Day for Dying

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘I’ll be out to talk to them shortly. Perhaps you could assemble them all in one room?’

  ‘Of course.’ Sylvester hurried off.

  Mallard nodded a greeting, holding back for the photographer to take shots of the body. Then he squatted down, peering at the bruise on the temple. ‘Nasty contusion here.’

  ‘He could swim like a fish, apparently,’ said Thanet. ‘So the question is, was he dead or unconscious when he went into the water? I don’t suppose you’ll be able to tell until the post-mortem.’

  Mallard glanced up at Thanet over his half-moons. ‘Quite.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Lineham said to Thanet while they waited for Mallard to finish his examination, ‘looks as though it’s a suspicious death, all right.’

  ‘He could have been drunk, slipped, banged his head.’

  ‘When he was all alone? At his own engagement party? You don’t really believe that, sir.’

  Thanet didn’t. ‘Unlikely, I agree. Still, we’ll see.’

  Mallard held out a hand. ‘Give me a heave up, will you? Must be getting old.’

  Thanet obliged. ‘So, what’s the verdict, Doc? How long has he been dead?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mallard, ‘you know how I hate committing myself . . . and it’s tricky because it’s so warm in here . . . but I think it would probably be safe to say some time in the last three hours.’

  Thanet glanced at his watch. Eleven-forty. And the phone call had summoned him at around eleven. So, some time between 8.30 and 11, then. Not much help, really. ‘Right, thanks, Doc.’ He glanced at the SOCOs. ‘We’ll leave you to it, then.’

  Sylvester was waiting in the hall with DCs Bentley and Wakeham. He looked relieved to see Thanet. ‘It’s a bit of a crush but I’ve got everyone together in the lounge.’

  Mallard glanced at Thanet. ‘Don’t bother to see me out. I’ll be in touch.’

  Thanet nodded and followed Sylvester. He saw at a glance that the man had not been exaggerating. There must have been a hundred people crammed into the room, mostly standing. A few were sitting on the floor or perched on the arms of chairs. Right at the front were seated two elderly women, one of them in a wheelchair. The subdued hubbub of conversation died away and a sea of faces swung expectantly in his direction as he entered.

  Thanet introduced himself. ‘I’m sure you are all aware by now of the tragedy which has taken place here tonight. You must be anxious to leave but we’d be grateful if you could be patient just a little longer . . . Then, after giving your names and addresses, you can all go home. But before you do so we should be grateful if you would think hard and see if you heard or noticed anything, anything at all, which could be even remotely connected with Mr Jeopard’s death. I’m afraid that at the moment I can’t respond to any questions because almost certainly I wouldn’t know the answers. That’s all. Thank you.’

  He was turning away when a young man darted forward. ‘Inspector . . .?’

  ‘This is Hartley Jeopard, Max’s brother,’ said Sylvester.

  ‘A terrible business, Mr Jeopard,’ said Thanet. A platitude, but what else could he say? Hartley Jeopard was a couple of years younger than his brother, Thanet guessed, and resembled him not at all. He was much taller and thinner, for a start, with the apologetic hunch adopted by so many of those who are of above average height. His clothes were nondescript, brown trousers and fawn crew-necked lambswool sweater, and he lacked his brother’s striking good looks. Hazel eyes beneath floppy brown hair looked anxiously down at Thanet from a narrow undistinguished face.

  ‘Inspector, I’m worried about my mother.’ He glanced at the woman in the wheelchair. ‘It’s been such a terrible shock for her . . . Would it be possible to take her and my aunt home right away?’

  ‘I didn’t realise she was here. Yes, of course. I can come and see you tomorrow morning. Give Sergeant Lineham your address, will you, while I have a word with her?’

  Jeopard’s mother did indeed look ill. Her pallor was alarming and she was gripping the arms of her chair as if to prevent herself from sagging forward. What on earth was Sylvester thinking of, Thanet thought angrily, to have herded her in here like this? But the man had only been obeying instructions. Perhaps, before that, the two women had been given some space and privacy. Thanet hoped so, anyway. As he murmured condolences and apologies for holding them there his genuine concern must have shown because Mrs Jeopard’s expression lightened a little and her sister gave a little exclamation of relief when he said that Hartley could take them home immediately. ‘I will need to talk to you, though. Between 10 and 10.30 tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’ Mrs Jeopard was controlling herself with difficulty. Her lower lip trembled as she spoke and Thanet was glad that Hartley arrived at that moment to take charge of her wheelchair. Her sister, he saw when she stood up, was almost as tall as her nephew. Genes were responsible for some curious family quirks.

  A buzz of conversation broke out behind him as he left the room. A man and a woman were just coming down the stairs: Mrs Sylvester and the family doctor, Thanet guessed. He was right. Tess was under sedation, he learned, and shouldn’t be disturbed. The doctor left and Thanet told the Sylvesters that as soon as he had got his men organised he would like to interview them first. ‘Have you got a room we could use?’

  Sylvester frowned, thinking. ‘Most of them are being used for the party. There’s the den, I suppose . . .’ He glanced at his wife as if seeking approval or suggestions.

  But Mrs Sylvester wasn’t really listening. She was looking put out. ‘I wanted to go back up to sit with Tess. Just in case she wakes up.’ She was a little younger than her husband, in her late forties, with a floaty mane of streaked blonde hair, bright blue eye shadow and a lipstick that was far too harsh for her skin colour. She was wearing a tight sequin-covered black lace dress which revealed every curve and shimmered as she moved. And she was, Thanet realised, saying one thing to her husband and trying to communicate another. The look she was giving him was fierce in its intensity, pregnant with words unspoken.

  Sylvester frowned at her. Either he couldn’t work out what she was trying to tell him or he was deliberately choosing to ignore it; Thanet couldn’t make up his mind which.

  ‘Perhaps a friend could sit with her for a little while?’ suggested Thanet.

  ‘Yes. How about Anthea?’ said Sylvester.

  For some reason this suggestion upset Mrs Sylvester even more. ‘What, after-?’ She glanced at Thanet and broke off.

  Interesting, he thought. What was going on here? But perhaps he was misreading her. Perhaps she was simply reluctant to relinquish her role to someone else and was angry that Sylvester had suggested an alternative.

  She compressed her lips. ‘All right,’ she said grudgingly. Then to Thanet, ‘I hope this won’t take long . . .’

  Thanet wasn’t going to be forced into giving a promise he might not be able to keep. How could he possibly tell, at this stage, how long the interview might be? ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can find her,’ said Sylvester. He disappeared into the sitting room, returning a few moments later with an exotic creature in a scarlet satin cheongsam. Her long dark hair had been put up in a knot secured by a long wooden pin, enhancing the chinese effect, but the matching heavy make-up was streaked and blotchy, her eyes swollen with tears shed and unshed. Here, apparently, was someone who really did mourn Max Jeopard’s passing.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Sylvester was saying.

  The girl gave a determined nod. ‘I’ll be glad of a bit of peace and quiet.’ She gave Mrs Sylvester, whose face was stony, a somewhat shamefaced look before going upstairs.

  Thanet watched her go. No doubt about it, there were interesting undercurrents here. He glanced at Lineham and could see that the sergeant was thinking the same thing.

  Sylvester patted his wife’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Tess’ll be all right with her.’ He turned to Thanet. ‘They
’ve been friends for years.’

  Five minutes later the Sylvesters were leading the way to the ‘den’. Thanet followed with Lineham on his heels, aware of a sense of rising anticipation. This was the part of his work that he enjoyed most of all, the interviewing of suspects. It was where he would begin to understand the complex web of relationships which surrounded the dead man, the point at which, for Thanet, Max Jeopard would start to live and breathe again.

  He was eager for the process to begin.

  TWO

  The den turned out to be a small square sitting room equipped with a huge television set and saggy leather armchairs from which it would clearly be a struggle to get up. Impossible to conduct an interview from their depths; Thanet elected to lean against the windowsill, Lineham to sit sidesaddle on the broad arm of one of the chairs. Despite their apparent disharmony of a short while ago the Sylvesters presented a united front and chose to share one, she perched on the edge of the seat, tugging down the skirt of her tight black dress which had ridden halfway up her thighs, her husband sitting on the arm beside her, one hand resting on her shoulder. They watched apprehensively as Lineham took out his notebook and flicked it open.

  ‘Right, well, perhaps you could fill us in on this evening,’ said Thanet.

  The Sylvesters stared at him. It was interesting that they didn’t look at each other, Thanet thought. It was, he felt, almost as if they were afraid to. If so, why?

  Mrs Sylvester put her hand on her husband’s knee, her painted fingernails standing out like drops of blood against the pale velvety cords.

  ‘Where . . .’ Sylvester cleared his throat, tried again. ‘Where d’you want us to begin?’

  Alarm bells were definitely ringing in Thanet’s mind. He was becoming convinced that the Sylvesters were not simply suffering a natural distress engendered by the events of the evening. They were frightened. It showed in the sheen of perspiration beginning to appear on Sylvester’s forehead, the whiteness of Mrs Sylvester’s fingertips where they gripped her husband’s knee with excessive force. Was one of them responsible for Jeopard’s death? Or did each suspect that the other might be? He refrained from the obvious response. ‘What time were people invited for?’

  Mrs Sylvester visibly braced herself, removing her hand and straightening her back. ‘Eight o’clock,’ she said. ‘But they didn’t start arriving until around a quarter past.’

  ‘And Mr Jeopard?’

  ‘A little earlier,’ said her husband. ‘Around a quarter to eight, I should think.’

  His wife was nodding. She was being as matter of fact as possible, but the fear still lurked at the back of her eyes. ‘Must’ve been. I was still getting ready.’ She put up a hand to fluff out her hair, unconsciously miming what she had been doing at the time.

  ‘He lives locally, I gather.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sylvester. ‘At least, that is, his family home is here. But he and Hartley both have flats in London. Hartley came down last night, I believe, so that he could drive his mother and aunt to the party tonight, but Max drove down from town this evening.’

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘His usual self,’ said Mrs Sylvester. Her tone was tart and she cast an uneasy glance at her husband, conscious of having betrayed rather more than she would have wished.

  ‘Which was . . .?’

  ‘Full of himself,’ said Sylvester shortly. ‘Look, Inspector, there’s no point in pretending. We weren’t too keen on Tess’s choice of a husband. But not, I assure you, to the extent of pushing him into the swimming pool to make sure she didn’t marry him!’

  Even if someone else did. The unspoken words hovered in the air and Thanet allowed a brief, uncomfortable silence before he nodded, content to accept the statement at face value for the moment. Time would tell whether or not it were true. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Mr Jeopard was in a good mood – why shouldn’t he be? After all, it was a special occasion for him. In your opinion, then, there’s no question of it being suicide?’

  ‘Suicide! Good God, no!’ Sylvester had relaxed sufficiently to appear amused rather than shocked at the suggestion. ‘Max was the last person in the world to want to kill himself. He enjoyed life far too much.’

  ‘Then could it have been an accident, d’you think?’

  ‘Difficult to see how,’ said Sylvester reluctantly.

  ‘Oh I don’t know, Ralph,’ his wife protested, a hint of desperation in her tone. ‘He could have slipped, hit his head on the side as he went in.’

  ‘Oh come on, darl! Those tiles are all special non-slip, you know that. Cost us a bomb. And we know he wasn’t drunk, we were talking to him in the supper queue just before he disappeared. What the hell was he doing in the pool house, that’s what I want to know. He was only supposed to have gone for a pee!’

  ‘I know that, but . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ interrupted Thanet. ‘Let’s go back to what we were saying, shall we? So in your opinion at least, Mr Sylvester, it couldn’t have been an accident, either. We won’t close our minds to the possibility of course, but meanwhile we have to look closely at our third option.’

  There was a brief silence. Mrs Sylvester was staring at Thanet as if mesmerised, clearly terrified of what was coming. Without looking at her husband she put up her hand to feel for his, which closed over it, gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘No point in pussy-footing around, is there?’ Sylvester said. ‘We all know what we’re talking about, don’t we? Murder.’

  His wife made a little moaning sound and he leaned forward to put his free arm around her shoulders. It’s all right, darl,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘Don’t worry.’

  She jerked away from him, twisting to look directly into his face. ‘How can you say that, Ralph? Someone is deliberately killed, under our own roof, and you say don’t worry?’ Her voice went up, almost out of control, and Thanet could tell from her expression that once again she was willing Sylvester to hear what she was not saying aloud.

  Thanet found himself leaning forward as if to catch those unspoken words. What was it that she was trying to communicate to her husband?

  ‘We don’t know that it was deliberate yet, do we?’ said Sylvester.

  ‘It’s what you just said!’

  ‘Not exactly. I said that’s what we were talking about.’

  ‘What’s the difference? You’re just splitting hairs! I don’t –’

  ‘There’s a big difference darl, surely you must see that? Someone might have killed him, yes, but not because he intended to. It could have been murder by accident, sort of, if you see what I mean.’

  Now he was doing it too, staring intently into his wife’s eyes as if to convey an unspoken message. And it seemed to work because after a moment Mrs Sylvester relaxed a fraction and looked at Thanet. ‘Would that be possible, Inspector?’

  ‘Possible, yes. How likely, we don’t yet know. It’s all speculation at the moment. We won’t get anywhere until we’ve established the facts, so if we could go back to what we were saying . . .? Mr Jeopard was in a good mood earlier in the evening, you say. Did you see any sign of problems with any of your guests?’

  They were shaking their heads.

  And they were lying, Thanet was sure of it. He could tell by the way they still studiously avoided looking at each other and by the glazing of their eyes as they strove to conceal the truth.

  ‘We weren’t exactly keeping an eye on him,’ said Sylvester. ‘I was moving around all the time, topping up people’s drinks. And you were busy circulating, weren’t you, darl?’

  Mrs Sylvester was nodding. ‘People were spread out through all the downstairs rooms.’

  ‘Including the pool house?’

  Again the head-shaking double act.

  ‘No. Just in case anyone had one over the eight and fell in,’ said Sylvester.

  ‘You know what young people are,’ said his wife with a false little laugh. ‘Sometimes they get carried away, even jump in with their clothes on. We didn’t want to risk any accidents
. And even if they all behave perfectly there’s always the chance of a glass or a bottle getting broken and that’s dangerous where people walk around in bare feet.’

  ‘So we locked the door and left the lights off, to show it was out of bounds, so to speak.’

  ‘And the key?’

  ‘Always hung on a hook beside the door.’ Sylvester shifted uncomfortably. ‘Looking back, I suppose it would have been sensible to take it away altogether, but we never do. The place is only ever locked for extra security. And tonight, well, it never occurred to me to do anything else. After all, you’d have to be pretty brazen, as a guest, to ignore a hint like a locked door with the key removed.’

  ‘Right. So you both saw Jeopard from time to time, but neither of you noticed any sign of a scene, a quarrel or disagreement of any kind?’

  Once again the shutters came down. ‘No.’

  Thanet didn’t press the point. No doubt the truth would emerge eventually. ‘So how did you come to find him in the pool house, Mr Sylvester?’

  Sylvester hesitated a moment, as if uncertain where to start. ‘As it was an engagement party, it was arranged that the two families would sit together at supper – that is, Max, his mother and aunt, Tess, my wife and myself.’

  ‘We had one table set aside for us,’ said his wife, ‘specially laid and decorated. Just to mark the occasion. It was Tess’s idea.’

  ‘So when it got to time for supper –’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Thanet. ‘But, just to be clear on this, did you have caterers in?’

  Sylvester glanced at his wife. Your province.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was a buffet meal. Just before it was served they set up a number of small tables, in the various rooms, so people could eat in comfort.’

  ‘Can’t stand eating off my knee,’ said Sylvester. ‘Hopeless if it’s a knife and fork job.’

  ‘And what time was supper served?’

  ‘Nine-thirty,’ said his wife. She paused in case Thanet had any further questions before continuing. ‘We all collected our food from the buffet, then found somewhere to sit. Afterwards the caterers cleared everything away, including the tables. We’ve done it like that before and it works very well.’