A Spider on the Stairs

by Cassandra Chan

  “Hullo,” said Bethancourt. “They said I could come back and talk to you.”

  “I remember you now,” said Grandidge, straightening and pushing a dark lock of hair out of his eyes. “You were in with that police detective. I’m sorry—I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Phillip Bethancourt,” said Bethancourt. “I heard about your uncle—I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” replied Grandidge automatically. He looked more baffled than grief-stricken, however, as he held a hand out to Cerberus. “It’s been quite a shock. I don’t know quite what to think about it. I mean, you don’t expect people you know to get murdered, do you? First Jody, and now my uncle . . .” He shook his head.

  “It helps sometimes to keep your mind occupied with mundane things,” suggested Bethancourt, gesturing to the boxes stacked all around them.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Grandidge. “And it’s not as if they don’t desperately need me—it’s amazing how quickly things back up. All this,” he waved around, “should have been out in the shop days ago, not to mention all those special orders. I mean, I know old Mittlesdon and Gareth would have taken on the receiving and sorting, but to tell you the truth, I’d really rather do it myself.”

  “Because you’d have to clear up after them when you did come back?” asked Bethancourt, his lips quirking in amusement.

  “Too right,” agreed Grandidge. He returned his attention to Bethancourt. “But you haven’t come to have me tell you how to run a bookshop.”

  “No,” said Bethancourt. “I came to ask about your uncle and Jody. Did they know each other?”

  “They’d met,” replied Grandidge. “I mean, they didn’t know each other particularly well or anything, but Uncle Brian met her when she and I were going round together, and then of course they often saw each other here, in the shop.” He paused, then added, “Jody loved to talk about books, and so did my uncle. They got on rather well, really.”

  Bethancourt nodded, absorbing the information.

  “Why do you ask?” said Grandidge. “Do you think there’s some connection between them?”

  “I don’t know,” said Bethancourt honestly. “It doesn’t look like it on the face of it, and yet, on the other hand . . .”

  “It’s quite a coincidence,” finished Grandidge. “Here,” he asked, almost desperately, “is there anything you can tell me? The police are being very closemouthed, and my aunt Amy is laid out. All we know is she came home last night and found him dead. And apparently there was no robbery or anything.”

  “So far as I know,” said Bethancourt, “the police haven’t yet settled on a theory. I’m afraid it’s often like that, despite what one sees on the telly. But I think they believe it was a premeditated murder, which means they’ll want to know about anyone who had it in for Mr. Sanderson.”

  Grandidge shrugged. “Then they’ll have plenty to choose from,” he said. “Uncle Brian was good at offending people. Although, if you’re looking for someone who wanted Jody dead as well, then you’re in for a struggle. As I told you before, I can’t think of anyone who would have wanted to harm her.”

  “Which makes a connection even less likely,” said Bethancourt. He hesitated. “Look here, I don’t mean to be offensive or anything, but is there any possibility at all that your uncle and Jody, er, well, knew each other rather better than you were aware of?”

  At first Grandidge looked merely blank, but then realization dawned and he laughed. “No offense taken,” he said, “but no. Jody wasn’t my uncle’s type—he liked petite women. Her taste was more eclectic, but I never saw any evidence she fancied him.”

  “Oh, well,” said Bethancourt, “it was only an idea.”

  And apparently not a very good one, he thought as he bade good-bye to Grandidge and wandered back out into the shop proper. He wondered if he was engaging in mental gymnastics, trying to connect the two cases merely because he really had no role to play in the investigation of Ashdon’s crimes.

  “Hello.” Mittlesdon blinked up at him through his spectacles. “Mr. Bethancourt, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” admitted Bethancourt. “How are you, sir?”

  “Very well, thank you,” replied Mittlesdon automatically. “It’s a great relief to have the shop open again.”

  “I imagine it is,” said Bethancourt. “And business seems quite brisk.”

  “Well, people have been waiting for their orders, you see,” said Mittlesdon. He hesitated. “Have there been any developments?” he asked. “I mean, in the, er, the—”

  “The case,” Bethancourt finished for him. “Yes, I think you could say there have been, but I’m afraid I can’t discuss any of it. Police business and all that.”

  “Of course, of course,” agreed Mittlesdon, but he asked anyway, “Do you think there’s any chance of its being cleared up anytime soon?”

  He looked so anxious that Bethancourt longed to be able to tell him they were on the verge of an arrest.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “These things are hard to estimate. There’s no doubt the police are a lot forwarder, but that doesn’t mean they’re ready to wrap the case up yet.”

  “I suppose these things take time,” said Mittlesdon despondently.

  “A bit,” said Bethancourt. “But not forever. And there has been progress. You’ll be able to put it behind you soon enough.”

  “Well, thank you for all you’ve done,” said Mittlesdon vaguely, since he had no idea what exactly Bethancourt did do.

  “Not at all,” said Bethancourt, and they parted, Mittlesdon moving on to the stockroom and Bethancourt heading for the door lest he be stopped by anyone else and subjected to another awkward conversation.

  But at the door he met Alice, just pulling on her gloves. She looked up as he approached and smiled brightly.

  “Are you leaving?” she asked. “Me, too. I’ll walk you up to the Stonebow.”

  Bethancourt accepted this suggestion politely and they set out. The morning rain had turned to sleety drizzle and they both tucked their scarves more tightly about their necks as they went.

  “You don’t think Jody was having an affair with Brian Sanderson, do you, Alice?” asked Bethancourt.

  Alice seemed to find the idea amusing. “No,” she answered. “Whatever put that into your head?”

  “I’m just looking for any connection there might be between the two murders,” answered Bethancourt.

  “But why should there be one?” asked Alice. “Sanderson was a wealthy man with—according to Tony—quite a few enemies. Jody was just an assistant in a bookshop, and very well liked.”

  “When you put it like that, I don’t suppose there’s any reason a connection should exist,” said Bethancourt. “And yet . . .”

  “And yet you think there is one,” finished Alice.

  “I don’t know about ‘think,’ ” replied Bethancourt. “Maybe I’m just hoping that if such a connection exists, it might shed some light on Jody’s murder.”

  Alice looked concerned. “It’s not going to be one of those unsolved cases one hears about, is it?” she asked. “Because although we’re all getting on with business so to speak, things will start to fall apart eventually if the truth never comes out.”

  “No,” said Bethancourt slowly, considering. “I believe Jack will solve it in the end. Only just at the moment, he’s been called off to other duties and I’m left feeling as if I’m holding the ends of too many threads, if that makes any sense.”

  They had reached the Stonebow and stopped on the corner, both of them turned with their backs to the wind whilst Cerberus sniffed at a lamppost. Alice had paused thoughtfully, and now looked up at him.

  “There’s something you haven’t told me about Sanderson’s murder, isn’t there?” she asked.

  “Lots of things,” Bethancourt assured her. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Alice—I’m simply not allowed to discuss it. If I did, there would soon be an end of my involvement with the police.”<
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  “No, I understand that,” she replied. Suddenly she grinned. “I’ll give you odds your parents keep urging you to join the force.”

  Bethancourt laughed. “You’d win that bet,” he said. “Here, do you have time for a cuppa? I’d like to hear anything you think about Sanderson—you must have known him, didn’t you?”

  Alice nodded. “Not very well,” she said as they turned to cross the street. “But he did turn up now and again. I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he really was the most frightful person.”

  “I gathered that from Daphne Stearn,” said Bethancourt. “She was at the Heywoods’ the night I met him.”

  “Yes, she keeps up with everything,” agreed Alice with a laugh. “Ever since her husband died, she’s had time to sit back and play the grand dame, and I must say it suits her very well. She has the most marvelous time at it.”

  “She seems to have developed a very mordant kind of wit,” said Bethancourt.

  “Oh, she always had that,” said Alice. “She just didn’t allow it full rein while Rory was still alive—no doubt he found it unladylike.”

  They dodged around tourists who were snapping pictures of Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate and turned into St. Saviourgate.

  “Was Mrs. Stearn’s attitude towards Sanderson the prevailing one?” asked Bethancourt.

  “More or less,” said Alice. “There were some people who were impressed with him—he did have money, you know, and a certain kind of business savvy. But on the whole the old crowd found him rather vulgar. People like the Heywoods put up with him because he contributed handsomely to their charities, but they hadn’t much use for him else.”

  “What about his wife?” asked Bethancourt.

  “Nice county girl,” replied Alice. “Amy Hugill. It’s generally thought that she married him for his money, although of course he hadn’t very much at the time. On the other hand, the Hugills had even less.”

  “I know what you mean,” agreed Bethancourt. “That generation of impoverished gentleman farmers encouraged their children to marry where there was a bit of brass, as the saying went.”

  “Exactly,” said Alice. “Anyway, she hasn’t done badly out of it, considering Sanderson went on to make a small fortune. I don’t know how happy they were together, but the children seem to have turned out reasonably well.”

  “Here we are,” said Bethancourt, fishing his keys out of his pocket. Then he remembered that the house might be occupied, and said, “I forgot to say, my aunt Evelyn may be here. I do hope you don’t mind.”

  “Evelyn,” repeated Alice thoughtfully. “Was that Neil’s mother?”

  “That’s right,” said Bethancourt, letting them in and shutting out the rain.

  “I remember her,” said Alice.

  They had just removed their coats and Bethancourt was hanging them up when there was a knock at the door. “And that’s probably my aunt now,” he said resignedly, and reached to open the door.

  But it was not Evelyn. Instead a vision stood there, a tall, willowy creature with a cloud of coppery hair and a creamy complexion.

  For a moment, Bethancourt simply stared, stunned.

  “Marla!” he said.

  Wide, jade-green eyes went from him to Alice and back again, and then narrowed.

  “Oh my God,” said Marla.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Bethancourt.

  “You left me for her?” demanded Marla incredulously.

  “What?” said Bethancourt, struggling to come to grips with the situation. “Who—oh, no . . . Wait a bloody minute, did you say—”

  “Fine,” said Marla icily. “I hope you’re very happy with her.”

  And she turned on her heel and strode off. Bethancourt stared after her for an instant, looking decidedly perplexed and rather dazed, and then slammed the door shut.

  “Who was that?” asked Alice, sounding almost awed.

  “That,” said Bethancourt grimly, “was my ex-girlfriend. And, just for the record, I did not leave her. It was quite the opposite way round. Here, let’s get that tea.”

  “She looked a little familiar,” said Alice, following him down the hall.

  “You’ve probably seen her picture in some rag or other,” said Bethancourt. “She’s a fashion model.”

  “Oh!” said Alice, and subsided while Bethancourt seized the kettle and held it under the tap. He was quite consumed with fury and occupied himself with getting out the tea things until he had his temper under control.

  “I’m very sorry for the interruption,” he said, belatedly realizing an apology was due. “You mustn’t mind Marla—she has a devilish temper.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said Alice rather feebly.

  “Very good of you,” said Bethancourt. “Now, where were we?”

  “I really haven’t the faintest idea,” said Alice.

  Neither had Bethancourt, but he was determined to soldier on.

  “We were talking about Sanderson, weren’t we?” he said, adding hot water to the pot. “What else do you know about him?”

  Alice made a visible effort to drag her mind back to the topic at hand.

  “The thing is,” she said, “I only know him from the shop and from the occasional party. And however often he put a foot wrong socially, well, it’s not the kind of thing one kills for, is it? Isn’t the man you want far more likely to be an enemy Brian made on the business side?”

  “You never can tell,” answered Bethancourt thoughtfully. “It would seem so on the surface, certainly, but I’ve known things to turn out very differently to the way logic would seem to dictate. Anyway, I imagine the police have all that side of things in hand. Unless you know something yourself?”

  Alice shook her head. She still seemed distracted. “No, nothing,” she said.

  Bethancourt poured the tea, but they appeared to have reached the end of the subject, and Alice seemed more interested in Marla than in murder. But Marla was not a topic Bethancourt was willing to discuss, so the conversation limped along until Evelyn returned with the children from a shopping expedition. She and Alice renewed their acquaintance and shortly afterward Alice excused herself. Bethancourt saw her out with some relief.

  In his new role as liaison between Scotland Yard and the Yorkshire constabulary, Gibbons had been elected to accompany MacDonald to interview Sanderson’s widow while Constable Redfern remained at the beck and call of Brumby. Privately, Gibbons thought he had the better part of the deal, though his abdomen was aching and getting out of the car without grunting was a real effort.

  Amy Sanderson, after her gory discovery the night before, had retreated to her sister’s house in Westlands Grove, where she had spent the night heavily sedated. She still looked drugged as she sat on the couch in the drawing room with her sister, Sylvia Grandidge, on one side and her daughter on the other. Jessica Sanderson, a second-year student at university, wore a frightened, vulnerable expression that made her look far younger, and her swollen, red-rimmed eyes betrayed the tears she had recently shed. Indeed, all three women clutched already-sodden handkerchiefs, twisting them unconsciously in their hands.

  Gibbons, looking at them, wondered, as he often did, what the murderer would feel if he could be faced with this collateral damage. Had his hatred of Sanderson been so great that it enveloped even these pitifully grieving people? Or had they just not figured into his calculations at all?

  MacDonald was gentle with them, more gentle than Gibbons would have believed him capable of. Amy Sanderson responded to his questions in a low voice as he took her step-by-step through the evening, all of it confirmed by her daughter. No, she had noticed nothing unusual before leaving the house, and her husband had seemed just as usual. In good spirits, actually.

  “He’s been in very good spirits lately,” added Jessica. “I thought he seemed a bit anxious just around Christmas, but then he cheered up.”

  “He wasn’t sleeping well,” murmured Amy. “The night before Christmas, I mean. But you’re ri
ght, he’d been back to his old self the last few days.”

  “Did you know of any reason he was uneasy at Christmas?” asked MacDonald. “A little concerned about money matters, perhaps?”

  “Oh, no.” Amy shook her head. “If anything, I spent a bit less this year than most. And the business was doing very well, I believe. No, I don’t think it could have been money.”

  “But he didn’t mention anything else?” said MacDonald. “An argument with a friend? Or maybe just the winter blues? It’s been a very grey season.”

  Amy looked blank, and after a moment her sister answered, “I don’t believe Brian was ever much bothered by the weather, was he, Amy? He wasn’t that sort.”

  “And arguments never troubled Daddy,” put in Jessica. “He liked to argue.”

  “Yes,” said Amy. “Yes, he did. But I don’t remember there being any particular difficulty with anyone lately. I’ve been busy, of course, with all the entertaining. . . .”

  “So nothing out of the ordinary occurred lately?” said MacDonald.

  Amy just shook her head.

  “Now, about last night,” continued MacDonald. “You and Miss Sanderson had theatre tickets, I understand?”

  “That’s right,” said the sister. “We all did. It was sort of a girls’ night out.”

  “I get you,” said MacDonald genially. “So Mr. Sanderson never planned on joining you? I had misunderstood—thought you had taken his ticket when he decided not to come.”

  “No, it was always planned to be just the three of us,” replied Mrs. Grandidge.

  “How long ago did you purchase the tickets?” asked MacDonald.

  Mrs. Grandidge looked at her sister. “When was it, Amy, do you remember? I know we talked about it while we were Christmas shopping that day in Coppergate.”

  “Yes,” said Amy slowly. “I think I got them the next day. Yes, that’s right. I finished up some shopping and bought the tickets before I headed back to Poppleton.”

  “And when was that?” pressed MacDonald.

  “About a fortnight before Christmas,” replied Sylvia. “I can’t be more exact, I’m afraid—oh, but yes, I can. I kept all the receipts.”