He shook his head. “I’m pretty ignorant about this kind of stuff.”
“A lake. In the story, after Roderick’s twin sister Madeline is left for dead and he and his friend bury her in a vault downstairs, she comes alive and terrifies him and they both die and the house collapses into the tarn. I haven’t worked out how to show the tarn.”
“Tinfoil?”
“Wouldn’t work.” But she seemed grateful that he’d tried. “How did you know about me and my gothic interest, then?”
“Stands out a mile, doesn’t it?” Diamond said and moved on smoothly to what he hoped would be a more productive topic. “One thing I was told is you’re the expert on Mr. Standforth’s—Tom’s—artist friends.”
“Someone was having you on. I’ve only met them a couple of times.”
“Let’s say you know more than the other students.”
“Why? Why do you say that?” Her mood had changed. She was wary of a trap.
“I’m going by what I was told. It could be that the professional artists sense you’re one of them, a rare talent.”
She wasn’t falling for that. She grasped a stepladder and moved it right up to the House of Usher. “I can’t stay talking.”
Art had never been one of Diamond’s talents, but thinking on his feet definitely was. “What you could do for the tarn,” he said, “is transport the whole thing to some place that has a large pond and position it there, close enough to catch the reflection. Is it possible to move all this?”
“I’d need a bloody great truck, wouldn’t I?” She was up the steps and rearranging seaweed.
“Is that impossible?”
“For crying out loud, where would I get a flaming truck?”
“Is there a pond at Tom’s place, Fortiman House?”
“A pond? You’re joking. It’s more like a lake.”
“Ideal, then.”
It seemed this possibility hadn’t occurred to Ella. She continued with her task while she considered. “I could ask Tom,” she said finally. “He might agree.”
“Does he own any heavy transport?”
She laughed. “Like his little old MG?”
She’d dropped a strip of seaweed. He stooped and handed it up to her. “If you have to dismantle the house and reassemble it, the artists might help. Are they there most days?”
“Saturdays. Now I think about it, they do have quite a large van. His dad grows orchids commercially and it’s used to deliver them, I suppose.”
“And you only go there Saturdays, you say?”
“Except when they have a party, and they wouldn’t want to help with my project on party nights.”
“Do they all get drunk, then?”
“No worse than the average party. There’s wine and fruit juice if you want it, pineapple or . . .” She had stopped in mid-sentence, making it all too clear that she’d given away more than she intended. She added limply, “The drinks are handed out free. I was told, anyway.”
He didn’t miss an opening like that. “And I was told you’ve been to one of the parties.”
She gripped the ladder with both hands. “Who said that—Jem?”
“In fact, no. I talked to Jem earlier and she didn’t mention parties. But you’ve been to one, haven’t you?”
“What if I have? It’s no big deal.”
“I knew if anyone was bold enough, it would be you. Are they wild, these parties? Soft drinks don’t sound all that wicked.”
“They’re not. There’s dancing in the studio, but it’s not what I’d call a rave. They’re middle-aged, most of them. The music is crap. There’s a vicar and some ladies older than my parents. More your age, really.”
“Thanks. I must see if I can get invited. When were you there?”
“Night before last.”
The same night Mel had disappeared. This, surely, was critical. Keep the girl talking and find out all you can.
“As recently as that? Did any of your friends go with you?”
She made a sound of scorn. “No chance. They’re a bunch of scaredy-cats.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Positive.”
“I bet they all wanted to know about it, though.”
She nodded. “Isn’t that typical?”
“How do you know you were the only one of your class there? That happens to have been the night Melanie went missing.”
“Mel wasn’t there.”
“Can you swear to that?”
“You don’t know her, or you wouldn’t even ask. She’s not into parties.”
“Unlike you.”
“I’m up for anything funky. It’s just a shame it was a let-down.”
“Not funky?”
“I didn’t let the others know it was a turn-off when I texted them.”
“You texted them from the party?”
“Naturally. Crashing it was a top result and I wanted everyone to know.”
“All of them, including Mel? Did you get a message back?”
“From Mel? No.”
“Going by what you just said, she didn’t miss much. Did anyone spot you as a gate-crasher?”
“Tom, obviously, and he was okay with it.” She appeared to decide enough had been said about the party. “Can we talk about something else? I’m getting bored with this.”
“Do you have any idea where Mel might be?”
She shook her head. “What a dumb question. I’d have told someone by now, wouldn’t I? And now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”
“She hasn’t texted you?”
“She hasn’t texted anyone for two days.”
“Each hour that passes makes it more likely she’s in real trouble. You’d help me if you knew anything, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course. I want you to find her.”
He believed her. For all the posturing, she had integrity.
Back in the art room, he was keen to question Tom Standforth about the party.
The young teacher was on the defensive straight away. “Who’s been talking? Ella, I suppose.”
“I was thinking that as Ella turned up uninvited, Mel may have had the same idea.”
“Hold on,” he said. “You’re not suggesting I have anything to do with Mel’s disappearance?”
“Asking, not suggesting.”
“Well, she most certainly wasn’t there. I wasn’t pleased when Ella gate-crashed. The parties are for my adult friends. We don’t need schoolgirls barging in.”
Students, he thought, but didn’t voice the thought. “She didn’t seem all that impressed.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That the parties might suit someone my age. Cheeky.” He grinned. “I’m not angling for an invitation, but it would be useful to meet your artist friends. Will they be at Fortiman House tomorrow, being Saturday?”
Tom frowned. “I don’t know why you need to meet them.”
“We’re following up all the contacts Mel has made recently. She comes to your Saturday sessions, so she must have met the artists.”
“They’re not kidnappers.”
“Did I say they were?”
“They wouldn’t appreciate being questioned by the police.”
“No one ever does. What time do you get under way?”
He seemed to accept the inevitable. “Eleven.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t ask what they smoke.”
“I had the feeling those schoolgirls were running rings round me,” he confessed to Georgina back at the hotel.
“They probably were.”
“I wouldn’t want to be their teacher.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry. You’d never get the job.”
“They’re smart. They seem to be chattering nineteen to the dozen,
but I’m certain what I’m getting isn’t the whole story. There’s more to come out. They’re selective in what they tell me.”
“How do you know?”
“The way they have of shutting me down when I’m getting warm, particularly the goth girl, Ella. Suddenly I’m told not to be boring. She’s only seventeen and she’s capable of making me feel like a schoolboy.”
“Peter, you should be grateful. Thanks to this assignment of mine, you’re getting an education yourself.”
“How, exactly?”
“Into the ways of women. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been exposed to such a line-up of females: the devious schoolgirls; their overbearing headmistress; the highly inflammable Hen Mallin; her downtrodden sister-in-law, Cherry; not to mention me, bossing it over you twenty-four hours a day. And you haven’t even started on the artists. It’s a wonder you’ve survived as long as you have.”
23
Before visiting Fortiman House next morning, the police car took a route through a wooded area near Boxgrove that even the driver wasn’t familiar with. It was so quiet along these back ways that the local wildlife didn’t expect to be disturbed. Several pheasants and a rabbit came close to premature death and a territorial fox stood its ground in the middle of the lane until the last seconds.
“The sat nav makes us close,” the driver said without much confidence.
They were looking for the one-time home of the centenarian, Mrs. Shah, who had once employed Joe Rigden as her gardener.
“This has got to be the boundary fence,” Georgina said.
A line of split hazel hurdles extended along the lane. After a short distance the driver braked in front of a low iron gate. Chained to it was a dusty and faded enamel nameplate with the words HOLLY BLUE COTTAGE and a picture of a butterfly. The two detectives got out. Being in such a remote spot, the cottage probably had as much land as the owner would wish to cultivate. Whether you could term it a garden any longer was questionable.
The front was as overgrown as the ancient wood they’d just passed through.
“The one that got away,” Diamond said. “A gardener hasn’t been near this place since the old lady died.”
“Sad,” Georgina said.
Between enormous shrubs crying out for a clipping, the cottage came into view, not quite the House of Usher, but showing signs of neglect. Slates were missing from the roof and the windows hadn’t been cleaned in a long time.
“Last night I did some checking on the present owner,” Diamond said. “It’s a company known as Mombasa Holdings Limited.”
“Exotic,” Georgina said.
“Kenyan Asian, I would guess, like the late Mrs. Shah. Clever people, making money and expanding into property.”
“This doesn’t look clever to me. Who’d want to live here, way out in the country?”
“Mrs. Shah did.”
“I don’t know how she managed when she was so old.”
“She paid people to come to her, like Joe Rigden.”
“Whoever is here now isn’t employing a gardener. Is it inhabited, do you think? Doesn’t look like it. You’d think they’d want to collect some rent and make it profitable.”
“Maybe there are plans to develop it.”
“It’s remote, Peter.”
“It’s not all that way out, just difficult to reach. Five miles from Chichester, probably. We’re townies, you and me. Plenty of people like the country way of life.”
“Desolate. I’d pay money not to live here. Do you still want to look round?”
“We made the effort to find it, so why not?”
Georgina seemed to have made up her mind why not. Seven years after Joe Rigden had pulled his last weed, nothing helpful to their investigation would be found here.
Diamond wasn’t giving up. Mel’s disappearance troubled him and he was leaving no stone unturned. To be certain no one was at home, he tried the doorbell and the knocker. Junk mail had been pushed through the letterbox and was heaped inside.
“No one is going to object if we explore.”
“I expect it looked presentable at one time,” Georgina said. “Joe Rigden wouldn’t be happy to see the grass this high and all these thistles.”
“Spinning in his grave. Let’s go round the back.”
The ground was sodden after overnight rain. Georgina looked down at her smart brogues. “Do we really need to?”
“There ought to be a garden shed.”
“And what do you hope to discover there? A rusty mower?”
“If someone hasn’t nicked it already. Look, here’s a path.” By shifting some groundsel with his foot he’d found a moss-covered paved area that skirted the cottage.
He stepped out confidently. Georgina, muttering, followed.
The back garden had once been laid to lawn and was now a crop of hay asking to be harvested. A solid-looking trellis and pergola arch showed above the swaying seedheads. Beyond that, a red brick wall about nine feet high marked the end of the garden. And, as if Diamond had ordered it, a dilapidated shed stood in the shadow of the wall, its felt roof torn and gaping.
“If you think I’m going to fight my way through this jungle, you’ve got another think coming,” Georgina told him. “I’m not dressed for it. I’ll see you back at the car—if you’re not eaten by a tiger.”
She had a point. It was a struggle and his trousers were sodden before he’d gone more than a few yards. Worse, they snagged on brambles and the thorns got through to his flesh. But he persevered. Up to now, Joe Rigden had been elusive, a vague figure from witness statements and court records. This, at least, was one of his work places. Seeing the inside of the shed and his tools would make some kind of connection.
Thrusting his way through and ignoring the damage to his clothes, the big man presently reached an area where the grass was shorter and less abundant and he could make his way more easily. And now mushrooms or toadstools—he wasn’t sure which—appeared underfoot, slippery when crushed. The moist conditions must have encouraged them. So many were there that it was impossible not to trample some. If he hadn’t been brought up a townie, he might have foraged for lunch, but he had no idea if they were edible.
He had no difficulty forcing open the padlocked shed door. The wood was rotten and the screws came out like drawing pins from a cork board.
He stepped inside.
Eerie. The first thing he saw was a dark green wax jacket draped over the back of a plastic chair. On the floor was a flask. These items could only have belonged to Rigden. If you ignored the cobwebs and dead leaves, you could kid yourself that the owner had sat there a short time ago drinking tea. Then the sun had come out and he’d stepped outside to do some digging.
No. That couldn’t be right. Surely the man wouldn’t have padlocked the door if he was still at work. Yet if he’d gone home, why had he left the jacket and flask behind? He was supposed to have been methodical and tidy.
The rest of the contents were predictable: the motor mower, several sets of shears and clippers, saws, trowels, hoes, spades and forks, buckets, a sieve and plastic sacks that probably contained fertiliser or compost. On a low table were the remains of seed packets shredded at the edges by mice.
He lifted the jacket and held it up. These all-weather garments had more pockets than anyone ever needed. Was it too much to hope something of interest might have been left behind? He resisted the urge to start looking. He’d take the thing with him. Time to move on and meet the artists at Fortiman House. A shake of the jacket and a large spider hit the floor and scuttled for shelter.
Outside, Diamond hadn’t taken two steps when his heel slipped on some of the fungi he’d already trampled. His feet went from under him and he fell heavily, his backside hitting the ground first.
“That’s all I need.”
He wasn’t sure whether he’d injured himself, but b
ar some bruising and the indignity, he would be okay. Rigden’s jacket had fallen with the arms crossed as if the owner was saying, “Serve you bloody right.”
“Get real,” he told himself. “He’s got no use for it.”
He hauled himself up, grabbed the jacket and stumbled back to the car.
“Look at the state of you,” Georgina said.
“I don’t particularly want to.”
“What happened?”
“I tripped over a toadstool.”
“Can’t you ever be serious?”
“Actually I slipped.”
“Is that the only suit you have? Didn’t I say you should have packed more clothes? You’ll need a dry cleaner’s now.”
“Don’t fuss. I’m all right.”
“I’m not thinking of you. I’m the one turning up at Fortiman House with a scarecrow in tow. Remember who we are.”
“Plainclothes police.”
“Plain doesn’t mean scruffy.”
“Artists don’t dress up.”
“They’re as fashion conscious as anyone else, if not more. And what’s that disgusting garment you’re carrying?”
His tolerance was being stretched. He explained.
“Keep it away from me, then. It will be home to a million unspeakable things.”
He tossed the jacket in the boot and slammed down the lid. Yesterday’s burgeoning sympathy for Georgina was just about used up. He wasn’t sorry she chose to sit beside the driver.
On the map, Fortiman House looked extremely close, but to reach it they had to thread their way back through the woods to a busier road.
“Remind me why we’re visiting this place,” Georgina said.
He said through his teeth, “To meet the artists, Tom Standforth’s friends.”
“But why?”
“Because of the missing schoolgirl, Melanie. She comes to the house on Saturdays to draw, so she’ll be known to them. A couple of nights ago there was a party. Her friend Ella gate-crashed it and texted her friends, including Mel, to boast that she was there. It’s not impossible Mel was tempted to do the same.”
Down Among the Dead Men Page 22
