by Holly Bell
‘Thank you for not hauling me off to the police station!’ Bailey-Farrell returned humorously, leading the way into the fresh, light, open-plan living space of Madley Towers. John was staying there with the owner, Ryan Ford, while his own newly acquired house was being fitted out.
‘I don’t think there’s any need for that. But forgive me if I am a little formal. I’ll need to take notes.’
‘Of course. It’s your job, and this is a serious matter,’ said the cricketer more gravely.
Once they were seated on white sofas either side of a glass and chrome coffee table, and refreshments were postponed until later, Trelawney asked,
‘You knew, Miss Gibbs, I understand?’
‘Well … I wouldn’t say, “knew” exactly.’
‘How had you encountered her previously?’
‘At the cricket team events. Her father is one of the sponsors, you see, and Miss Gibbs usually turns up — turned up.’
‘And on those occasions?’
‘To be honest, I tried to keep my distance.’
‘Because?’
John looked awkward and picked up one of the gold-lacquered Posh Trading Company Faux Shagreen coasters from the table.
‘She was rather predatory. And it was difficult to spurn her … what with her father being …’
‘Miss Gibbs made advances toward you?’
He fiddled with the shiny rectangle in his hands. ‘Not at first. She was all over Ryan, and I was in a relationship. Plus, there were plenty of other guys on the team that she considered worthy of her attention.’
‘And then?’
‘Then my relationship ended and …’ He looked up anxiously at Trelawney. ‘This is conjecture, mind you …’
‘That’s all right. Please go on, John.’
‘I think she wanted to make Ryan jealous, in the hope that he’d be more … responsive. She must have seen that he and I were buddies. I’m guessing she thought that if she hung around me, then he couldn’t help but notice.’
The inspector nodded, jotting in his notebook.
‘But you managed to keep your distance?’
‘Yes. And Ryan helped with that.’
‘So, what was the extent of your interaction with Miss Gibbs?’
‘Just “hello, how are you?” Pleasantries.’
‘I see. But — I have to ask this — she was at your birthday party, wasn’t she?’
‘I wouldn’t exactly call it mine,’ Bailey-Farrell stated, putting the coaster down and leaning back. ‘It was an excuse for an official do. Press and so forth. I didn’t have much control over the guest list.’
‘Thank you, John. So how about at the library party?’
He shook his head. ‘Oh, she came up to get a selfie with me, and then someone rescued me,’ he said, apparently reliving the relief.
‘And that was the only time you spoke?’
‘Yes,’ John confirmed.
‘Do you remember seeing her at any other time during the afternoon?’
‘I’m sorry … no. People were coming up all the time. I …’
‘OK, that’s fine. If you think of anything else …’
‘Yes, Thomas … or should I call you Inspector?’
Trelawney grinned. ‘I don’t think the situation is sufficiently serious for that yet!’
In spite of Thomas’s good-natured repost, as he drove away, his intuition told him that John Bailey-Farrell had not told him the whole truth. Not that he’d lied. But there was something … something …. Hogarth’s words sounded in his head: ‘Do your thing.’
Trelawney pulled over, turned off the engine and closed his eyes. He waited until the rivers of lights came. Gradually they appeared, like the delayed exposure photographs of car headlamps at night. There was John’s stream, racing … and here came Samantha’s running in proximity … Wait for it … wait for it … With a brief and tiny explosion, they crossed.
So, there was a connection. And Bailey-Farrell was hiding something. Something … John seemed so honourable that even a small infraction would surely trouble his conscience. Unless there was more beneath the charming modest surface. Was the integrity only veneer deep?
Not the whole truth … who did that remind him of? Amanda Cadabra. In fact, the entire trio of Cadabras were past masters of the art of the not-the-whole-truth. Miss Cadabra, he thought, probably had never told a lie in her whole life. And that was rare. But when it came to leaving out facts, spinning, prevaricating and misdirection …
Trelawney pulled himself up mentally. This was not about Miss Cadabra. It was about John Bailey-Farrell. Still, there was something John had said that he could consult her about. That is, he could interview her. Yes, that’s what he meant. Definitely.
Chapter 18
More Suspects, and Back to the Towers
‘Ryan? I remember Samantha was all over him like the serpent around the tree in the garden of Eden, at the cricket do,’ Amanda recalled, as they sat before the fire with tea and biscuits, ‘and then again, at the dedication of the new clinic. You don’t think … what happened at the library was somehow …?’
‘Connected to Ryan keeping you under surveillance? I wouldn’t put it past Samantha Gibbs to be in on some shady business.’
‘Quite.’ agreed Amanda, dunking her gingernut into her tea.
‘Had any more thoughts on possible suspects?’ Trelawney waited patiently while she enjoyed her biscuit.
‘Hm! Sorry. Yes, I’ve been going through them in my mind, thinking of who would be strong enough to pull those shelves down. Simon Lawley. Could he have been involved with Samantha? I know it’s not supposed to, but these things do happen between tutors and students. Could Samantha have been down in the stacks to meet a rival suitor? And Simon killed her in a fit of jealousy?’
‘A crime of passion? It’s possible. I haven’t met Mr Lawley yet. Next?’
‘Well … say the motive for the murder was to do with books. Humpy knows about them, and Hillers is easily strong enough to topple shelves! She can cut down trees, and you should see her make short work of any heavy lifting. I feel bad mentioning it as they have both been very kind to me.’
‘Humpy knows about books, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Still … their own granddaughter … they don’t seem …’
‘Oh, all that blood-is-thicker-than-water thing is a total myth,’ Amanda pointed out, returning to her tea and biscuit with enthusiasm.
It sounded appallingly cynical to Trelawney, but then he knew that Miss Cadabra’s own experience had more than brought the truth of this home to her. He had also frequently observed this to be the case in the course of his work. Why only last month, ‘Picklock’ Pethick had sold his father down the river for the Bolvenor bank heist of ’72. This was a case previously unsolved. It had got ‘Picklock’ a reduced sentence for the Pirate Costume and Jewellery Shop break-in on Gocky Street.
‘Indeed,’ he could not but agree.
At this juncture, Tempest deigned to honour the humans with his presence. Stalking in through the door, he first set about the short, light task of staring the inspector into submission. Next, he leapt gracefully up onto the sofa beside Amanda. Her familiar made much ado of preparing his place then wound himself into a neat spiral of cat, with his back to Trelawney. Just to confirm how uninteresting he found the man; he shortly commenced a series of gentle snores.
In spite of himself, Trelawney found the creature both alarming and mesmerising. He wrenched his attention back to the discussion.
‘Anyone else?’
‘Oh, don’t mind Tempest, Inspector. You may not realise it, but he’s actually paying you a compliment of no mean order.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, giving you his back is a measure of trust. I’ve never seen him do that before. Except with Grandpa.’
‘Ah. Right,’ responded Trelawney doubtfully. It looked more to him like a measure of Te
mpest’s contempt. But fair enough. ‘Well. Good. Yes, to return to the, er, suspects.’
‘Dale’s mother. Says she’s frail, but I’ll bet she’s as strong as a horse!’
‘She wasn’t at the party.’
‘Yes, Dale said she was minding the shop. But it’s not like they get a constant stream of traffic. Lots of phone orders, I think. So, she could have left the premises, and no one saw her. Especially as the people most likely to spot her would all be in the library.’
‘Do you know of any connection between Miss Gibbs and the Hillands?’
‘No. They’ve just moved in here, and I don’t think they knew Samantha at all. Dale might have given her a flower if she was passing. I think he gives a single bloom to all of his female customers, or potential ones. Just marketing. And that’s my lot for now.’
‘Thank you, Miss Cadabra. You’ve been very helpful. And thank you for the tea and shortcake. I shall be off to my next interview. Back at Madley Towers!’
***
‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr Ford.’ The inspector seated himself once more on the white sofa opposite his interviewee.
‘Oh come now, it’s Ryan between us surely?’ the cricketer replied with easy bonhomie.
‘Yes, but that was as team members. I’m afraid this is official business.’ He was aware of the inconsistency. John had remained ‘John’. But then Bailey-Farrell’s links with the deceased were far more tenuous. Also, he was not keeping Amanda under surveillance, for some still unfathomed reason.
‘I understand.’ Ryan shook his short sunny locks, a frown creasing the brow of his face, still light-golden-tanned from last season. ‘It’s a dreadful affair. How can I help?’
‘I gather that you and Miss Gibbs were friends?’
‘Her father is a sponsor of the team. Consequently, she seemed to think she had certain … privileges regarding team members.’
‘I think I can guess what you mean, but please could you elucidate?’
‘She was very flirtatious towards whomever she chose.’
‘Especially?’ Trelawney prompted.
‘Well me, unfortunately.’
‘You didn’t return her romantic inclination?’
‘No,’ Ford asserted. ‘She was too young and possessive and really not my type. But …’
‘But?’
Ryan leaned back and gestured with interlaced fingers. ‘I was in a difficult position, with her father being who he is. And she also appeared to have a special relationship with another key sponsor, as you may know.’
‘But your interactions with her were not by choice?’
‘No. Absolutely not by my choice at all.’
‘So, you were not meeting her in the stacks?’ Trelawney asked bluntly.
‘No. Absolutely not,’ Ryan repeated.
‘Have you ever been down there?’
‘No. I don’t think I’ve ever been inside the library before. I would have no reason to.’
No, thought Trelawney. He was, in Miss Cadabra’s words ‘the sort that would buy books rather than borrow them.’
‘Do you remember seeing Miss Gibbs on the day of the incident?’
‘At the party? Yes, I noticed her. She wasn’t the kind of person you could miss,’ Ryan added, a shade defensively.
‘Did you see her going into the door leading to the stacks?’
‘No, Inspector.’
‘Did you see her talking to anyone during the party?’
‘Well … she was all over John, as you’d expect, him being the man of the moment. But apart from that, no. I just registered her presence and made a note to avoid it, if at all possible.’
There was nothing more to be had from Ryan Ford, Trelawney decided. He made his farewells, returned to the Mondeo and moved on to his next appointment.
***
The interview with Jonathan was awkward. The younger man was uncomfortable in the extreme. To him, the situation spoke only of chaos, dragging the library into the limelight, out of the obscurity in which he felt safe. The conversation, such as it was, did nevertheless, yield one vital piece of information.
‘I, er, looked round,’ said Jonathan, twisting his hands nervously, ‘and suddenly saw M-Miss Cadabra. It was at that moment that I felt this sort of … oscillation.’
Chapter 19
Mr Frumbling
The antique piano keys and keytops had arrived. The latter was one of the very few items exempt from the ivory ban. These were, of course, second hand. It had taken Amanda half an hour to source them.
She was now at work, dust-masked, with the Hoover on while she was sanding off the old glue from the keys that she’d salvaged but whose covering was damaged beyond rescue. The door opened, and Amanda looked over her shoulder at a welcome sight. She smiled, switched off the vacuum cleaner and removed her mask.
‘Good morning, Gwendolen.’
‘Good morning, dear. I have some good news for you. I’ve just come back from visiting dear Winifred Hempling at Pipkin Acres Residential Home, and she has told Mr Frumbling about your project.’
‘How kind!’
‘There’s more. The dear man has said he’ll come along and check on your progress if you’d like. Help you through the process.’
‘That’s extremely generous of him. Given his advanced a …’ Amanda paused, aware that Miss Armstrong-Witworth was in her 90s.
‘Oh yes, he’s my senior by quite a few years: over 100 now and very proud of it. Carries his card from the Queen around with him. He still manages his walks to the library and plays the piano for us when he can.’
‘Mr Frumbling is astonishing. I can go and collect him, if he’d like.’
‘He prefers to walk. Says it does him good.’
‘I’m overwhelmed. When would he like to come over?’
‘This afternoon, if that would suit.’
***
‘Hello, Mr Frumbling. I can’t thank you enough for helping me out. I’ve never taken on a piano restoration on this scale before.’ Amanda had opened the door of The Grange herself and welcomed in a spare man about her own height, with thin round gold-framed spectacles and an unexpectedly thick shock of white hair.
‘That’s all right, my dear.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea before we start?’ Amanda asked solicitously.
‘Moffat is expecting me and he’ll be bringing it, with my favourite: Jaffa Cakes! And I will have a quick sit-down before we get going.’
Amanda led her guest and mentor-to-be into the small salon where they could relax in comfort. Right on cue, Moffat brought the desired refreshments, tea for two, with Jaffa cakes for Mr Frumbling and gingernuts for Amanda. Moffat withdrew, and they set to on their treat. While they sipped and dunked, Amanda put the question that had been in her mind since this morning.
‘Mr Frumbling, may I ask you something?’
‘Of course, duck.’
‘Is it true that you carry the telegram the Queen sent you on your 100th birthday around with you?’
‘Well, the palace doesn’t send out actual telegrams any more. Instead, you get a very special card. And yes, I have it right here,’ he said, putting a hand into his pocket. ‘Now, it’s not the original. I have that framed on my wall. This is a copy, but a good one.’
He took out a wallet from his inside breast pocket and opened it for Amanda.
‘There … see that? That’s the Princess Elizabeth’s signature.’
‘My word!’ exclaimed Amanda in admiration.
‘Of course, she’s queen now,’ Mr Frumbling added, ‘but it’s how I always think of her. I was eight years old when she was born. Not a princess then. That came later. Can you imagine me at eight, looking at me now? White hair and a lot of wrinkles!’
He gave her a roguish twinkle, and suddenly Amanda saw him. There he was before her: a boy with a lot of untidy thick brown hair, a missing tooth, grey shorts and lace-up boots.
; She grinned. ‘Yes! Yes, I can, Mr Frumbling. It’s my belief that you haven’t changed a bit.’
‘That,’ he affirmed, ‘is the secret to not getting old. You keep all the best bits of yourself as a child. Just like you, duck. I see you as nine, nine years old. Don’t you change, Amanda, don’t you change a thing.’
Her eyes misted. ‘Thank you, Mr Frumbling.’
They finished up their tea and biscuits with sighs of satisfaction. The piano restorer dusted off his fingers and suggested,
‘Now let’s have a look at the old girl, shall we?’
As they progressed out of the small salon, across the hall and into the ballroom, Mr Frumbling asked Amanda,
‘Still living in the Witch’s Cottage?’
Amanda was taken aback. No one called it that. Not any more, not for many decades.
‘Er … yes.’
‘Good. That’s your place. You bide there. I like stories about witches. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Bedknobs and Broomsticks, Mary Poppins — oh yes, she was a witch, all right — the Enchantress of Nanjizal —’
‘I don’t know that one,’ Amanda responded in surprise.
‘From young Jonathan’s collection.’
‘Jonathan Sheppard?’
‘That’s right. He has a bit of a library within the library. Down in those stacks. Odd place that, they say, but he found the book there for me, when I told him I like stories about good witches.’
‘His collection, you say?’
‘That’s right, duck. Now let’s have a look at this old Joanna, shall we?’
That was a new piece of information. Amanda didn’t know if it was important or not. But it might be. She needed to talk to Jonathan. But even more urgent was the matter at hand.
Mr Frumbling was immensely helpful, and together they set out a plan of action.
‘Now you won’t get perfection, duck. It’s badly damaged and old. Aim for better. And just do your best, as I know you will. Here’s my card with my mobile number. You just call me whenever you get stuck or want a bit of reassurance, and I’ll be over as fast my old legs will carry me!’
