heart that the game was up even as he said woodenly, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You knew that the body of Neil Cartwright had been stowed away in the room above the office where the fire was started. That was information which could only have been possessed by the man who killed him.’
‘No. You’re mistaken. I never knew that.’ He heard his voice rising in panic, and was powerless to control it.
‘You told us about it when we saw you on Wednesday, Mr Naylor. We reminded you that you knew all about the geography of this place, and you then maintained that other people as well as you knew the place where the body had been hidden. But apart from us, only Neil Cartwright’s murderer knew that the body had been hidden away like that.’ Whereas the chef’s voice had risen towards hysteria, Peach’s tone seemed to become ever calmer and more confident with his announcement.
‘No! No. I told you about my Michelle’s affair with Cartwright on Wednesday, that’s all. Nothing more.’ He wanted it to be true, wanted to state it again in different words, to shout it at them, as if by repetition he could make it true. But words as usual were not his friends.
Peach was inexorable. ‘We knew that the body had been stowed away in that locked room for three days before Wednesday night’s fire. The information was not revealed to anyone else. It was not contained in any of the bulletins released to radio, television or the press.’
This man whose dark eyes never seemed to blink found words easy, was able to torment his victim with them, whereas James found it so hard to summon the phrases he needed. It was unfair. James fought the unfairness of it, struggled against the urge to throw in his hand and have done with it. ‘I didn’t know about it. I didn’t say that I did. You must be mistaken.’
Peach said calmly, ‘Recall Mr Naylor’s words to him, will you, please, DS Blake.’
Lucy flicked over the pages of her small no
tebook to the words she already knew by heart. ‘Mr Naylor, you said to us on Wednesday morning, “Other people as well as me knew the room where the body was hidden before the fire”. No mention had been made by any CID officer of the body of Neil Cartwright being hidden in such a manner.’
Now her eyes as well as Peach’s were on him. They were soft, green, almost sorrowing, it seemed to James. They made him feel as he looked into them that all further resistance was futile, that confession would from now on be the best option for him, as well as for them and everyone else concerned. Including Michelle. He thought of his wife’s face, regular and pretty beneath her black hair, so different from the softer beauty of this face in front of him, with its colour and its suggestion of freckles within the frame of chestnut hair.
James Naylor looked deliberately away from DS Blake’s persuasive face, down at the carpetless floor. His words surprised him as well as his listeners as he said, ‘Michelle had nothing to do with this.’
Lucy Blake said softly, ‘Tell us what happened on that Sunday, James.’
It was the first time that either of them had used his forename: it seemed to him an acknowledgement that it was all over. And with that thought, his tongue was miraculously loosened.
‘I met him. Out in the country, away from everyone else. That was Neil’s idea. I’d said to him that we needed to talk, if we were going to continue to work together and live alongside each other on the site, and he said that it needed to be where no one else could see us.’
‘He didn’t think you were going to kill him, then.’
He glanced up at her, then dropped his eyes again, as if he could afford no distraction to his concentration. ‘I didn’t mean to kill him. Not when we set up the meeting.’
Months later, Lucy thought, this would be material for a defending counsel, arguing for mitigation on the grounds that this was an impulsive, not a premeditated killing. Not her concern, that. ‘So you set up this meeting. For what time on that Sunday?’
