He broke off and looked at Isabelle. ‘For your benefit, old prune, and just to show I’ve been paying attention, I’m going to use Sandy Paxton’s name as a stand-in for the Vicar’s partner. Celia, bear with me. Let’s say the partner – who could be Paxton – gets in touch with his old pal, the Vicar, and they travel down to Breagan Grange to give the place a once over. Parsons, the Vicar, might have hoped to get into the grounds but he can’t have expected to find the house open for him to stroll into. It sounded like an impulsive robbery and maybe it was.’
Bill nodded. ‘You mean the Vicar saw his chance and
took it?’
‘Double quick, I imagine. Now, Sandy Paxton isn’t expecting Parsons to have the stones, so Parsons keeps stumm about the fact he’s got them. Then, on the train, the Vicar is actually looking at the necklace when Sandy Paxton comes in to the compartment. Parsons shoves the sapphires under the seat to hide them. There must be some reason why they were under the seat. Paxton doesn’t know that the Vicar has the jewels but catches on that he isn’t being straight with him and they quarrel.’
‘As a matter of fact, Parsons could have started the quarrel on purpose,’ said Bill. ‘If he had the stones and didn’t want to let on, he’d want a reason to fall out with the man so he wouldn’t have to share the proceeds.’
‘You might be right. However it started, though, Parsons comes off worse, and Paxton, or,’ he added, with an eye on the rebellious Celia ‘– whoever the murderer actually is – skips as fast as possible, not knowing he’s leaving a fortune in jewels under the seat.’
‘Isabelle saw Parsons get on the train at Market Albury, didn’t you?’ said Arthur. ‘Was there anyone with him?’
‘I didn’t see anyone,’ said Isabelle, ‘but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. The other man could have made a point of not speaking to him on the platform or he could have been on the train already or got on after Market Albury.’
‘This is all complete nonsense,’ said Celia in bewilderment. ‘You can’t possibly know any of this is true. You weren’t there.’
‘We’ve got to account for a murdered man, Miss Leigh,’ said Bill. ‘That does involve a certain amount of speculation.’ He grinned at Isabelle. ‘However unlikely some of it may sound.’
Celia sighed. ‘If this man stole my stepmother’s necklace, then he only has himself to blame for the consequences, no matter what his name is.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I really must be getting off. Isabelle, do you fancy coming shopping with me tomorrow? I’d like a new hat and I could really do with a new bag.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Isabelle happily. ‘Hats and bags.’
‘Steady on,’ put in Arthur with a laugh. ‘Don’t get carried away.’
‘I’d love to come,’ said Isabelle, ignoring him. ‘Shall we have lunch together?’
‘I’m meeting Ted for lunch.’ Celia sighed. ‘I hope I’ll be able to talk some sense into him. Shall we say the entrance to Marshall and Snelgroves at two? That’s settled, then.’
‘I’ll get off as well,’ said Bill, standing up. ‘By the way, Isabelle, did you talk to Burgess from The Monitor?’
‘Yes, I did. Why? There wasn’t any reason I shouldn’t have done, was there?’
‘None whatsoever. It’s just that if the press haven’t been in touch already, they will once Burgess’ story breaks.’ He grinned. ‘If I were you, I’d be tempted to leave the phone off the hook.’
SIX
At half past nine the next morning, the door to Isabelle’s and Arthur’s flat was opened by Lizzie, the maid, who, contrary to her usual custom, opened the door a crack and peered out cautiously, obviously prepared to slam it back in place. She sighed and visibly relaxed when she saw Jack.
‘Thank goodness it’s only you, sir,’ she said, opening the door wide.
‘Only me?’ asked Jack, coming into the hall. He shed his panama into Lizzie’s waiting hands, his eyes crinkling in a smile. ‘I’m devastated, Lizzie.’
Lizzie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I didn’t, only I’ve done nothing this morning but run back and forth to the door and the telephone with blessed reporters all a-clamouring for
the mistress to talk to them. There’s been more than a few,’ she added with a certain amount of pride, ‘who want to talk to me, would you believe! I reckon my name’s going to be in the paper too! Cheek, I calls it. Not that,’ she said virtuously, ‘you’ll catch me saying nothing I shouldn’t but they sort of worm things out you, don’t they? Cook told me to mind my tongue but I said to her, I hopes I know better than to stand and gossip to the likes of them with nothing better to do than to waste honest folks’ time. You wouldn’t believe what it’s been like.’
She paused for breath and Jack, who could see she was thoroughly enjoying herself, was able to get a word in edgeways. ‘I certainly would believe it. I had to dodge round the press myself to get into the flats.’
‘You know what I’m talking about, then,’ said Lizzie fervently. ‘Half past six the phone started ringing. Would you credit it? I feel like I’ve done a full day’s work already with that wretched telephone and the breakfast isn’t cleared off the table yet.’
‘Is that you, Jack?’ called Isabelle, appearing in the hall, a piece of toast and marmalade in her hand. ‘We’re under a state of siege. Come on in and have some breakfast. Lizzie, bring through another pot of tea, will you? Poor Lizzie,’ she said as she led the way into the dining room. ‘Although she’s actually,’ she added in an undertone, ‘having the time of her life.’
‘Morning, Jack,’ said Arthur from the breakfast table. He had the Daily Monitor propped up on the coffee pot. ‘By jingo, can you believe the fuss? We’ve had to put Lizzie on guard duty.’
‘She seems as if she’s coping,’ said Jack, reaching for the coffee pot.
‘She doesn’t think you’re displaying the appropriate hysterics, Isabelle,’ said Arthur with a grin. ‘She said that you were being very brave, but I could tell she doesn’t approve. Both she and Cook think you should have taken to your bed.’
Isabelle gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘What, and be brought round with smelling salts and burnt feathers, you mean? Fat chance. You have seen the paper, haven’t you, Jack?’ she asked, spreading it out on the table. ‘Look, there’s a picture of me. It’s not very flattering,’ she added critically between mouthfuls of toast. ‘I look like a startled rabbit.’
‘Don’t crunch down my ear like that,’ begged Jack, moving her hand. ‘I must say I’ve seen you looking brighter,’ he added diplomatically. ‘Oh, blimey, is that me?’
‘Absolutely it is,’ said Isabelle. ‘There’s quite a lot about you, Jack.’
‘Strewth! Is there?’
Isabelle turned the pages of the Monitor. ‘Here we are. Mrs Isabelle Stanton is, of course, the cousin of detective-story writer Jack Haldean, whose talents as a sleuth have been called upon more than once by Scotland Yard. Readers may recall the events surrounding the launch of the flying boat Pegasus ... and so on and so on. And look, there’s a piece by Leonard Duggleby, too. Special report by Leonard Duggleby see page six.’
‘I’m glad he had enough about him to get into print,’ said Jack. ‘He was having collywobbles about the whole thing when I spoke to him yesterday.’
‘Poor Mr Duggleby,’ said Isabelle, her voice obscured by toast. ‘This could be his big break. I hope it is, anyhow.’
‘They haven’t caught on to who the victim is,’ said Arthur. ‘When they do, I imagine all the old stories about the Vicar will be rehashed.’
‘Of course they will. Burgess and his newspaper pals will think they’re in heaven with a story like that. They haven’t made the connection with Terence Napier, have they?’
‘There’s nothing in the Monitor.’
‘It can only be a matter of time before they do.’
‘Then it’ll be the Leighs’ turn to be hounded, I suppose,’ said Isabelle as the te
lephone rang in the hall.
‘Not again!’ grumbled Arthur. ‘We must have spoken to everyone in Fleet Street already. I can’t believe it’s more reporters.’
It wasn’t.
‘Isabelle!’ said the breathlessly excited voice down the phone. It was Ethel Tibberton, an old and gushing school friend. ‘That is you in the paper, isn’t it? How madly thrilling, darling! You must tell me all about it.’
A couple of hours later and over a dozen old friends later, Isabelle was beginning to wish that the telephone had never been invented. The only call she really appreciated was one from Celia Leigh.
‘Isabelle, I’ve just been speaking to Dad on the phone. Both he and Evie are absolutely soggy with relief that the sapphires are safe and want to thank you personally. Dad said he’s going to drop you a line and I wouldn’t be surprised if they called. They’re anxious to get in touch with this man, Duggleby, too. Dad wants to know if he should offer Mr Duggleby a reward but, naturally, doesn’t want to offend him.’
Isabelle thought it over. ‘That’s a bit delicate, Celia. It’s obvious Mr Duggleby could do with the money, but I can’t help feeling it’d be a bit like offering a reward to Arthur or Jack.’
‘That’s awkward. What do you suggest?’
‘Tell your father to offer a reward as a thank-you,’ said Isabelle, after some thought, adding, beneath her breath, ‘tactfully.’
‘Thanks, darling. I’ll let him know. See you at two o’clock.’
Isabelle hung up the phone and it promptly rang once more. After dealing with yet another old friend who expected her to be in rhapsodies about sapphires, murders and mysterious corpses, she marched into the sitting room.
Arthur looked at her in surprise. ‘You look upset about something.’
‘That’s putting it mildly.’ She flung herself into an armchair. ‘I can’t believe how many times I’ve had to go over the story. Maybe I’m being unfair, but there’s something positively ghoulish about it all.’
‘Why don’t we,’ said Jack, folding up the newspaper, ‘do the manly thing and cut and run? You could station Lizzie beside the phone to field any calls and we could sneak out the back and have an early lunch at the Criterion, say?’
She beamed at him. ‘Sometimes, Jack, you have some really good ideas. Let’s do it.’
‘What a relief to escape,’ said Isabelle as they settled themselves at their table under the gold-roofed splendour of the Criterion. ‘What do you fancy for lunch, Arthur?’
‘That depends,’ said Arthur, picking up the menu. ‘Do you want the four-bob lunch or shall we push the boat out and spare no expense?’
‘Six shillings and sixpence and a tip,’ muttered Jack with a grin. ‘Steady on, old thing.’
Isabelle pondered the bill of fare. ‘Let’s go for the four-bob option, shall we? I’d better not have a huge lunch as I’ll have tea with Celia later on.’
‘We might as well make the most of it,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s not long before we move to Croxton Ferriers.’ He sighed happily. ‘I can’t wait to get to work. The land’s been neglected but it’s got such promise, Jack.’
‘It’s not the land so much as the house at Croxton Ferriers which bothers me,’ said Isabelle dubiously. ‘Are you sure we’ve got running water, Arthur? Apart from down the walls, I mean?’
‘It’s fine,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s even got a roof now.’
‘And floors? That are safe to walk on, I mean?’
‘It will have. Rock solid. Don’t worry.’
‘If you say so,’ agreed Isabelle in a benefit-of-the-doubt sort of voice.
The waiter arrived and for a little while the conversation centred round food. Over his anchovy eggs Arthur returned to his favourite theme of plans for the future, when he broke off, looking at his wife quizzically. ‘I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve said, Isabelle. Are you all right?’
‘Yes ...’ She seemed very doubtful.
‘Well, either you are or you aren’t,’ said Jack. ‘Are you thinking about yesterday?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think I am.’
‘What on earth is it?’ asked Jack with a laugh. ‘You must know what you’re thinking about. Get it off your chest, old bean.’
Isabelle wriggled her shoulder blades. ‘I’m feeling very uneasy, for some reason.’ She paused and wriggled again. ‘It’s as if I’m being watched.’
Jack put his hand to his face so his eyes were shielded by his palm and took careful stock of the restaurant.
At the next table there was a giggling woman in a red straw hat with elaborate feathers, sitting across from a flannel-suited man with a Brigade of Guards tie. Her attention was divided between the Guardee and the Pekingese on her knee, to whom she was feeding titbits from her plate. They weren’t watching anyone but themselves.
At the next table on, a vacuous, gleaming fair-haired youth in a yellow waistcoat and a monocle was trying to light his companion’s cigarette in its nine-inch holder without setting fire to her trailing silk scarf, while, next to them, four earnest bald-headed men in morning suits, who looked like bank officials, were solidly munching their way through roast beef.
Beyond them, an older couple, who, to Jack’s eyes, had County written all over them, were dealing with whitebait, while at the adjacent table a white-moustached, military-looking man was beaming in an avuncular fashion at a prettily-dressed girl of about thirteen and her Eton-suited brother as they tucked into ice-cream.
A stout lady in black was ruining the teeth of her Pomeranian by feeding it sugar cubes while her husband placidly sipped his coffee. Beyond them, three very smart ladies picked at fruit salad. The other tables in the restaurant were too far away to count, but no one seemed to be paying them any particular attention.
‘There isn’t anyone watching us now,’ said Jack quietly. ‘A couple have just gone out, though. The man was wearing a topper and the woman had a maroon hat and coat, but that’s all I can tell you about them.’
‘It’s gone, in any case,’ said Isabelle in relief. ‘The feeling, I mean. It was really odd. It was as if I had a ghostly finger poking into my back.’
‘Why should anyone be keeping an eye on you?’ asked Arthur. ‘Unless it’s more reporters, I suppose.’
‘They’d hardly come in here,’ said Jack. ‘And they certainly wouldn’t just stand and stare.’
Isabelle shook herself briskly. ‘I don’t suppose it’s anything but imagination.’ She straightened her shoulders, obviously drawing a mental line under the conversation. ‘Let’s talk about Croxton Ferriers. I’m going to be madly domestic, Jack, and Arthur’s positively rural. You’re off to look at milk separators this afternoon, aren’t you, darling?’
‘I’ve got hopes of building up the dairy herd,’ said Arthur. ‘I want to look at fresh stock, obviously, but with some new machinery, including a really up-to-date milk separator, we can really start to make things happen ...’ The conversation drifted off into strictly agricultural paths.
After lunch, Isabelle made her way to Oxford Street and Marshall and Snelgroves. Arthur, with undisguised enthusiasm, took Jack off to Clough and Holland’s, the agricultural machinery suppliers on Dover Street, talking happily about milk yields.
Isabelle was on New Bond Street when she first became aware of a vague uneasiness, a little niggling sensation between her shoulder blades. It was the same sort of feeling she’d experienced in the Criterion.
She stopped to look at the display of hats in Walpoles and was momentarily distracted by a peacock-blue brimless silk cloche hat with an embroidered ribbon and matching silk scarf, a mere five and a half guineas. Five and a half guineas! She clicked her tongue. That was well over a week’s household expenses, but it was lovely. She wondered what Arthur would say ...
The little niggling sensation increased and she suddenly wished, very strongly, that Arthur was there. It was as if she was being watched. She stepped back a pace from the plate-glass window, ostensibly still looking at
the hats, but actually trying to see the reflections in the curved glass.
In all the strolling crowds, no one seemed to be paying her any special attention and she unconsciously relaxed. Maybe, she thought impatiently, it was nothing more than nerves. She turned and walked briskly away from the milliners.
Arthur had warned her she could suffer a reaction to the events of yesterday. Maybe this was it. Yesterday had been dreadfully long and wearisome, and, what with reassuring little Agathe’s mother, calming down Mr Duggleby, patiently answering interminable questions and putting on a brave face for Arthur, her own emotions seemed to be steamrollered into non-existence. And yet, in the privacy of her own thoughts, she acknowledged it had been a horrible shock. (There was that sensation between her shoulder blades once more!)
She tried to firmly put the memory from her mind as she paused on the kerb at the corner of Maddox Street to wait for a break in the traffic.
The sensation, the near physical sensation of fingers on her spine grew and she suddenly went from vague fear to near terror. It wasn’t just nerves!
The crowd on the tight-packed pavement moved with a restless lurch, she turned her head, caught the sight of a looming shape, then there was a sharp shove in her back. She staggered forward, losing her footing on the kerb. Arms flailing, she fell forward. A car, its radiator grill suddenly huge, was above her head. She tried to twist out of the way, heard screams, shouts, a squeal of brakes, a moment of intense pain, and then there was nothing at all.
SEVEN
Leonard Duggleby came up the steps of Piccadilly Circus underground station, pulling his hat over his eyes to shield them from the sun as he emerged from the depths. For a moment the light, reflecting from the innumerable windows of the tall, smoke-streaked, cream-coloured buildings, dazzled him.
Blinking in the glare, he walked towards the seemingly unstoppable stream of black taxis, yellow and red buses and patient plodding horses, all funnelled round the tall green fountain surmounted by Eros on his bronze plinth in the middle of the square.
Blood From a Stone Page 10
